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"It's gonna fuck you blind."

That's a hell of a hook. "... they?"

"I'm not here to grant or deny sapience, sexuality, or identity; I'm here to sell a product. It," he emphasized as he swung his finger to point at the child-sized, anthropomorphic squirrel lazily hanging from a hammock and luxuriating its way through a banana snack, "costs fifty thousand dollars, and a combined sample of blood, hair, and spit. Biannual medical check-ups are free of charge, read the docket for details. Most important thing is that you, Mr. Man, need and deserve the fuck of a lifetime, and it'll give it to you."

The customer, a business-forward gentleman otter named Raided and Weathered, idly rolled a polished garnet the size of his fist from elbow to elbow as he furrowed his brow and stared at his potential purchase rather than the sales-ermine. "Do you ever make sales with this attitude?"

"Fuck, man, do you?" Amethyst eyes in a bleached white face raked him up and down. When Raid's face tensed a fraction, but didn't emit a retort, he relented somewhat. "That kinda Friday, huh? Alright, look, it's a luxury boutique after all. I like old-man drinks - do you?"

"That and big, fat red wines," he conceded, still concealing how the sting had rankled. It shouldn't have. He was used to this. But he was tired. Not sleepy, not fatigued. Tired.

THUNK. A small bottle of bourbon, three bottles of wine - Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Syrah - an ornate, woven basket with a dram vial of bitters, a jar of cherries, a handful of sugar cubes, and a brilliantly fresh orange hit the hard, oaken bar this ermine was using as a merchant's table. His deep, alluring, purple eyes sucked Raid's gaze back in from where they'd been admiring the living product. A small smirk that could be generously interpreted as flirtatious flickered around his lips. "Take this any way you want, but I'll gladly toss in this little gift basket to get Nutwit McFuckwit out of my shop."

"Is that their name." It was quite evidently not a question. Raided had balanced his garnet between his ears while he thumbed through his phone to check the market price of the spirits and vintages in front of him. He raised his eyebrows again, which made the garnet roll all the way down his spine, to be caught dexterously by his tail and juggled back up to his shoulder. Even exhausted otters keep track of their stones.

"I haven't asked. I taught it basic bartending, which it has used expressly to irritate my extremely professional sensibilities, as well as exotic dancing, acrobatics, and poetry, but all it does is try to get me to play German board games and sexy jenga."

"Why isn't that your opener?"

The ermine, who didn't have a memorable name, held his gaze rigid. "Because that isn't the winking-out coal of need currently firmly grasping your deepest core. You have more to you, obviously - we all do. We have complex desires, and different ones present themselves at different times. But the one that has gone unattended for a decade and now terrifies you that it's dying, Mr. Raided and Weathered, is getting fucked so hard that you see into the Great Infinite Beyond."

Blink.

"Which, coincidentally, is the name of the bourbon I'm gifting you to please make up your mind so I can either start personality-matching Tree Rat Bastard over there to someone else or get the fuck rid of it."

"Beg your pardon?" "You have eight social media accounts and you've been in the local news. We're not gonna match you with an Assistant you won't like, and we started searching the moment you showed an interest last year. Who do you think we are? The Gilded Chasm?" A snort. "Only lukewarm trash work at the Gilded Chasm."

Raided and Weathered had actually heard the Gilded Chasm had experienced a massive upswing in quality, recently, but he chose not to comment. Instead, he took a moment to breathe in deeply through his nose and contact-juggle the garnet and his phone in one paw. It was a self-soothing technique with the added bonus of being visually impressive. He knew the tactics the ermine was using - he was, in fact, used to being on top in these types of negotiations, but right now was simply too tired. He offered a joust, anyway, mostly out of professional courtesy, one merchant to another.

"This gift basket came from a dollar store."

A sneer. "The contents are more what matter."

"Not to you, and it shows. I judge books by their covers because no one who gives a damn about the book clothes it in rags. Give me your 'premium' bundle and I'll prick myself and sign."

The salesman put on a face. "I can only get my hands on one of those a quarter. They literally cost blood and spirit."

This was the last bit of spitfire Raid had after a week of dealing with lions and wolves and shrews. It was always a challenge, always a matter of summoning up another layer, another coat of armor, another gesture of brazen certainty and never, ever admitting that at the core, he just wanted a smile to be sincere. "I mentioned before that it's not like you're making sales like this. Free up some shelf space and give me the illegal charcuterie or whatever it is you've got back there." It wasn't elegant, this late in the week, but it was what he did for a living.

"Oh, it's appetizing, but for a far different reason. HEY NUCK FUT." The squirrel obediently climbed down. It was a Malabar giant squirrel, somewhat broad in the chest and shoulders and hips for a squirrel, and covered in an undeniably luscious, blacks-and-purples-and-oranges-and-golds coat of fur. It wore a knee-length loincloth tied with a rope, which pretended modesty while fully exposing the hips and outer thighs. No sex was apparent, though the chest was shaped more like taut pectorals than plush breasts, and Raided had been assured it was anatomically male. It kept its black-eyed gaze neutral as it climbed up onto the bar to fully expose the swatch of cream fur descending from throat to sternum.

The ermine vanished behind a screen in the shop for a tellingly brief length of time that suggested he had been imminently prepared to produce another bribe, but the brevity was carefully measured - just long enough for Raided to get a closer, more intimate look. The squirrel had a scent on it, likely some simple, light application of cedar and some form of musk, with a delicate touch of citrus on top - apricot? - something barely present, enough to intrigue without clashing with the arboreal, earthy scents below. Like a fine coffee.

The 'gift basket,' as it were, was less ingestible than the first. It was a handheld travel suitcase made to evoke a wardrobe. Within were two tailored suits, one glossy white and one matte black; a dancer's outfit with wide-legged pants and transparent silk vest - and in a drawer beneath, a variety of elegant, wooden rings, some studded with brilliant stones. "This isn't just a companion. This is a statement. This is luxury, given the spark of life and sold at a devastatingly low price because most people's morals won't let them and most people with the morals that will would abuse them." The salesman put a hand on top of his ware's head. It was meant to be exhibitionist, like patting the hood of a car, but a bare movement of one finger near an ear betrayed protective affection - a crack in the veneer of abrasive audacity.

Raided was thumbing through the garments. Bespoke and beautiful. His ears shuddered and twitched as that movement of his opposite's finger let reality sink in. This was an enormous purchase, and one of a living creature. One that had to eat and shit and sleep and would be inside his home. More, it had an uncertain level of sapience. Clearly more than a standard familiar, but... well, "less" than human didn't really apply. Different. Potentially unknowably so, like trying to assign intelligence to a cephalopod.

All that said, he did need a good fuck, and he'd been saving carefully for this occasion for a year. He held out an empty palm. "I'll sign." The ermine nodded, handed over a needle, and let Raid do the honors, as he'd said he would. He hesitated for a moment, nearly betraying that he had never even been inside a shop so overwhelmed with the occult, so stuffed with herb-packed skulls and macabre weaponry and racks of brilliantly colored potions and stacks of leather-bound tomes and shelves of stones that seemed carved in too many dimensions, he pricked his pinky with the bone instrument. Blood moved by capillary action, and the ermine bound cotton against the wound with a linen bandage before accepting the offering. Fine scissors - also bone - took a single hair. Last, with a gesture, the squirrel was instructed to uncork the Syrah and pour a few sips into each of three glasses while Raided and Weathered signed his name with a fountain pen - made, of course, of bone. Silently, the trio sipped, experienced, and swallowed. With movements like a bartender, the ermine produced a hand towel and collected the residue from the customer's lips on his glass onto it. Finally, a contract of firm paper moved across the table and was signed, and the trio could simply enjoy their wine in comfortable silence.

Raided set down his empty glass and straightened his spine and tie. "So I take it from the fact we're in a stone chamber under a henge that you're literally a Druid?"

"Come again?"

"You know magic is still very illegal, right?"

"Look, I signed the Disagreements in the Deep four years ago." He pointed angrily to a framed certificate on the wall. "Fully three-quarters of my business was transmutation and I am trying to recover." That said, living vines started to crawl around the ermine's torso from somewhere behind him, seeming to respond to the emotion.

The otter shrugged, but was uncertain whether he'd actually touched a nerve. "The Disagreements just made those things impossible; legally the rest of magic still-"

"The fuck are you even doing here if that's your hang-up?" Rolled eyes and an obnoxious sigh.

"I didn't - I meant, I wanted to know what..."

"Y'know I was like two minutes from asking you on a date?"

Flustered, grasping at straws. "It's not-! I just, I, wait, we could still..."

"Out, out! Thank you for your business you'll be a fine caretaker for Acorn Porn here goodbye!" The ermine moved to shove the squirrel off his bar, but the Assistant was already moving. The merchant slipped with a comical crash on the banana peel the Assistant had left behind from its earlier snack. In impossibly fluid motions, it stoppered the open bottle, gathered together the components of the gift basket and lashed it to the suitcase, then impishly tossed the wine glasses with its tail to send its former master diving to catch them as Raided and Weathered made his way up a spiraling, stone staircase flanked with cool, mossy earth back up into dusk.

While walking to his car, Raid's mind dashed away from his embarrassment - he really had just meant to ask an opinion in the ermine's caustic language, not criticize him - by latching onto an awareness of his new asset. The Assistant followed him at a distance that could only be described as perfect, rather than in metrics: Raided knew where it was, and knew he could stop abruptly and be safe from collision; he barely heard the barefoot patter of feet and so had an idea of location; but more importantly, he just sort of... knew. His voice, a gentle baritone, guttered out a considerate sigh. "Name?" He'd been told a number, but the people he'd spoken with had done everything to dehumanize the purchase.

"Three times, under the grey skies of four in the morning, I witnessed the green flash some say never comes; and in the instant of the third, I knew I would be okay. Everything would be okay." Its voice was calm and sounded partly synthetic, as though the vocal cords weren't entirely flesh. To recite its name, it met Raided and Weathered's gaze with its black eyes and black sclera, and on the words 'green flash,' an appropriate, emerald sheen, miles deep within each eye, coruscated for a moment.

Raid nodded, and turned as he opened the trunk to his car - a silver hybrid with semi-autonomous navigation capabilities - so the Assistant could load up the gift basket. They each opened a door and got in. The otter idly held his garnet perfectly still in space while his hand revolved around it, and tapped in their destination. He leaned back with a low sigh. This was good. This had been a correct decision. "Grey or gray?"

"Grey."

"Exotic."

"Yes, sir." The creature smiled, and the corner of Raid's lip quirked up in answer. Assistants rode the line of many states' laws. They weren't - legally - people, but they were undeniably fully sapient, feeling, experiencing individuals. The question was similar to that of AI rights, which were in prenatal stages, because Assistants were, at least according to consensus, golems. They had been created - according to consensus - to serve, and thus demanded the same attention as AI. On top of that, magic was, of course, extremely illegal and they were definitely magical. What there was not a consensus on was from where they originally came. Too many individuals and organizations were claiming ownership. So, while the courts bickered, underground traders like the ermine without a memorable name flourished.

Raid drove until the roads were long enough for the car to navigate them safely. The hum of the car was a pleasant, soft whir, and there was blessedly little sound in the late evening. "Is there an abbreviation you prefer? I prefer Raid," but I've gone by Weather, he thought. And Weathered.

"Witness makes people uncomfortable."

"Hm. Would you compromise with 'The Morning I Witnessed,' formally, and Wit informally?"

A blink, one fraction too controlled, over those glossy eyes. It almost spoke again, but Raid cut it off. "Witness is fine. How old are you, Witness? I'm thirty-five."

"Nineteen, though of course, you're aware it works differently for us." A nod. "Do you have friends or family?"

"The Assistants are all cousins, but none of us are siblings."

"Ah. Is the ermine your father, then?"

A nod. "Yes. He raised me." The word 'raised' was stressed. He wasn't just the father as a convenient term for surrogate parent. He'd... given Witness the spark of sapience. And still sold it as a product?

"Do you have pronouns you prefer?"

"No."

"Do you have an opinion on why Assistants all have such long names?"

"People have short names that can be adjusted for the situation - formal, aggressive, intimate, distant - but we are more rigidly defined. We serve. A specific thing takes more words to describe."

A thoughtful, long inhale and exhale. Then, Weather put his palm on Witness's head. The touch sent a wave of sensation through both of them, and Weathered's garnet rolled suddenly down his shoulder to plop into Witness's lap. It rested there a few moments. He withdrew his hand to finish driving into his apartment's garage and park, and when the two of them exited the car, he reclaimed the garnet.

They climbed the stairs five stories, with Witness carrying the bags and Raid's briefcase, but the weight did little to encumber it. Instead, the static tension merely hardened the curves of its bare shoulders and biceps beneath its fur. Its breathing remained even and soft. Raid listened for every sound, constantly assessing his Assistant on the journey. The stairwell opened to a carpeted hallway with welcoming, yellow light. They walked to one corner of the building, where a paw print scan permitted entry with a cordial bell tone, whir, and click of an automatic lock.

Immediately on entry to the home, Weathered took in a long, deep breath. His home. His things. His air, his scent. Familiarity. Freedom.

He breathed out and set his garnet on an elegant tripod stand. On his way indoors, he stripped off his suit jacket and began undoing cufflinks with abandon while verbally having his home adjust the dimness of the lighting to a soft, cavernous glow that imitated the shop they had just left. Witness caught them without breaking stride. Its hands were quick and its fingers nimble. "Bedroom is farthest from the entrance. Jacket needs cleaning and ironing; jewelry goes with the jewelry. Old fashioned when you return. Ice in silicone in the freezer - use the biggest one. Can't believe that minx didn't give us ice." He sat down on a three-piece sectional sofa and quirked an ear at his own words. "Us," or "me"? His smart home devices had initiated a faint scent of cedar and an electronic fireplace when his cell phone had gotten in range. The home was a place in which wealth took up specific mental spaces in high densities. Raided was successful, but not obscene. He saved and then purchased. He ate rice and eggs, never went on vacation, had had three-quarters of his furniture passed down to or passed off on him, and bought luxury. People said a vacation was buying an experience, buying escape and relaxation. After terminating his last relationship, this home was escape and relaxation. It contained the order, the finery, and the convenience that let him be Raided, and Weathered. "Pour yourself one, too. We should fuck, of course, but... oh, skies almighty, it's been a long week." Also, it was about all Weather could stand not to do all of this himself. But he was, at his core, an inspector. He had researched Assistants. He had handled Witness through a virtual interface a month in advance, and had mental touchstones - the eyes, the coloring, the physique - that he had checked off as he had sparred with the ermine. And he needed to observe for himself the unnatural adroitness with which these creatures were said to serve. So far, it did seem and feel impossible. Witness had neatly stacked the parcels against the door and somehow deposited the one opened wine bottle on Raided's granite bar between his kitchen and living room, and now Raided's awareness had entered his own bedroom, somehow, where Witness was silently memorizing the layout and tucking away cufflinks, a watch, and the suit jacket. It returned, scaled a barstool, and began preparing the cocktail, having found glasses, a bar spoon, ice, and a jigger without a question or glance. The telltale fop of a cork leaving a bottle broke the glass-and-metal susurrus, but a bare moment before it began to pour, it asked, "Syrup, cube, or grain?"

"Sugar cube on top of the ice cube, pour the bourbon over. Mix with your finger, one stir; cherries, bitters, orange twist. Don't wipe the rim unless you trust that orange with your life."

It laughed. A high, sparkling, cascading laughter that filled, but did not overflow, the crisp tones and neat organization of the spacious living room and its high ceiling. "Yes, sir," it acknowledged on the descent.

Weather smiled. It hadn't been a fake laugh. It hadn't been a strong joke; just a small something that had caught the animal off guard and brought out a pure moment of gaiety. It delivered the drink with a sultry smile, then rushed to fix its own, while Weather raised the glass to his lips and took a deep sip of brisk, hard, sweet, citrusy liquor, cut under with the wood and caramel bite of good bourbon. The nose smelled of his new acquisition. It burned down his throat and into his belly, and he let loose a sexual groan as his body became that much more fluid. His home. His bourbon. His Assistant.

Nothing shared.

Nothing taken.

Nothing negotiated.

Witness finished making its own drink and returned. It had made a much sweeter version, with several cherries and a long, elegant "tongue" of orange peel wound around the single, crystal clear ice cube. In its first proactive decision of the relationship, Witness climbed up and knelt in its master's lap, splayed unabashedly over his thighs, from where it sipped its drink. Weather smiled impishly down, already feeling his loins respond, and set his glass playfully between the diminutive squirrel's ears. Again, testing the creature's skills, he left it there so his webbed paws could begin to roam the small body. Dutifully, Witness remained perfectly still while Raid's questing fingers inspected it. "It's strange, to call you 'it,'" he commented while his thumbs pressed into a surprisingly thick wall of abdominal muscles and kneaded them top to bottom, then climbed back up the ladder of interwoven obliques to find the meat of broad pectoral muscles adorned by small, firm, black nipples.

"It's accurate, as far as I'm aware."

"It doesn't make you feel othered? Less than?"

"In ways, we are other, and less than." It let out a tiny noise of pleasure as Raid traced its Adonis belt down, behind its rope belt, but not far enough to probe its sex.

"I find that paradoxical. If you're 'other,' how could we possibly know you're 'less than'?"

"That's a very kind and philosophical thought."

"I like to think kindness dissolves easily into sufficient volumes of philosophy." He lay both paws open beneath the rear flap of the loincloth, to squeeze plump, firm melons of glutes, and roll his thumbs around the crests of the exposed hips. He then raised his paws up Witness's back, to check for what he had suspected was there - sufficient nape to act as a handle - and finally retrieved his drink for another healthy gulp. This allowed the Assistant to also drink its own, and they were quiet for a moment. "It's a bad metaphor," Raided admitted.

"The meaning is well-taken."

Nod. For long minutes, they sat. Witness didn't move to explore its master, yet. It was simply close and warm. The synthetic fire crackled in one wall of the apartment and the quiet whir of an air conditioner provided another layer of white noise, insulating Raided and Weathered's sanctuary from outside distractions. High, thick, cobalt blue curtains over the expansive windows on two walls of the corner apartment were open for now to the night sky, but would help to absorb sound from outside. Everything was modern, even, and clean, except for the newest addition, whose servile garb and bold, bright colors of vermillion and violet on gold and jet black were faerie fire amidst sterile modernism.

Witness bussed both drinks and poured two glasses of wine, but left them carefully on the carpet next to the bar. It then, with a sort of inevitability, it padded forward across the room and planted its muzzle in Raid's lap. The small, deft fingers opened the otter's pants as though it were a pickpocket's trick, and suddenly Raided's cock was enveloped by black lips and silken tongue and was being coaxed from half-erect to fully, painfully throbbing in moments.

"Oh..." It had been a year. A year of self-pleasure and pretending to be alright with that outcome. Of worrying he didn't care about sex anymore, couldn't care about it again. His body responded with a combination of nervousness and ravenous hunger. Hands trembled, then grasped at Witness's head and gripped the loose, but sturdy nape. He pressed its muzzle against his crotch so he could roll his hips and stroke his cock along that slick, hot tongue and into the welcoming throat, where Raid fucked.

Incredible. Hot. Wet. Perfectly slick. No hesitation of dry lips. Teeth slippery with saliva and nonintrusive. And Witness was so fucking strong. Raided was physically average - a pencil-pusher with forearms, no chest to speak of, and the traditional belly of anyone who was healthy, but not fit - but he was still nearly twice the squirrel's height, and despite that, the rolling of his hips was met with stability and strength. He thought for a moment he might fight against that need - he should draw this out, it was the first time with his new asset, it was a first impression with this creature, it was, but, the bourbon and the need clouded his judgment even as it numbed his nerves, and tightened his grip on Witnesses's head and bucked, bucked, ground, hard, until he came with a loud and inarticulate groan, hugging the little creature's face to his crotch.

Oh, the taut, density of an orgasm that had been needed for so long, as the engine guns into the red for those precious moments, and the rapid descent... except Raided landed solidly back in third gear. "What...?" He realized the sharp pressure of climax in the base of his shaft, the portion behind the balls, were the fingers from his impishly smiling new Assistant. Something hot, electric, was emanating from that point and keeping the otter's modest cock just as hard as it had been moments ago, pre-climax. The black muzzle began pulling back and while the otter watched, he blinked furiously. His cock looked huge. He had had... one drink...? He held his paws on either side of that muzzle - which was no worse for wear after the humping it had received - and gathered his throbbing member in his paws. Eight inches. No, nine, minimum. Impossible. At bare minimum, highly illegal, but more than that, Assistants didn't do magic; they just were. He stared as Witness tilted its head back and opened its jaws to show the pool of cum the otter had left in there, some dripping out of the corners of its mouth, before swallowing with a blissful sigh. Its front loin cloth was tented absurdly. Its paws went to its hips and worked the fabric and rope down, revealing a matte, jet pair of tight underwear outlining a massive package, and it asked, "Wine, sir?"

"Y... yes. The... the Disagreements made this impossible..."

"I'm not legally a person, sir. They can't apply."

"But your father...? It's his magic, right?"

"Loopholes in loopholes, sir."

Raided opened the buttons of his shirt and tried to calm his breathing in the few seconds of reprieve, but there was so very little to be had, and he couldn't keep his hands off his new length, and the Assistant demanded attention. Its tail moved with every sway of its hips, its back rippled with muscle, and when it turned with the wine glasses in hand, the underwear was even more dangerously stretched. It handed over one glass, its black eyes and their emerald depths unreadable over a simple smile. It stripped out of the garments with liquid grace to reveal a brilliantly orange cock with wide ridges, a tapered head, and a round bump of a knot, but not so bulbous as a dog's, over a glossy, black sheath. It stood rigid, more like a sex toy than a thing of flesh, but it dripped with copious, clear precum that slid down and poured off its full, round, plum-sized nuts.

Raided drank. Once again, Witness climbed into his lap, but he twisted his features in surprise when he realized he was now on eye level with the Assistant. He had no time to consider that, though, before his senses were drowned out in the ecstasy of warm, oiled velvet spreading over and encompassing his cock. Witness had mounted him in a single, unstoppable motion, until that newly bloated lutrine member was hilted inside the smaller male. The brilliantly orange-gold cock lay along Raided's belly and sternum, precum rolling off the river otter fur. "My couch..."

"Is no concern of yours, sir. I will take care of it." It lifted its hips and relaxed, and lifted, and relaxed, bobbing itself up and down nearly the entirety of the otter's expansive cock. Raided took the gorgeous length laying against his chest in his paws and inspected it from the tapered, spade-shaped head down to the fat knot at the bottom, tracing thick veins with his fingers until he couldn't help himself and opened his lips around the apricot-thick head to indulge in the salty-sweet precum that immediately began to coat his throat in more, layered scents and tastes of citrus and cedar. How they had known, these smells, these tastes, this entire sensory bouquet, he couldn't imagine - wouldn't, now, immersed in them, while smooth pleasure, as though he'd been lubricated in silicone, massaged brand new nerve endings, brand new breadth, with a tightness that, instead of lessening, only became more and more enhanced with each thrust. The otter cock grew inside of Witness, inch by wondrous inch, minute by minute, as Witness maintained a steady tempo, less frantic than the one its master had taken before.

"Drink - this will take a while. As it should," the squirrel intoned, with those surreal, metal-fiber tones behind and beneath its voice. Weather pulled his lips off that heavenly cock and looked up in time to meet lips and paws carefully placed to pour the heavy, plum-and-berry-and-smoke wine from Witness's lips into his. Delicate knuckles brushed his throat as he swallowed, as though taking pleasure in knowing he had been served. Indeed, when the otter breathed out, in curiosity and genuine gratitude, "Good," the squirrel answered with a piercing cry of pleasure all the damping in the room couldn't swallow, and the cock that had been stroking its master's chest on every, still-continuous rock of Witness's hips swelled and erupted cum, splattering Weather's torso and neck and throat and splashing haphazardly over his shoulders to drip down the wall, trickle down the cushions, wet his back and drench his belly as rivulets poured off him. The climax continued, and continued, and each strain of it brought a new grasp of the squirrel's rear end over its master's cock until finally, while high, fey sounds still fountained from Witness's throat, Weather joined it in climax with claws digging into round, hard shoulders and smooth, broad back, and fist-thick cock jammed to the hilt.

"Agh... fuck... how..." His climax powered on, muscles of his groin throbbing, burning with exertion. Witness's hands crawled over his back, urging him onward. One took his wrist and brought it between them to press into the squirrel's belly. Weathered choked in shock as he felt the squishy, pliable mass, his cum having started to bloat the small creature, just barely. The heat of what he'd drunk, the heat of his companion, the heat of the lust still pouring, magmatic, through his blood. "I can't..."

Witness tilted his head back for another kiss, now from above eye level, and poured in the remaining glass of wine, which Weather swallowed gratefully even unable to comprehend how the Assistant had managed to fill its own maw again. It was too deft, too fast to comprehend.

The kiss completed, it raised itself off his lap. As the luscious rear end lifted away, Raided made a sound of flabbergasted surprise, even as much as he'd expected it: he was enormous. His cock was over a foot long, thick as his forearm, and was still achingly firm and hungry for more. It rested over a pair of nuts that was relaxing between his thighs from where orgasm had pulled them tight against his abdomen, and he swore he could hear the apple-sized organs churning with effort to produce his next climax. "Conservation of mass, though? I..."

The squirrel uncorked a second bottle and quirked an ear at the same time. "I weigh two hundred and fifty kilograms, sir. Weighed, that is." It nodded meaningfully towards its master's bloated loins and drenched body and furniture. "Slightly less, now."

Raided and Weathered's lips moved soundlessly as Witness returned. It set the bottle aside and knelt at its master's feet. Both of the animals remained fully erect while Witness used the movements of removing the otter's shoes to massage his feet in hands hot and hard as coal-heated river stones. Ankles were gently rolled and firmly loosened while socks were stripped off. Calves, then, before slacks were politely tugged away, followed by caresses of the outer thighs and removing the boxers that had already been shoved partway down, and though the servile mood was calmer than the frenzied mating of before, the sense of need and hunger remained.

Instead of standing to relieve its master's shirt, Witness hooked its arms under the otter's thighs and pulled him off the couch and onto its shoulders, smoothly swallowing down the bloated, purpling cock as it did. Raid snarled in sudden pleasure and gripped the squirrel's nape again. He moaned as throat muscles sucked and pulled along that enormous shaft, half-registering how trivial it had been to move a grown man the way Witness had, then let out a chirruck of confusion when he found himself lowered, perfectly controlled, and his rudder-like tail moved out of the way so that spade-tipped, golden cock could spear into him. He gasped, loudly, but it was as impossibly fluid and smooth and painless for him as it had been for Witness - again like warm, lubricated silicone, as his tight, long-unattended ring was stretched around the tapered, mushrooming head, then a few inches down past one ridge, then wider with a second, and wider with a third, like ratcheting up a rollercoaster in reverse while his halfway inebriated perspective was toyed with by the apparently towering creature that still was lowering him three inches at a time onto that cock.

Six ridges total later, Raided felt the knot against his entrance and looked up to find his muzzle meeting the hollow of Witness's throat. He was seated in his own Assistant's lap, speared through by its cock, but there was no smirk, no ownership - only calm, firm dominion, as the squirrel first tugged off its master's shirt, then began pouring the bottle of wine over his muzzle. Raided opened his mouth eagerly and swallowed, but much of it spilled out and over, soaking into his fur and painting him plum red. The bottle was set aside, half empty, and Witness ducked its head to begin dragging its thick, hot tongue across every splotched part of the otter's fur to lap at the spilled drink. Its breath came out, hot and heavy and heady and still carrying that apricot scent, and now musk and wine permeated the air of the room and dripped into the carpet. Raided moaned out loud as he was bathed by the creature's tongue, shoulders and chest and nippled and throat and then it dove into his muzzle, filling it, while Witness bore him onto his back and rolled its hips firmly forward to bury its knot inside it's masters rear end.

A muffled squeal of pleasure was shared between both of them as they were tied together. Witness pulled back, the smooth shape of its cock letting the knot pop out with only a pleasurable, brief spike of pain, then rutted his way through a series of thrusts that left Raided breathless, lungs desperate for air and cum-and-wine-coated chest heaving, then sank its knot inside once more, forcing out a burst of precum from the otter's monstrous member. Its body enveloped its master's, broad chest and shoulders tenderly, but uncompromisingly, embracing the otter's entire upper body as it continued to grow inside him, so every series of thrusts and every new entrance of that knot was a new tightness, a new pleasure, and eventually the otter's entire body was suspended up against the squirrel's massive chest by a single arm while Witness braced itself on the floor with the opposite one. Its hips moved in the perfect, rolling, squeezing thrusts of an athlete, each movement designed to subsume Raided's senses, blind him to everything but the electric stimulation of his prostate, the tight heat of the stretch, the subliminal exhaustion of his loins, the overwhelming scent of breath and sex, even the strain of his abdominals to contain the turgid outline of enormous cock that distended and distorted his belly with each thrust inward, until in response to rising cries from the otter's lips, Witness buried him against its chest and rumbled out a sound of triumphant climax.

Gyzym spewed from between them as Weather came like a hammered-to-breaking faucet, to soak himself and his Assistant's chest and his own neck and face and ears and the carpet and sofa behind him with spunk, but that paled for what somehow, impossibly, first distended, then bloated, then overflowed his lips to pulse like a fountain over the corners of them. His eyes went wide - impossible, impossible - but his mind distended, expanded, exploded into fragmented, reflected, and a thousand-times-magnified ecstasy, for time he couldn't measure, until he felt the soft, almost kit-like bathing of his muzzle with the comforting and slick, broad tongue of his Witness.

--

At this point, the reader is welcome to choose among three endings. I like vore, but not everyone does, so if it's not your jam, go for the first. The others are oral vore and cock vore, respectively, and both "soft."

--

"H-ow, how, I can't..." he stumbled, stuttered, gave up and simply basked, paws desperate to show affection around shoulders like mountains while he was groomed. He felt numb except for a pleasant tingling through all his senses and that heavenly tongue. A few minutes later, he managed to articulate, "How long?"

"A few hours, sir. You slept well."

"A-and we're still, you're still...?" He checked. He was still hilted, but realized he was now lying atop Witness, using it like a living mattress. His assets were still enormous. His belly still felt satiated and bloated and warm with spunk. Witness only nodded, loath to interrupt its grooming.

Some moments later, Raid commanded, "Sit up. You never really had any wine."

"Sir, I-" it began to protest, but it did as bidden.

Weather looked around a bit, still dizzied and somewhat senseless, until he found the two glasses with his tail and brought them into reach. Witness had to tense its abs to keep stable like this, but once the drink was poured, Weather carefully rotated himself so Witness could support them both on one arm, reclining, and Weather could do the same against its chest, while they watched the low glow of the synthetic fire, listened to its crackling, and relaxed. He felt the outline of the stiff member still pulsing with Witness's heartbeat inside him with his fingers, tracing the curve of it as it pushed out against his abdominal wall and vanished behind his breastbone with whatever outlawed magics were making it possible. He felt... cared for, and the fact it was simply the creature's purpose, its job, it didn't seem to matter.

"I listened, during."

"Sir?" The voice was deep and resonant. Soothingly dominant in servitude, and that was the proper order. No vying for position. Understood, simple, and clean.

"Pet dogs smile, even if it's a different smile than ours, and we assume it means they're happy, but we can't ask them. I can ask you."

"It gives me pleasure to serve. If you also felt relief, then I have purpose, and that is happiness."

"That's more honesty than I get from people." Even though it's all we need or expect from them.

Weather reached up to cup his Witness's cheek in his palm in gratitude, and was met with a pleasured twitch of the rod inside him, making him smile. "Mm. We should hydrate, and sleep. And likely untie at some point. You'll stay like this for breakfast, or be back to normal?"

"I am certain you will know what you desire in the morning, sir."

"Mm. And you'll still be here."

"With certainty, sir."

--

"H-ow, I can't..." He was cut off by the thick tongue entering his maw, seeming to taste him as it lapped out the syrupy essence that had overflowed during their mating. "Mmngh..."

He was now lying on top of Witness, who was lying on its back in the middle of the floor, surrounded by wine stains and cum that was steadily soaking into the carpet. He pulled from the kiss, only to be gently, but firmly returned to it while the giant, muscular squirrel rumbled with an undertone of hunger.

There was an allure to the sound: a promise of safety and rest, of all-encompassing warmth. Surety. Certainty. And from a tactile sense alone, that tongue, and the hands covering his back and neck, already had his over-bloated member pounding with need. Weathered backed out of the kiss again, and this time, Witness followed, crunching its abs to sit up and loom over the river otter. Without a word, merely staring with its space-black eyes and the green light miles behind them, it reached for the half-full bottle and again, as before, poured the drink into its master's muzzle, overflowing and fountaining over his cum-coated neck and chest and shoulders and hips and tail, while never breaking gaze.

When the last drop fell, it rumbled, "Shopkeep likes Syrah. I like Merlot."

"Then why..."

The otter was again silenced by an invading tongue, but this time, the squirrel's muzzle gaped open after it and engulfed Weathered's head, the motion as smooth and inexorable as any penetration that evening had been. There was no struggle for dominance, no invitation to fight, no possibility, even. Flight instincts buried deep inside Weathered's wine-soaked mind twitched impulses through head and shoulders, then chest, then entire torso, as each of these was subsequently dragged and stuffed inside the squirrel's maw and throat. Tongue glided over, then teeth raked, then gulping throat claimed, each inch of the otter's long body in rapid succession. He was tugged from his knotted perch on the squirrel's cock with such a subtle yank he barely noticed. This was a ravenous calm. His upper half hung within his new asset and his lower half without. Witness paused to gather up the otter's cock onto his tongue and use its throat alone to bob Weathered's body along the hot, slick surface of its tongue, then tilted its head back and braced itself on both palms to let gravity and peristalsis handle the rest. Weathered was squeezed as he sank inside, slower now. He writhed, slowly, confused and disoriented, but that awareness of Witness he had been feeling was an anchor, grounding him in the reality of what was happening. Hips lost their knowledge of the outside world, then thighs, and then that tongue curled up to cover over his nuts and push with its tip under his tail, pressing a shocking, sudden cold against his ass - his garnet? how... - and pushing him ever deeper into the squirrel's maw. This was a service, yes? It had to have been. This was certainty, he told himself. He twitched. He felt his head pressing against the inside of a more open space. The scent was that of Witness, but more, sweeping through his mind and body as now knees, now calves, now ankles were enveloped in the wet warmth of maw and breath and tongue, and finally, the tongue wound up and gathered in his tail and a muffled click of teeth sealed him from the outside world altogether, finalized with a loud, luxuriating, soaked gulp.

The otter recited, "Three times, under the grey skies of four in the morning, I witnessed the green flash some say never comes; and in the instant of the third, I knew I would be okay. Everything would be okay. What time is it?" His heart throbbed against his chest. This had to be right. It had to be. It felt calm in here, curled up and contained. No conflict. No empty house. Nothing to think of as his. Only quiet solitude, but for the light sounds of wet and the bass thrum of a heart.

"Guess, sir."

He counted. Once before getting in the car. Once before they'd undressed. Once just now. It would be okay. He was going to be okay.

He shuddered one more time, kept inside, before finally, the body-mind properly relaxed. Raided and Weathered relaxed. "Wake me at... noon, then."

"I'll keep watch, sir," rumbled the semi-synthetic voice of his Witness. Numbing fluids began filling the chamber, soaking into and through him, and he slept.

Outside, Witness closed its eyes a moment, extending its senses to its master, before observing the room around. It smiled and moved a paw to its cock. One last thing to do, and it treasured this. It thrummed with power and began stroking its well-used and satiated member with both paws. Electric pleasure showered through it, base to tip and back again, and the pleasure it had barely been able to contain as it finished its meal exploded in a fiery conflagration through its senses, building, expanding, until it filled every cubic inch of the creature and erupted outwards. Jizz arced in a crescent spray against the far wall, coating the electric fireplace and showering the furniture. The rest fountained up and showered down over and around it in an expanding pool, as the creature released the building, building, pent up energy for which the night had been an extended tease. It reveled as it felt its master experience this release from within and moved one paw to its belly to feel the lump of otter there, portions of spirit and body consumed to power ecstasy, then cried out in that high, musical clarity as the last burst rose to tap the ceiling and fell, to splatter around him in waves.

Finally, it let itself collapse backwards against the bar, chest heaving exactly once in a final release. With one arm, it grabbed the last bottle of wine and with the other, it rubbed over the muted form of its master inside its belly, safely hidden behind that wall of muscle. If the otter's mind had survived the climax, it would be a beautiful relationship. If not, well - it was a beautiful home, and the shopkeeper would appreciate the multifaceted donation. But Witness hoped for the former - Raided and Weathered was sweet and strong, in his way. For now, it drank the contents of the third bottle in a few gulps, reveling in having pleasured and consumed in entirety. It waited for dawn to break, and to see if its master had indeed weathered this raid.

--

"H-ow, I can't..." He was cut off by a pressure in the back of his throat. Witness was still in a holding pattern of some kind, grooming and softly rolling its hips as it continued to stuff its master, and so seemed not to notice as its cock pushed into, and then out of Weathered's throat to fill and stretch his maw. It kept perfectly still in that moment, though, counting the seconds as air was trapped in Weathered's lungs, before retreating, and when it did, it slipped out entirely - inch by inch, half a foot, a foot, two, three feet of golden cock sliding out of its recent sheath and leaving the river otter feeling somewhat like a squeezed roll of toothpaste.

The squirrel loomed over him and got up to its knees. Its cock rose up its entire front, and if not for the rigid angle from its chest, would have knocked its chin. Witness took the half bottle of wine and poured the contents over Weathered's body, soaking him tip to tail in the rich purplish hues and dark, leathery flavors. It backed up, then, so it could unroll its tongue across the otter's webbed toes, wet muscle wending among the pads and between each digit before dragging up to shin and calves. As the tongue left, though, the wetness and warmth seemed to open and spread around those feet with the smoothness and inevitability of each penetration that night. Inch by inch, something climbed up his ankles and calves, but the squirrel's now-giant head blocked a clear view. Weathered moved his feet experimentally, but they were bound in what felt like fine leather, or perhaps latex, but it was so hard to concentrate with that tongue swirling up, now to nuts that had grown to the size of grapefruits with his steady transformation. He rolled his eyes back up in his head as the squirrel's cock continued to engulf him, uncaring as the wet, slick, slimy muscle now coated his ever-more-sensitive member. The Assistant's hands lifted portions of the otter's body to ease his envelopment, and momentarily paused to wrap his lips around its master's broad, mushrooming cock head, before walking forward on its knees to continue consuming.

Finally, Weathered seemed to realize what was happening, in the wet and in the warmth. He felt that damp, squeezing, somehow muscular tube take in his furred orbs, felt as Witness's fluid, dexterous movements tucked something shockingly cold and firm and round under his tail - his garnet? how... - and then in turn tucked that tail into the snake-like, ravenous cock. He twitched as a flight response deep beneath the haze of his wine-soaked mind awoke to the events, but Witness didn't respond, except to squeeze firmly with its loins and drag in Weathered's hips with an immutable swallow. This was a ravenous calm possessing the Assistant, who finally settled to its knees and flexed, bringing its powerful cock up to bob in front of it with its meal suspended in mid-air. Those black eyes met his, with their surreal, space-like void and the green light miles inside their depths.

He recited, "Three times, under the grey skies of four in the morning, I witnessed the green flash some say never comes; and in the instant of the third, I knew I would be okay. Everything would be okay. What time is it, Witness?" His heart throbbed against his chest. This had to be right. It had to be.

"Guess, sir." It swallowed again, taking in Weathered's cum-bloated belly and half his cock, and again, until he was up to his chest. He looked down along the member, but the top half was so broad, so strangely muscular, that on this side, there was barely a bulge. He counted. Once before getting in the car. Once before they'd undressed. Once just now. It would be okay. He was going to be okay.

He shuddered one more time, kept inside, before finally, the body-mind properly relaxed. Raided and Weathered relaxed. "Wake me at... noon, then."

"I'll keep watch, sir," rumbled the semi-synthetic voice of his Witness. In that relaxation, Witness had rapidly manipulated Weathered's hands along his sides, trapped inside the advancing cockhead. He slipped downwards, and precum coated his throat. down, and his chin was forced back. Down, as it dripped upside-down off his ears, which were rapidly consumed, then eyes, then muzzle, and he was vanished from the outside world except for a broad bulge in his Assistant's titanic member. That bulge descended rapidly to let the river otter curl up inside its sac, flanked by a hot, roiling nut on either side. Numbing fluids began filling the chamber, soaking into and through him, and he slept.

Outside, Witness closed its eyes a moment, extending its senses to its master, before observing the room around. It smiled and moved a paw to its cock. One last thing to do, and it treasured this. It thrummed with power and began stroking its well-used and satiated member with both paws. Electric pleasure showered through it, base to tip and back again, and the pleasure it had barely been able to contain as it finished its meal exploded in a fiery conflagration through its senses, building, expanding, until it filled every cubic inch of the creature and erupted outwards. Jizz arced in a crescent spray against the far wall, coating the electric fireplace and showering the furniture. It glazed the room in moments, fueled by the new donation, as the creature released the building, building, pent up energy for which the night had been a tease. It reveled as it felt its master experience this release from within, portions of spirit and body consumed to power ecstasy, then cried out in that high, musical clarity as a brief pause stoppered the flow before, with a crack, the garnet and a geyser of jizz spiderwebbed the ceiling. It looked up in alarm, then smiled and opened its maw to catch and swallow the stone. He would want that back.

Finally, it let itself collapse backwards against the bar, chest heaving exactly once in a final release. With one arm, it grabbed the last bottle of wine and with the other, it rubbed over the muted form of its master inside its sac. If the otter's mind had survived the climax, it would be a beautiful relationship. If not, well - it was a beautiful home, and the shopkeeper would appreciate the multifaceted donation. But Witness hoped for the former - Raided and Weathered was sweet and strong, in his way. For now, it drank the contents of the third bottle in a few gulps, reveling in having pleasured and consumed in entirety. It waited for dawn to break, and to see if its master had indeed weathered this raid.