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"Please tell me again why I have to be the one holding the leash this time?"

"Because, oh littlest foxy, it will draw attention and that's what we want."

Icon gave a sour grimace, but couldn't argue the point very well. Arguing with his boss was never a very good idea, the smarmy bastard almost always knew something he didn't. "Fine. We're supposed to get our costumes from Vanjaram, then a car takes us over, right?"

"Yes indeed," said Kuroko, the one-eared black fox gestured to Icon's two charges. One looked much less comfortable than the other. He supposed it was all an attention grab, given the sizes and colorations of the three of them. There was himself, Icon, five foot nothing, black on the front and orange and gray across the back, with his cockatiel crest of black hair and bright blue eyes. The other male in their little pack was Wolfgang, seven feet tall, that kind of slate gray fur that made some wolves vanish in the fog. And then there was Alessia, the only female in their trio, and by far the largest. Eight and a half feet tall, built like a farm tractor, but the golden tigress was the gentlest thing on the Earth. And could easily pick him up in one hand.

She looked at ease, but Wolfgang was uncomfortable. "Come on, you two. Wolfgang I know for a fact you've worn one before, and you're the one who insists on tight jeans. If that cage feels too tight it's your own fault." The bulge at the front of his jeans was substantial, the metal of the chastity cage unyielding. Icon knew that what it contained was just as substantial, but the little fox was a lot more comfortable in a chastity cage than the wolf.

Alessia was chaste too, but in her case piercings, a ribbon laced through them, and a neat little heart shaped lock. And she was as comfortable as Icon with that. Lots of practice.

Alessia was the reason several areas of the headquarters building had especially high ceilings, and why the car they were headed to, waiting on the front curb, was as large as it was. She still sat on the floor, but it had been modified to be comfortable for her, there, complete with seat belt. Wolfgang needed leg room, but the seats in the big van were arranged on the side, so there was plenty of that.

"Explain again why we're doing this?" He was squirmy in his seat, and clearly regretting his wardrobe choices. The clothier would fix that shortly.

"Because the boss wants to rig the costume contest at this masquerade gala Mrs. Guthrie is throwing. Given that he's one of the judges, and the other two owe him favors or something I don't know why he's bothering, but appearances or something. If the game is rigged, you still have to play, or it's obvious that it's rigged, I guess?"

Alessia laughed, a delicate sound, and nudged Wolfgang with a big paw. "I think it is just to get all of you on display for Madama Guthrie, bel lupo. He knows she'll want to take you home for a week, and already knows what the charge will be, to the penny."

Wolfgang gulped, and the worried look got both of the other occupants laughing. Mrs. Guthrie had a reputation among the various departments at Kuroko's Finest. She threw huge parties, which Indulgence frequently catered, and provided entertainment acts for. Those, as well as her occasional VIP guests sometimes required the additional security of the Peace of Mind departments assortment of bruisers and snoopers.

The Desire department, to which all three of them belonged, helped sate, or at least keep the edge off of, her notorious cuckolding of her amused and exasperated husband. One of Boston's worst kept secrets, the way she slept around on him with almost anyone who caught her eye. That included frequent rentals from the Desire catalog, sometimes for an evening or weekend, sometimes more. The record had been Gunther and Gideon, the tiger twins. She'd had both of them for four months, not that either of them minded when it was all over. There were jokes about her appetites, but almost every male in the department, and more than half of the females, had been in her hands at least once.

The van slowed to a stop, and the three of them strolled in.

Into an argument, apparently, Vanjaram, a cinnamon skinned beauty in gold-edged silks chewing a stripe off of Vanessa. Again. The cabbit seemed to live to drive her crazy, usually by proposing costume ideas that would strain even the clothiers skill.

"Out! Out with you, spottybunny! Get your monochrome ass out of my shop!" Which was met with laughter, and a hasty exit. "The nerve of her, insinuating I would not know how to clothe her if she dyed herself green. What sass. Ah! Icon and Alessia and Wolfgang! Come come, we have your costumes and masks and accessories all done, and ready for fitting, come come, third fitting room is waiting for you."

The third fitting room was by far the largest, comfortable for the four of them, and several assistants coming in and out, carrying various things. Their street clothes vanished into bags which would be taken back to headquarters to wait for them.

"We went with the noble metals as a theme. Silver for you, Icon. Gold for Alessia and copper for Wolfgang. Of course, every element must match, so your current accessories will have to be changed out." A resigned sigh from Alessia, a shrug from Icon, and an uncomfortable grumble from Wolfgang.

"Don't be a spoilsport, wolf. Alessia's got a lot more to switch out, we just need to swap our respective cages. Ten minutes, tops. She's got... how many, darling?"

"Fourteen, little sass fox. And the lock, which I fortunately still have the key for, on me. Your keys, too, since unlike you two I am a responsible woman who can keep control of her desires." All three keys were delivered to Vanjaram.

An hour later, all three of them had been redressed, masked, and otherwise adorned. Icon's silver gleamed, the cage hidden underneath a layered skirt of gauzy black laced with silver threads. He wore a black leather muzzle under his mask, porcelain painted in black and silver, fitted precisely to his face, and carried no expression, just blank serenity and silver wire whiskers. He was less than pleased to be rendered mute, but the rest of him was all well and good.

Some of the gold was hard to see on Alessia, since she was supremely fluffy at any given time, and her fluff had been accentuated by careful brushing and styling. Nothing could make her look kittenish, but softer had been managed. The gold of her piercings was on display, again thanks to careful trimming and styling, and the ribbon wound through them had been replaced by a gold chain. Bells hung from her nipples, and a larger one from her collar, and her mask was as rich as El Dorado, framing her blunt muzzle and rounded ears. It gave her outsized, expressive eyes, whiskers of gold wire, and a cheshire grin. They hadn't bothered with clothing her, there was no point. She would draw attention no matter what she wore, and leaving her bare to display suited both her figure and her temperament.

Of them all, Wolfgang was still the least comfortable. His cage had been swapped out for copper-plated steel, and he was as shirtless as the other two. But where Icon was playing the mute and serene, and Alessia the kittenish laughter, Wolfgang had been given the appearance of a savage creature. Torn and tattered pants that didn't really do much to hid his ass or that cage. His copper painted mask had a sharp-toothed snarl to it, angry brows and laid back ears. Like the end of a werewolf transformation.

Icon pouted a little. Both of them got to talk. He had to stay silent except for muffled noises.

"Oh Wolfgang," Alessia singsonged as they settled back down in the car. "Do you know what is the best thing about a muzzle?"

"No? What is the best thing about a muzzle?"

"The way it turns 'No, no, no!' into 'Mm, mm, mm!' for our little sass fox. Isn't that right, Icon. We get to talk, so that means we get to volunteer you for whatever we want. Pin the tail in the fox? Is that not a wonderful party game?"

Icon glowered at the tigress, and she just laughed. "Oh don't worry, sass fox. We'll make sure you only get pounded by every male who inquires, so you end up a sloppy mess on the floor by midnight." The wide eyes and shaking head didn't dissuade her. "No? You want to be left high and dry all night? Watching without participating? That can be arranged, also. I am sure Madama Guthrie has a chair we can tie you to, where you can see all the festivities as they unfold."

There was no good answer for that, since he was pretty sure he was going to wind up bent over something no matter what he might grumble. And probably enjoying it, Mrs. Guthrie's parties had a tendency to be a lot of fun.

Their ride had taken them out of Boston, into the sprawling suburbs, and further out north west of the city. Somewhere around Bedford, the van slowed to a stop sliding into a queue of vehicles going through a checkpoint. Traffic control, this party was going to be as big as usual, and anyone without an autocar was being directed to an off-site parking area with shuttle. The autos could simply be sent off to a stable on their own, no need to worry about having to leave it parked nearby.

Slow and steady, until they reached the checkpoint itself. The uniform at the controls chuckled at the costumes and masks. "Right, we can see why you're here alright. ID?" All three of them presented left hand, and a quick tap to his datapad confirmed their ID as 'on the list'. "Alright, don't have too much fun. Love the masks, by the way."

On they went, into a walled off, sprawling estate. It wasn't exactly owned by anyone, but shared among a few dozen individuals and groups. Like a timeshare, if it was its own resort. Icon knew damned well there were two big pools and at least four hot tubs. Possibly more, some of the shared owners liked renovating and adding extravagances.

"According to the schedule, the party doesn't actually swing into gear until eight o'clock." Wolfgang had pulled up the schedule, and their supplementary instructions, on one of the van's screens. "It's six now, so we can probably go bother Catherine for a bite to eat before we have to go to work. I'm sure she can liquefy something for you to suck through a straw, Icon."

More grumbling.

Catherine was busy, but one of her minions saw to them, some sandwiches in various flavors. And someone was nice enough to unbuckle Icon's muzzle so he could eat, too.

"Seriously, guys. Please don't arrange a train on me tonight. It's going to be a long one as it is. Especially with Mrs. Guthrie, the boss, and Madame in attendance. You do remember the challenge, right? Sofia has the keys, and is going to give each of them to someone else, and anyone who's got a key that fits our lock owns us for the party. I don't know about you two, but getting handed off to a random stranger is going to be stressful enough for me."

All of them agreed to that, though Icon was the one most worried. The other two were physically imposing, powerful. Could easily top most anyone likely to be at the party. Him? Twink fox. Small, physically weak, and silent to top it all off. Worrying.

Meals finished, and his muzzle back in place, all three of them fussed at each other's appearances for a bit. Making sure masks were neatly in place, costumes hiding or revealing what they ought to. Then it was time for the party.

The enormous building was some sort of architectural nightmare, something along the lines of the Winchester mansion, though less about trapping angry spirits and more about a bunch of rich people adding wings and sections over time. There absolutely were secret passages in the place (Icon knew several of them) and no one could argue the place as any sort of functional space. There were a lot of bedrooms, several kitchens, enough bathrooms. There were three libraries.

There were several pools on the grounds, even more hot tubs, and a thirty-two person sauna.

And even with all the space that two centuries of competing wealth could provide, there were still tents and outdoor spaces added on for this party. There were, without exaggeration, more than ten thousand people on the grounds. Icon knew that the hostess' usual security contract had been supplemented by at least two whole organizations, a section from the Massachusetts Commonwealth Troopers, and as much of Kuroko's finest could be spared from the Peace of Mind department. And even that was probably not enough security, not if things went really bad. They likely wouldn't, but they could.

Worrying about that had carried them into the only space large enough to hold even a significant fraction of the partygoers, the grand ballroom. Half the size of a soccer field, with a gallery above around the perimeter, someone had constructed a dais at the far end, on which lounged Mrs. Guthrie.

There were rumors about her origins. Sofia wasn't from a known wealthy family, she'd married into it and her husband Stephen Guthrie, just smiled when people asked questions about where she came from. They were both smallish Siamese, and getting on a little bit past middle aged. But where Stephen had the refined air of the established, old money kind of aristocrat, Sofia had all the trappings and attitudes of an alley cat. Just hidden under a layer of glitz and glamour provided by her husband's love and money.

That they were madly in love was obvious to anyone who spent time with them outside of semi-formal events like this. That included quite a lot of the staff and management of Kuroko's company, and the fox himself. They had been long time customers, and were rumored to be some of the fox's financial backers. There were steady rumors about that particular subject, with the wilder theories pointing to Russian mobsters or even Nazi gold. When asked, he generally just grinned and redirected the conversation.

As for Stephen, he was Old Money. Somewhere way back you'd find oil barons and digital pirates, and possibly even actual barons and pirates. These days he just managed investments and let other people use his money to make him even more wealthy. His name was somewhere in the paperwork on any number of projects both major and minor, and as often as not, he was just reinvesting the profits anyway. After a point, money is just a way to keep score, and Stephen wasn't interested in playing.

The ballroom was crowded, the swirling dance of any huge social gathering with the added uncertainty of innumerable costumes and masks. There were smells aplenty, but one, some kind of sweet smoke, sandalwood and cinnamon, stuck in his nose. And of course, they had to pay their respects to the queen of the realm.

"Oh! Aren't you three a sight!" Sofia didn't get up, but the grin was big and enthusiastic. She wasn't wearing a mask. After all, it was her party. "Don't worry, I haven't given out the presents yet." She showed them a trio of keys, in gold, silver, and copper. "But I'll be very sure to tell your fun friends what you're dressed in when I do."

Icon grumbled, and Sofia reached over to pat him under the skirt. "Don't worry, I'll make sure to tell the lucky person that you're very, very anxious to get out of that cage, sassy. They might even be nice to you!" No one expected that to happen, least of all Icon.

The other two said their happy birthday wishes to Mrs. Guthrie, and then the trio wandered off into the crowd, wolf and tigress trailing along on their leashes behind the mute fox. The swirl of people, some of them murmuring delight or surprise at the display, others looking past them without seeming to notice. There were even a few who were clearly intent on enjoying the party in their own manner, though they were mostly sitting, relaxed to a point just shy of napping, like the hyena, smoke drifting from their long-stemmed cigarette holder.

It was chaos with a little bit of order mixed in, a pattern kind of like water stirred in a cup. There was a flow to it, eddies and tides, and they were moving along one of those, when one of his leashes went taut. Wolfgang's leash, and he could hear Alessia snickering even before he turned to see what was the matter. A jackal woman, her bone-white mask adjusted enough to make her appearance a little alien, a little unnerving. And she had a copper key in one hand, and Wolfgang's throat in the other. She was shorter, but from the grip and the way his heels were up, not a lightweight.

"I'll take it from here, you two." Her voice was neat, clipped, a faint trace of Scottish somewhere in it. Well, that was clear enough, and Icon handed the leash over, then watched the jackal drag her prize away. "Mm-mm. I bet he's going to come home all sore," Alessia muttered. "That Morae... she plays rough with her toys." The faint whiff of envy hiding under Alessia's voice said a lot.

Not that Icon would argue that envy. Wolfgang was in for a very, very interesting night. But for the moment, there was more crowd to circulate through. A menagerie, made even stranger by elaborate masks and costumes. There were plenty of morphs, true, but at least as many humans.

Masks and costumes ranged from blandly simple, the minimum required to join the party, to amazingly complex. One pair twirled past them, dancing through the crowd. A hare, and her paramour cat. He was dressed in tattered rags, bedraggled and dirty, while she wore very little aside from a skull mask and some more assorted bones and black gauze.

"I bet she gets plenty of raises without involving the dead, that necromancer bunny." Alessia was probably right, given the way her hips swayed, and how much padding there was on her. The cat was either playing the part of a loyal zombie minion, or just hypnotized by those hips, the way he shambled along after her.

Either way, it was a pretty amusing sight. His own follower snickered at the departing couple, and they started their slow path around the ballroom, through the smoke and scents, then out into the hallways and the garden. Calling it a garden was maybe a little anemic. Sculpted and meticulously maintained jungle didn't roll off the tongue, though.

It was vibrantly green, out there, and the hushed roar of a million conversations stayed back in the ballroom. Anyone out here on the paths and in the hollows was quieter, although the fauna were pretty vocal in their own ways. The party-goers were quieter too, mostly because each of them, or sometimes pairs and trios, was finding private places for whatever they wanted to do.

The birds and insects and small mammals had their own cries, and here and there, low moans and louder howls joined them. Icon couldn't see any of the participants, which was the point of the private gardens. But he could hear them, and it sounded like they were having good times, in general.

Again, he stopped short as the leash in his hand went taut. It wasn't like Alessia to get distracted so easily, but when he turned back in puzzlement, he knew what had caught her. He didn't recognize the woman, but the golden key was a pretty clear message. She was a squirrel, soft and round and chestnut brown, with orange hair dyed to a sunset gradient. Very fancy, and it went well with the Autumn leaf mask she wore, and the dryad's gown.

Alessia seemed a bit confused. Maybe not confused but uncertain. There was no conversation, just a long stare, and with the masks it was hard to read. After a few moments, Alessia just nodded, and gestured to Icon. The only thing left to do was offer the leash to the mysterious squirrel, and watch the two of them walk off.

And now, alone. No leashes to hold, but also no one to speak for him, if the need came up. It was a little worrying to be silent and unescorted, and he turned from the greenery back toward the party inside.

It was getting late, and he detoured for a mug of punch and a straw. At least it was a muzzle, not a gag, so he could drink and not just... drool. Everywhere. There was just no way to be neat and tidy with a gag in, it was just messy by default.

While he was busy contemplating whether a vow of silence was valid if it was artificially enforced, he missed the person settling down against the wall next to him. Long and lean, the hyena had that vaguely androgynous feel that many of them had. This one had very little on, and what there was was almost haphazard.

A skull mask, a tattered cape that looked like some sort of imitation leather. Headdress of beads and feathers. Loincloth, also faux leather. Masses of beads and bangles around ankles and wrists. Assorted other trappings that pointed toward voodoo. The lighter and cigarette, in a long-stemmed holder, in their hands pointed toward vice, and that sweet scent, sandalwood and cinnamon smoke.

The hyena lit up, took a long drag, then shrugged. "Yeah, I know. It ain't healthy. It's also not tobacco, if you're that concerned." Their soft, slightly husky voice wasn't helping the uncertainty, and Icon was fairly grateful that the muzzle was making the question of how to address this stranger moot.

The smoke was fragrant, a pleasant scent that had him feeling mellow and calm in very short order. Odd that just the secondhand would have any noticeable effect. And more odd, the stranger seemed unaffected. After a few more puffs, the hyena filtered through the bangles at their wrist, and produced a small but familiar silver key. "Just so you don't get worried I'm trying to do something I oughtn't. You're mine tonight, but you'll probably find it a pleasant experience. Yes? Just nod."

Icon found himself nodding in agreement before he had properly processed the stranger's words.

"Very good, I like when my, ah, my little dolls, are properly compliant. Are you my little doll? Just nod, it's true. You know it's true. You want it to be true. Just nod."

Again, he was nodding without actually being conscious of it, nodding before the words really registered through the faint haze of euphoria that had settled over him. There was a faint voice of alarm somewhere inside, but it was muffled by the voice of reason. This person had his key, and Sofia would not have given that to anyone dangerous. Whatever smoke he'd inhaled, and the not-quite-monotone of that husky voice, those were obviously not affecting him at all..

"You can think of me as Baron Samedi. You can't call me that, of course. Dolls don't speak. You don't speak, do you, my porcelain-faced fox? You're my doll, my silent, obedient doll." All true, he couldn't speak, and that mask, his face, was very doll-like. "I'm going to take off your muzzle now. You're not going to speak anymore are you?"

The stranger- no, Baron Samedi, not a stranger. The Baron reached over, undid the buckle of the muzzle and slid it off. Icon stayed quiet.

"That's a good doll. You want to do as your told. That's right. That's your place. That's your function, little fox doll. To obey. To serve. Are you going to obey? Just nod, you know you are." The voice wasn't in his ears anymore, it was emanating from the inside of his head. He wasn't conscious of hearing it, any more than he was able to resist it. He could see, at least, and when the vision registered, that tiny voice of worry got momentarily louder.

He was walking, guided along by the hyena. He didn't remember starting to walk. He wasn't conscious of his steps, and it was probably a good thing that the hyena wasn't leading him to stairs. He felt fuzzy, muffled. Even without the muzzle, he probably couldn't have mumbled more than a few words. And through it all was that slow, gentle, almost sing-song voice, encouraging him, directing him, confirming what he wanted for him. He had no actual control, no agency of his own, just obedience.

Their destination arrived, and Icon immediately recognized one of Mrs. Guthrie's playrooms. There were plenty of them, and their existence and contents, their explicit purpose was part of the reason the entire estate was absolutely off-limits for minors. There's only so many ways you can conceal a room that was made for the express purpose of driving someone to exhaustion through sex and it's related activities.

He was led to the couch, helped to a seat, and told that he thought it was a good idea to just lay down. It was a good idea, it was awfully hard to stay sitting up right. He'd been on his paws far too long and it felt good to get off them.

The stranger's hands felt good, too, when they rubbed into the soles of his paws, and he let out a muffled little huff of pleasure. Dextrous fingers, skilled and steady. How they managed to maneuver both hands without any worry about that sweet scented cigarette catching an ember to anything was surprising. But there seemed to never be any chance of that glowing coal hitting anything flammable, even as it swept back and forth across his vision in steady little arcs.

Back and forth like a firefly on a pendulum. Icon was surprised to hear the music. The music had been there in the background the whole time, of course, but it was just part of the noise of the party. But it matched the arcing ember, like a metronome backed by heavy, slow bass drums. The stranger was talking again, but the words weren't making it past the haze of relieved feet, sweet smoke, and a wash of drowsiness. He'd been awake far too long and moving too much. It would be okay if he took a nap. He wanted to take a nap, the hyena assured him.

*

**

"-sure he's fine."

"He's moaning a lo-"

**

*

"-n't worry. He's very, very in to this."

***

"Back with us, little doll?" Icon was sharply aware, in an instant. He recognized the playroom again. he was still where he'd been. But he was sore. A lot of sore, mostly in his backside. And wet. And sticky.

"You were so very enthusiastic for me. You made many people very happy, and you made me proud, little doll." He was wearing the muzzle. Again? He could feel it had been moved, and his mouth tasted of cum. His panties were squishy, too, and a glance down confirmed that he was liberally doused with semen, his thighs were soaked with it, and he might as well call his clothes a complete loss.

"I tried to teach you a trick," the hyena continued. "Shall we see if it worked?" Before Icon could try to decipher what kind of trick he'd been taught, the stranger spoke.

"Hard, doll." He felt himself swelling inside the cage, felt the rush of arousal and need. Wide eyes stared at the hyena, unsure where the sudden, aching lust had come from, but very sure it was there.

"Good, that's step one. Get ready. Do you want to know what 'get set' is? Present, doll." Suddenly Icon knew exactly what that meant, as his body responded on what felt like muscle memory. He pushed his hips forward, pulled up the edge of his skirt.

"Very good. I bet it aches in that cage, doesn't it?" Icon nodded fast. He'd been hard in a cage a lot of times, and it was usually a delicious sensation, dripping with conflicted desires, the need to release and the need to serve at war with each other. "Well that's fine, doll. We're going to fix that. Cum, doll."

There wasn't any contact. Nothing touching him, nothing inside him, no vibration. But he felt it anyway, felt that intense little pressure, felt himself tense up, and groan in muffled and confused pleasure as he came. Not a little bit, either, but one of those huge, ball-draining orgasms that left him staggered, euphoric, and panting hard.

"Oh very good, doll. I'm sure you'll enjoy that little trick. I'll let you decide who to tell about it. Except for dear Sofia. She knows already."

And Icon knew her. So that meant that Sofia would tell at least a few people who would probably use the knowledge to make him all sorts of wonderfully miserable.

"Since you're awake, and probably sore and thirsty, we're going to get you a drink and a bag of frozen peas now. Come along."

Icon never did get the hyena's name, and later, anyone he asked just referred to them as 'Samedi'.