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Mitzi Carrington--not her real name--was a queen of the tabloid television kingdom. She was beautiful in every sense of the word, the work of an absolute consummate artisan. His chisel had sculpted from simple flesh a face of delicate perfection, with high cheekbones and a cupid bow's smile that left men breathless and sputtering. Just a flick of her tail or a flutter of long eyelashes over diamond eyes was enough to change the strongest of wills to hers. Gifted with legs that went all the way up to a luxuriously curved torso and chest, she was a mink who absolutely demanded attention; her wit and intelligence came as an even bigger surprise to anyone hoping to manipulate a simple buxom bimbo into letting them have control. She was a bitch and a saint, one who had taken herself from a virtual nobody with a webcam and a laptop to an icon of the prime time and late night entertainment scene.

She'd also had well over one thousand cocks in every hole on her body, including no less than five hundred sessions of anal sex. Over the course of nearly a decade, Mitzi had won awards for deep throating, most semen swallowed, the longest gangbang of the year, and best orgasm on film. Long ago, Carrington had been a shy young lady who had just dropped out of college and was trying to find an easy way to make cash, scared to death that she would have to return home and to the assembly line. You can probably guess that it worked out very well for her; a voracious appetite for sex and a body that, thanks to conditioning and a bit of cosmetic work, was more than enough to let her rise to the top of the writhing, sweaty heap.

But as she approached her mid-thirties, the shine had come off the diamond and the bloom was off the rose. It wasn't that sex for money wasn't fun, both on and off camera, it certainly was. But middle-aged women don't do as well in the industry even when they're absolutely glamorous sluts, and Mitzi was definitely glamorous. The thousands of dollars paid to her surgeons, dieticians, trainers, fashion designers, to an entire legion of support had been worth it. So Miss Carrington took a cue from others who had wound up in her same position and branched out into the world of entertainment. And here in front of her predictably fanatical crowd and approaching forty years old, she had become the pinnacle of the prime-time and late-night talk show scene. She was pretty happy with this arrangement.

The mink took her cue from the producer in her earpiece and put on her award-winning smile for the cameras. "Hi there everyone! I'm Mitzi Carrington, and this is Mitzi." Every square inch of her was immaculate; voluminous silver hair poured from her head down to her shoulders, layered and curled, a style from decades ago that she had made all her own. The breadth and width of her body was wrapped in something between businesswear and formal wear, with a short but loose skirt and a blouse that reasonably covered her half-natural half-artificial O-cup breasts--one of her signature attributes, other than an unnatural ability to accommodate larger lads--while still spilling a glorious plane of white cleavage out, something for the cameras and the male gaze to hang on while she talked. She had aged so gracefully some wondered who she'd sold her soul to.

"Now, you may be asking yourselves, 'why is Mitzi on so late?' I know, it's not my usual schedule. I'm usually in bed by midnight," she said with a laugh, echoed by the audience. "We're doing something of a special show because, well, it may just get a little ribald here. So make sure you've put the kidsto bed, get yourself a glass of wine, and relax for the next hour with Mitzi After Dark." She let the applause ring throughout the studio, the hooting and the hollering belying what exactly the audience thought they were in for. "We've only got one guest tonight, but I think you'll both agree that he is a pretty big deal. Huge. A really significant member of his industry like no other. He's here in his first nationwide television appearance, and you're only going to see him on Mitzi. His driver's license says his name is Reginald Williams, but I'm sure most of us know him simply as Rex!" Carrington sucked in her breath once the cameras were off her; this was a huge risk, and she'd had to make a lot of deals to get this guy past Standards & Practices even at midnight. If any one thing went wrong, she was going to be selling pottery on the Home Shopping Network.

For the viewers at home, the camera cut over to what the audience had been looking at since they'd showed up probably an hour ago: the talk show stage, decorated like an upscale apartment with expensive couches, just like every talk show did nowadays. And on one of those couches was the former nerdy little mouse that everyone had looked over for most of his life. "Pleasure to be here, Mitzi." The nine months had given him the kind of transformation you only read about in magazines, the ones where a shirking nebbish finds his way to be a modern-day Adonis, trim and toned. Deliberately tussled thick strands of brown-black hair draped over his shoulders to lend a rugged air to the mouse's face. In his open vest with a thick blanket over his lap, he was self-assured and confident, bathing in the attention of the studio audience without being a narcissist. It wasn't hard to be proud of a body that nice, you have to admit. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him, as the saying goes.

"We're glad to have you here too, Rex." Mitzi took a couple of steps down towards the stage, vertigo-inducing heels clicking against the marbled surface, hips swaying and tail drawing a thick S in the air behind her as she moved. You could almost hear the swish of fur against air with every calculated motion. "Let me ask you first, though--Rex? Really?"

Rex laughed along with the audience. "I swear, it wasn't my idea. Someone on one of my livestreams said I was 'like a Cockasaurus Rex', and my agent and I decided to run with it. If you ask my publicist, it's because that's Latin for King, but that sounds like pompous bullshit to me."

"So there's no more 'Big R'?"

"We're going to keep that around as kind of a brand. It's easier to trademark and all that sh--stuff I don't keep up with."

Mitzi crossed an arm under her bust and put the other on her hip. Investing in wireless mics had been a fantastic decision; someone deserved a bonus for that. "Oh, go ahead and swear, Rex. We're post-watershed and the censors are fast asleep. As a matter of fact, I think you should go ahead and get rid of that blanket. I think everyone here with me agrees." Mitzi looked over both her shoulders, giving them the typical motivation, though whatever she said was drowned out completely by the absolute deluge of approving claps and shouts. Rex flicked his ears back a bit, stunned a bit by the volume and slightly startled at some of what he was hearing between the mundanities. He figured his own nights were pretty wild and lewd, but these cats were as bad as the drunken women at strip clubs.

Rex chuckled in bemusement, leaning back and to one side, one arm over the back of the sofa. "I can tell, Mitzi. You guys are a helluva crowd, you know that?" He grabbed himself a handful of blanket and in one smooth swipe grabbed the whole thing up and tossed the mouse-dick-scented material offstage, assuming a grip or someone out there caught it. For something as simple as uncovering his lap made an immense difference in the situation: what had been just a smoking hot guy sitting on a sofa looking hot was now a smoking hot guy sitting on a sofa with his monster of a dong hanging out as well. Rex's pants were effectively plain, ordinary loose-fitting jeans, if one ignored how the crotch section simply didn't exist, leaving all the fourteen inches of the parts that made him the most male exposed before a quickly judging audience along with a goodly region of his thighs. His thick pink cock laid over the couch cushions and curved to hang downwards with the crown reaching just around his knee; two balls the size of a melon each fought for space between his thighs, forcing Rex to shift and jostle them around a bit to stay comfortable. "Glad you didn't make me wear my jock out here. It was getting hot enough under there without it."

"It's getting hot out here too." Mitzi adjusted some hair behind her jeweled ears and let the crowd suck in a collective breath. Sure, everyone here had seen it before, but seeing the cock that was the talk of every hormonally-active woman of age from coast to coast was an entirely different experience. "Before I join you, are you sure you have a king cobra like that under control?" Her tone was playful, a little bit of levity floating in a sea of sexy sights.

Rex smiled and lifted up his shaft, letting it drop back to the cushion with a dull thud. "Oh yeah, he's unloaded. Don't expect any misfires." The mouse relaxed again, hands behind his head, hips slid a bit forward. "Your makeup people were really helpful getting me all prettied up. Especially you, Selena." He winked into the camera and said nothing more. She knew who she was, given she was probably still cleaning his spunk out of her spotted cleavage. You couldn't blame Rex--she'd insisted on making sure his signature organ was properly dressed for the cameras and the stage lights, and that turned into a two-fisted handjob and a drink from the firehose before too long. Still, she was a true professional, and he looked absolutely fabulous.

Mitzi laughed with a shit-eating grin, looking back to her audience. "Still I hope you brought tarps. The front row may get a little wet on this ride." The mink turned her serious-slash-professional face on and moved her way down into the 'pit' that divided the audience seats from the stage and couches, segueing smoothly into the meat of her show, the conversation. Calling it a 'talk show' when there wasn't any talk was false advertising, and you'd never catch a Carrington misleading her public. "So, Rex--you don't mind if I call you Rex, right?" she asked and sat down in an overly plush lounger, tan against her alabaster.

"Of course not. It's my name, after all."

She nodded, taking a deep breath with one little lash of her tail to the side of her seat, thighs pressed a bit more tightly than you'd expect from a lady with proper posture like she was. "In probably six months, you've become the talk of a particular segment of the nation. That's a pretty meteoric rise for just about anyone. How's being a celebrity treating you?"

Rex shrugged a bit. "I wouldn't say I'm much of a 'celebrity'. Sure, I'm popular, I guess. But I'm just being myself. If that makes people happy then I'm happy to do it." The mouse smiled at the audience as he casually pointed their way. "When this year started, I was just another guy in the crowd. But everyone's made me feel like a champion since, so I feel like I owe my fans more than they owe me. I wouldn't be here without you."

The applause filled the studio like a tsunami. Even Mitzi had to stop and brace against the waves crashing against her ears. "Such a gentleman! On behalf of the audience and myself, thank you, thank you." Mitzi squirmed in place as a sine wave of a shiver ran up her spine until it landed in her chest, making her bust sway in her rather snug lace-and-silk mostly-unmentionables. It was rather hot under the lights tonight, more than usual, and she unbuttoned a bit of her blouse to get some air. Must be the crowd in here tonight, packed into the cheap seats like horny sardines at a baseball game. "What's next for you and the Big R franchise? Going on tour, maybe?"

"Hah, that'd be something. I'm not sure what kind of show I'd do live, or where." If he was broiling like the host was, Rex didn't show it. There wasn't a visible drop of sweat on him, and his demeanor was perfectly cool and collected, the kind of attitude so chill you'd need a jacket to keep from getting goosebumps. "We're looking at a few things, like merchandise. T-shirts and posters, that kind of thing. Mostly it's business as usual, with shows on the internet three or four times a week."

"And everyone here is getting a free Rex poster on the way out of the studio, courtesy of Mitzi and our producers." The mink stood up and waved her arms frantically at the audience, over-selling just how impressive a mass produced sheet of paper was (even if it did probably have a huge dick on it). The secondary camera picked up high-fives and fist bumps in the laps of anyone who wanted one, swinging to catch Mitzi jogging along the front rows and sharing in the glee-gasm. Rex followed her closely with his eyes, enjoying the pendulum swing of her hips and the way her tits jiggled just a little more without any buttons holding it back. It was hard to ignore all that white softness, like a pillow that just begged to have someone's head on it. "They're going to be a collector's item, only available here tonight!" Mitzi could only halfway imagine the racket the audience at home was putting up with as she moved back towards Rex, watching the cacophony reach fever pitch before wearing itself out. She knew she'd hear some grumbles from up in the booth. Fuck 'em. She knew they were up there jerking off right now, just like they did on every late-night special.

"Now, Rex." The mink pivoted smoothly on her heels and fixed her well-practiced friendly gaze of friendly friendship on the not-at-all-wee mouse and his very-not-wee willy. "We all know what you're like on camera--do we ever--but you've got to have a life outside the studio, right?" Mitzi slid her fingertips into the waistband of her skirt as she moved, never messing a step even as she struggled a bit to find some room between the snug satiny fabric and her hips. Nothing she wore on camera was ever less than custom-tailored to perfectly fit her fabulous frame at any and all times; not being able to get them back off without a fight was a tiny price to pay compared to the value of looking absolutely gorgeous. "What's a guy like you do when there's no one watching?" The question mark and the silent release of a plastic button went off in perfect unison. The latter allowed a bit of strapping slide backwards, loosening the mink's skirt until it smoothly slid down her hips, finding its way to the floor with a saucy wiggle of the hips that set her tail free from the pile of fabric so it could gracefully swish behind her for a half-beat before plopping down in her designated spot. "Any hobbies? I can't imagine you building model airplanes or collecting stamps, but you never know." A smile cut across her face as the crowd laughed along with a tepid 'joke'; they were enjoying this as much as she was. Exactly how she planned things to go.

"I don't have a lot of free time to myself, really," Rex said with a chuckle, trying not to ogle Mitzi, though she made it (and him) hard. Black satin panties cut ludicrously high on the lovely lass's torso and pulled _deliciously_tight to her loins contrasted sharply against her pelt and highlighted the waspish waist and flared hips of her majestic hour-glass figure. Partnered with sheer stockings that climbed up ample thighs before meeting garters and belts, Mitzi had the look of a film noir femme fatale, absolutely sure of what she was doing and who she was doing it to. It would never fly at the strip club or the beach, but the presentation was enough to make Rex's cock shift in his lap. "I lift weights and run, you know that, that's just part of the job. These abs don't maintain themselves." He scratched at his scalp a little as he tried to come up with a better answer than some shallow male model himbo nonsense you'd hear from someone without much more to them than muscles and manhood. "Sometimes I fuck around with video games or read science-fiction stuff. Maybe watch a movie. Y'know, nerdy things."

Miss Carrington blinked a couple of times, just staring at Rex in genuine surprise. "Are you serious?" She shook her head hard, trying to rattle some of the gears back into the right place before laughing off the faux pas, ignoring Rex looking at her with one eyebrow quirked. "It's 2020, you can like anything you want. Not something I expected from you but like I said, you never know!" One delicate and yet somehow satisfyingly substantial leg crossed over the other, the higher foot bouncing its shoe loosely. "Though now you know I have to ask." The mink ran fingertips through her feathered locks, setting the swaying back over her shoulder. "Have you ever thought about making some of that nerdy stuff?"

"Eh." Rex got something of a sour look on his face, taking a hit off a bottle of water and adjusting his nuts under a pillar of meat that was bathing in all this attention that had gone straight to its swollen head. "I'm no writer, and I'm definitely not an actor. No one wants to see anything _I_make."

"Except huge messes and sweaty women, of course."

"Of course, of course. But that's not acting."

Mitzi pushed the palm of her hand between her thighs, letting her wrist roll. It may have been hidden away from the camera but there was absolutely no denying that she'd decided to let her fingers do the walking, and they'd split straight for Pussytown USA. "I believe that. You can't get the real experience of furious, primal fucking with CGI." It was hard to make out, so faint that even the high-end lavalier microphone clipped to the unbuttoned hem of her shirt didn't pick it up well enough for the folks at home to hear, but there was the wisp t of a moan as she said 'fucking'.; maybe her heaving bosom muffled the sound? Who could tell? If you were a little dense or not paying a whole lot of attention, maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't think anything was going on.

"I guess you'd know, Mitzi." It wasn't an insult; it was a compliment, a nod of respect to a professional in a field not far separated from his own. Maybe they did it for different reasons but they both definitely did it, did it often, and did it with impeccable professionalism every time.

The mink pushed up to her feet and fluffed her tail out behind her, adjusting bits of her fur back into place without once looking away from Rex as she flowed towards the mouse, managing to make two or three steps look like the most sensual walk ever committed to film. "That's sweet of you to say, darling." The luscious Miss Carrington pushed her hair back, took a slow breath, and slid down--no she melted like hot wax into Rex's lap, landing weightlessly across his thighs. At just a scooch over five and a half feet, Mitzi would never earn any awards for reaching the top shelves; compared to Rex standing a few inches under, though, she definitely had the upper hand and he definitely had a face full of floral-scented tits. "It sounds like we both have a mutual respect for the industry," she said as she nonchalantly squirmed , planting palms on Rex's chest and pushing up to let his foot and change of fuck-flesh fresh from a female fetish film slip underneath the pillowy softness of her backside, nestling between silk-clad cheeks with the glimmering head sticking out a goodly distance. "Ever thought about a Mrs. Rex?"

With both his hands clutching her ass, Rex encouraged his not-quite-weasel of a partner to rock her hips, using her camel-toed crotch to polish his pole in smooth, steady strokes. "Never," he answered with some amusement. "I'm not really the romantic type." Rex tilted his nose down and licked in-between Mitzi's tits as she rode his dick like a pretty pink pony. "Why, are you asking?" he asked muffledly. Pre formed and dribbled to the floor; some of it collected on Mitzi's panties during a particularly deep backslide, the kind that bent her spine at an angle that would make any normal person wince in sympathetic agony but that she worked through with no sweat and no strain. She'd been bent every fucking direction before; this was not a challenge. This was fun.

"Oh, heck no! I'm not really the romantic type." Mitzi planted her knees on the sofa to either side of the mouse-stud's hips and lifted her stockinged feet, shoes left behind on the stage floor to be swept up by a stagehand when the camera wasn't looking. Rex's cock followed her as far as it could; even with his hips slid to the edge of the couch and his torso angled until he was practically laying down there was no way that Cock Mess Monster was going to ever completely fill the role of flagpole. It still made an impressive display as it pointed directly towards the crux of Miss Carrington's legs, where the guardrails of her legs led the hungry pilgrim towards the sumptuous delight of her throbbing fabric-wrapped pussy. "There's been talk about a movie based on your life." Her tail whip-lashed out behind her; slim fingers with fingernail-claws sharp and smooth and as golden as the sun slid into the front of her panties and tugged them aside brusquely to give her snatch and carefully trimmed bush a little air. "What's the word from the mouse himself?"

Rex took the time to properly appreciate the buried treasure that'd been unearthed for his personal interests and applications before answering. He had seen a lot of vaginas in the past few months--several on some days, in fact!--but each and every one was something unique and refreshing, and he'd never stop treating each one as a new gift to be savored. "It's true, but it's not the big deal everyone thinks it is." With very much warning, Mitzi punched the proverbial pause button on her generously and gratuitously genitalistically (possibly even gigantically) gifted gentleman guest with a quick bend of the knees. Partnered with the newfound weightfulness provided by gravity, the mink let her rose-colored pussy spread around Rex's dick like a silk glove coated in the loveliest of liquids, one that enveloped his meat with a fist-tight grip. Miss Carrington, as previously stated, was no stranger to being stuffed full of cock, that having been her job for a number of years, so the feeling of sudden fullness and the strain of being pried apart that melted into a giddy euphoria was nothing new. What _was_new was just how full Rex made her, how his cockhead set off little fireworks in her vision when it pushed deeper inside than she thought anything could go and forced the mink to clutch at her breath for a split second to try and keep herself level. Rex clenched his jaw and used one hand to keep his meat torpedo vertical while it was loaded into the firing tube; Mitzi had control over the situation, and Rex was content to just follow her lead and provide moral (and vaginal) support.

"What do you mean?" Mitzi said, not sounding a damn bit like a woman who was working a kosher salami into her hotbox until there wasn't any more room at the inn. Four inches, six inches, eight inches, ten; it all slid smoothly into the mink's cunt and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the fresh scent of horny mink and the shine of fresh woman-honey along the underside of his shaft. With enough length taking up residence in the bushes surrounding Mitzi's pleasure palace, Rex could let go of his cock and leave her to squat over his knees with her tail hiked over her backside with knees splayed and ass tensed until the bubble threatened to burst. "Is there a movie or not?" With a delicate swipe of her alarmingly sharp claws, black panties became black scraps that drifted off her hips and made their new home on the floor, another casualty to hedonism.

Rex was, for all intents and purposes, a casual observer to his own performative carnality, as the mink took advantage of his provided phallic invader, like a sex toy with a personality and better fashion sense. "There's definitely a movie,," he responded as he squeezed a handful of ass and ran his fingers between two glutes the size and shape of two loaves of bread and a thousand times tastier. The simple touch of fingertips against the star-shaped orifice tucked away there made Mitzi squeak and shiver in mid-twerk, digging her fingernails into the mouse's chest reflexively. "It's not anything from Hollywood, I mean. Some guys hit me up through on like PornTube, they wanna do a piece on The Man and His Meat." He stopped there to let Mitzi catch her breath between thrusts, Rex's mega-manhood hilted to the very base with her lower love lips giving two fuzzy fleshy cannonballs a slobbery kiss before they had to depart again. The trip back up the mountin' proved to be more difficult than it was to fall down the slope; dragging Rex's pelvic-pounding piston of lust free of its mink-based scabbard while being fingerbanged without mercy was a rush that sent her head spinning. "It's less Hurt Locker, more Meat Market."

"That--that's a good title. You should go with that." Miss Carrington crested the peak that was the dome-shaped head of Rex's penis, leaving just the tip inside her puffy pussy. The aggregate accumulation of a half-dozen cherry bomb climaxes and a generous helping of mouse-generated lubrication poured down her thighs and into his lap into a puddle on the couch that quickly sank into the upholstery. The smell of heat hit the air like a dick-shaped sledgehammer. That stain would never come out, though no one in the studio would have wanted it to. Some people in the audience were even working out how much they'd give to take it home with them.

"I don't know about that," Rex said in time with the loud slap-slurp of a mink pushing a fourteen-by-eight all-natural dowel rod back into her very personal wallet with non-stop gravity-supported strokes. In all her years of fucking men for the cameras, she'd never once shoved a wine bottle up her hoo-hah before--it'd never even occurred to her to try--but if any of them felt nearly as good as this sexual tyrannosaurus and his personal Peen-no Gree-gi-oh-my-god , they'd never let her back into a wine shop again. "I never charge," he said with a big smirk and a twist of his finger inside Mitzi's asshole. Pump after pump of thick hips, lifting and dropping; the luscious Miss Carrington was a reverse piledriver with amazing tits busily hammering a steel pillar of mouse-muscle into her moist soil. Thank whoever for the idea of isolated studio microphones, because without them and some careful engineering by the furiously masturbating but never slacking production team the 'interview' would have been nothing but wet slaps and heavy breathing.

"You could probably call it "War and Peace" and there'd still be a line around the block to get in. I know I'll be the first one there.". "The next sounds out of Mitzi's mouth weren't exactly words, but the laughs and whoops were just as at home here as at a baseball game or a strip club as Rex pushed to his feet and scooped his fabulous fuckbuddy up into his arms, all without ever letting the audience see his dick (and vice versa) for more than a half a split-second. With feet planted and knees bent in a show of strength from the Mighty Mouse impersonator, Rex put his pelvis to work reaming her soggy cunt with fast and ferocious blows from his Blade of Lady-Pleasing +5. Each strike drew up a gush of honey and earned the illustrious Mr. Williams another vice-grip squeeze around his cock from Mitzi's expertly trained pelvic muscles, practically a hands-free handjob. She threw her arms around his neck tightly enough to make the joints creak and mashed Rex's face in the plush canyon of her million-dollar breasts, high and firm with nipples that stood out near the buttons of her blouse like the very pinkest of erasers, a testament to the benefits of good genetics and a skilled surgeon. He couldn't see a damned thing except a sea of groomed and freshly-perfumed fur, but he didn't need to. Rex Williams could bring this to a crashing climax blindfolded--literally, in this case.

Some will tell you sex is like running track, with its marathons, fifty yard dashes, relay races, and a lot of hurdles if you're not careful in your steeplechase for that ass. Rex Williams was an experienced Olympian at the Fucking Games, having qualified for pretty much every event on the schedule with a few world records under his unbuckled belt. Audiences especially looked forward to his sprints, the explosive rush of energy and speed that could rattle a girl's brain out through her ears if they weren't prepared. His stamina was the stuff of legends, a pool deeper than two canyons stacked on top of each other mixed with one of those funky 70s art films that movie nerds go on and on about.. His dick was a dynamo that could power most of California and entertain the masses at the same time, as long as you had really good drainage. All that taken into account, it should come as no surprise that Mitzi was getting the plowing of her life, a slam-jam-cum-in-you-ma'am affair that she'd be hard-pressed to remember even after her brain rebooted. What she could see of the studio between Rex's ears swam back and forth in her vision, fuzzy and indistinct, glazed by a mist of hormones and sweat. The scent of female mink-cum permeated the air as clear rivulets were thrown about the stage like a pornographic rainstorm, with the thunder of mouse-meat into the Mitzi's flooded valley of a snatch.

It was all the production team could do to keep Mitzi's squeaks, moans, and euphoric wails from blowing out the speakers of every Joe Blow Buttfuck and Sally Cocksocket that was tuned in at the moment--and that was a lot of people, an astonishing number for a late-night talk show with one guest of minor stature (but immense proportions) and production values a few notches above community theatre. Mitzi would be the talk of the trades tomorrow morning. But that was tomorrow; right now the only thing in the center of the mink's mind that hadn't been knocked off the shelves and hit the ground with the sound of crashing crystal and shattered neurons was dick, this dick that had made her cum a dozen times, the one had given her a rush of a climax so strong it nearly broke her in half and would leave the unmistakable angry red marks of deeply driven fingernails up Rex's back that would shine through the mouse's thin fur. That dick. For his own part Rex was busily pumping away, a familiar motion that he had carved into his muscle memory the way a dancer memorizes a routine, letting them add a bit of accent without changing into the meat of the thing. Two fingers screwed their way through Carrington's backdoor pried the ring open wide only to vanish again; his teeth never left her glorious breasts alone for a minute, leaving the soft fur there stained with saliva and sweat.

It was all too much for the both of them to maintain for long; even the greatest athletes inevitably hit the wall. Rex clamped his fingers into Mitzi's hips, leaving indentations as he held her down on the base of his member and locked that fluttering pussy wrapped around every inch of his flesh-toned pillar of awesome. Now effectively plugged into the mink's cum-portal, with a gritting of teeth and wobbling of knees the mouse blew a hole in the dam that held Mouse Spunk Reservoir back from painting the countryside white for miles and miles. Mitzi's eyes threatened to fall out of the sockets, as wide as dinner plates as Rex's climax poured into her and filled every crevice, nook, and cranny with his calling card of ludicrous output. Plugged up with the full length of Not All That Little Rex, the mink felt the flood rush up into her midsection belly pooching in a desperate effort to store the gift it had been bestowed with suddenly and had no way to return back to the store. The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs, leaving Mitzi hanging from Rex's shoulders until the pressure forced her up and off his still-pulsing and still very hard phallus with a pop heard 'round the world. Buckets of cum rushed out and onto the floor, more still spurting out from the swollen cockhead and churning balls, coating the mink from the waist down in a thick varnish of gooey jism until she looked like she'd fallen in a vat of marshmallow fluff, globs breaking away to ruin the carpet just a little more.

Minutes passed as the operetta of exaggerated orgasms played out on two moist, pussy-scented couches for a rapt audience who had been holding their collective breath for a good twenty minutes. Slowly but surely the broken semen main ran out of pressure and the tanks ran dry, the uncontrollable deluge easing into something closer to a garden hose and finally dribs and drabs that dangled from Rex's cocktip in audacious defiance of gravity. Spent in more ways than one, Rex let his dance partner land on the floor and moved awkwardly through the soaked carpet that sucked his feet down with every step like natural glue gone on a rampage. Miss Carrington managed to stand somehow , though her balance was far from stable and her eyes were glassy, staring off into the distance with a dreamy smile plastered over her face. Her clothing was either disheveled or ruined, her blouse remaining as the only survivor as it hung limply at her elbows . Her skirt was nowhere to be seen, and her shoes had fallen victim to the expansion of pearlescence across the floor, lost in time and in meaning; lovingly coiffed hair had fallen from its dated but still fabulous glamour into utter sweat-soaked chaos.

"Rex, it's been wonderful having you on the show, and I'm looking forward to the next time. You're a spectacular guest." Mitzi pulled her blouse up to get the clip-on mic that somehow stayed on the entire time back up to her lips as Rex did his best to avoid any particularly wet patches as he reclaimed his seat on the couch. "But that's just the first part of our show." She tried to adjust her hair out of her eyes and into something resembling 'styled', turning on wobbling knees and moving towards a seat herself, dropping into it with a soggy plop and a twitchy eye roll as an aftershock rolled through her lower country. "Here on Mitzi, we always give our audience a chance to have some one-on-one time with our guests. I'm sure everyone's got a few questions they're just dying to ask you. Whaddya say, Rex? You up to some Q&A with your excited fans?"

Rex laced his hands behind his head and spread his knees, his vanilla-frosted erection standing proud and heavy along his thigh. A line of women had already gathered in front of the stage--his stage--ladies of all size, shape, age, and demeanor, from professional cougars on the prowl to glossy bimbos with inflatable tits, from shrinking violets that could barely make eye contact with the mighty mouse to giddy young things that had soaked their panties in excitement. The one constant between all of them: each and everyone had the same question in mind, one they asked with arousal. Thighs ground together; trousers had been cast aside and skirts pulled up; panties were pulled to the side in wanton advertisement of exactly what was on everyone's lower lips: "will you fuck me?"

Reginald "Rex" Williams waved to a canine housewife bouncing on her toes at the head of the queue who, making everything jiggle and bounce like a plate of erotic gelatin. His answer was definitely going to be "yes". It was good to be the king.

The End