Easy Money
A fox with a debt to pay goes to unusual lengths to get his creditors off his back. So what if he has to spend an evening as a sex toy? Sounds easy. But, unlike the title says, easy money is rarely easy...
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: THE FOLLOWING IS EROTIC FICTION. THERE ARE KEYWORDS. IF YOU DON'T LIKE THEM, DON'T READ THE STORY. THANK YOU!
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Easy Money, Copyright 2010 by whyteyote
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I am sitting down when she walks in, but the gravity with which she carries herself--the purposeful stride, the no-nonsense red pantsuit, the utterly motionless tail--indicates that I have an obligation to stand. She disregards me anyway, and says nothing as she takes the chair I've offered. Her sunglasses are too big to tell if she's even made eye contact yet. I take my own chair, heart fluttering as I realize this is actually happening.
I wonder if I can go through with it.
"It's so nice to meet you, ma'am." I think about offering my paw to shake, but something tells me it will be a wasted gesture.
"You're taller than I was led to believe." The words are clipped, monotonic and mildly accusing. She reminds me of a combination of Mia Wallace and Edna Mode, with her black bob and slightly undernourished appearance. It's easier to believe the stories I've heard from Lucia, a friend and no-strings lover who happens to be in this woman's employ. She's also the one who arranged this meeting.
"I'm sorry. The pictures I sent might have made me look shorter."
"Never apologize," the vixen quips. Colette Devonshire. Sounds British, but she's really a New Zealander. Moved to London to be a businesswoman, but ended up selling her body. Made a business out of it. Success. "Someone criticizes you, turn it back and make it sexy. They don't want to hear excuses, they want to be seduced. At the end of the day, they're there to get off."
All of that takes a moment to sink in. Suddenly we're down to brass tacks, after all of two minutes. Too real, too soon. Colette finally peels the glasses from her face; her eyes are dark and confusing. She looks nothing like a former street whore. Money does wonders.
She's still looking at me. "Understood?"
I nod.
"Mr. Altair, I don't believe you have the ability to grasp the concept of how inconvenient--inconvenient and risky--this venture is. The only reason I am here is because Lucia is too good at what she does to lose her as an employee. Do you have any idea how much money she makes for me? An inkling?"
As she uncrosses and recrosses her legs, right to left, scrutinizing me the whole time, I am left feeling stupid and indignant. Perhaps that was her entire point. Yes, it is risky, and perhaps unwise, but desperation breeds a different kind of practicality in even the most well-adjusted people. Even me. Still I can't deny, deep down, some kind of perverse thrill.
I try to be polite. It should be more natural with someone of the same species, but this woman looks like she wakes up each morning and plots how to make the day as difficult as possible. "I can't say that I do, ma'am, but I can tell how valuable she is to you."
"You are incredibly lucky to know her. She is the only thing keeping you from extradition, correct?"
That abrupt, but true, statement makes me flinch. It would take months, and the U.K. might not comply, but I could be yanked back to the States if someone had enough of a rager against me. I wouldn't doubt the power of the IRS. Leave it to them to turn a college restaurant gig into an audit, and me without pay stubs to prove my income. While I'm living in London on a work visa. Making just enough to get by, without the five grand the suits want to bring me into the black with the government.
Thank God for Lucia. And desperation.
"I am aware of that," I reply. Very aware, though I've tried to keep it in the back of my head. I'm not one to worry, but annoyances like that have a tendency to cloud my thoughts and make waking life undesirable. I don't avoid, though; that's why I listened when Lucia broached the ludicrous (at the time) subject of seeing Ms. Devonshire for a job. A quick way to raise a lot of cash. Kind of like posing nude, except...a lot more physical. And kinky.
Colette narrows her gaze coldly. "You are at my mercy, Mr. Altair. Never forget that. You are here primarily to make me money, and take some for yourself. This is a business contract and you are a temporary employee of this company. Don't embarrass me."
"Yes ma'am," I clear my throat and maintain my ears forward. I want to appear agreeable, not submissive. The vixen seems satisfied with my curt response, and opens a black leather-bound portfolio she's set on the table between us. I'm glad for the din of the cafe's uncouth patrons; it provides an obnoxious but convenient cover for all kinds of sordid details, the likes of which I can only speculate at this point. I've had nightmares the past two days. One of the downsides of a high I.Q. and an overactive imagination.
Thunk. The stack of paper's got to be at least twenty pages thick. That's the contract? I look over at my future pimp (Madame? I don't know which is more appropriate), trying to decide how to form a question with my face instead of sounding stupid again.
"Are you going to sign it, Mr. Altair, or are you going to read it and waste my valuable time?" She slides a pen between my paws as if to accentuate her point, her eyes piercing and very critical.
"What does it all say?" Ms. Devonshire rolls her eyes; I can tell she's holding in some strong words.
"Don't be difficult with me. To make you presentable would take more money than I am willing to sacrifice, given your current state. What I'm doing for you is a favor." After a pause for effect, she goes on, the whole time in her staccato cadence. Ears still. Tone low. She's daring me not to take her seriously. "This is your contract. It binds you to me as an employee from the time you take this collar..." this she produces from a pocket in her pantsuit--"and put it on, until I take it off you at the end of the evening." The collar is smooth red rubber with a blank silver tag. Not too alarming yet; I've worn collars before, to formal events and the like.
"Your status as employee lasts as long as you are in organic form. Once you go through the transition process, you are considered property and your civil rights belong to me."
"Wait a minute--" She cuts me off with a paw in the face, but that doesn't sound right. I don't take lightly to losing my civil rights; it's not like it's an everyday occurrence.
"You will wait until I have spoken before you voice your opinion, Mr. Altair. There are exception clauses that protect you under my power while in my employ. I have obligations under the Morphic Transition Act to protect your life, your person and my interests. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Yes, ma'am," I reply, with a nod of my ears. Jesus, Lucia had said something about a rubber kink, but I had no idea she meant I was going to transition. The vixen goes on without me, sounding like she's used to talking above people's heads. How does Lucia stand her??
"That is the bulk of the contract. The language is extensive and exhaustive, and you wouldn't understand most of it anyway. The rest is a procedural brief that you will learn while you undergo temporary transition. The process is reversible and proven safe. I am held liable for damage, unless you break my machine. Don't break my machine." Her claw is an inch from my snout, and I could lick it if I wanted to. But then I have to wonder how many have licked it before. I surprise myself when the thought arouses rather than disgusts. "So won't you initial, sign and date the last sheet so we can get on with it? Your client has a ten o'clock appointment, and two hours is barely enough time to prepare you."
My head starts to spin as I pick up the pen. It feels too heavy in my paw, too clumsy. But when I flip to the last page and sign my name, the signature looks like every other time I've made it: severely angled to the right, loops and whorls more like daggers than rounds. A date, an initial, and the deal is done...and I still don't know shit about what I've gotten myself into. Ms. Devonshire folds the last page six times and stows the tiny result in a breast pocket, along with the pen. The folio goes back under her arm. She doesn't even smile. It makes me wonder if she's hiding something.
"You will please accompany me now, Mr. Altair." She's rising and turning to leave even as she says it, which I would take as rude were this situation anything other than what it is. I quickly pat my pockets (Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, the old rhyme goes) to make sure I have everything I came in with, and set out in long strides to meet her as she reaches the door. Which she doesn't hold for me. Whatever happened to customer service? I look around the cafe one last time, already feeling claustrophobic. These people are all free, I want to be free. I will be, free and clear, after tonight. Nights can be very long sometimes, though.
The limousine is idling out front of the door, very much in a no-parking zone. The driver, a bull terrier, and a muskrat three-quarters his size, seem to be arguing about the limo's blocking him from pulling out. Ms. Devonshire snaps her fingers rapidly at me.
"Get in, now!" she hiss-whispers as she yanks the door open so hard I hear its hinges pop against their stops. I practically dive in, throwing myself against one well-padded couch and sitting sideways on my tail. Now I know what it feels like to be a celebrity. I don't really like it much. The vixen (at least, the portion of her torso I can see through the door) turns toward the argument and yells, "Hey, you!"
I plaster the side of my face against the window. The bull terrier stands with his arms crossed, saying nothing, a neutral scowl on his muzzle. The muskrat is dressed in cheap white-collar trimmings, and I guess his suit to be either a hand-me-down or an off-the-rack from a down-market store. He looks haggard, stressed, very angry and very verbal. The driver just stares. Both males look toward Ms. Devonshire when she shouts.
"What, you uppity bitch?" snarls the muskrat. I can hear that much even through the tinted glass. Next thing I know, something hits the guy smack dab on the snout. He catches it before it hits the ground, and his face does a complete reversal when he opens the crumpled ball of paper. He sees it, I see it, but I don't quite believe it. The muskrat was just assaulted with a thousand-pound note.
I look back out the window. The muskrat is still eyeing the bill; I can't blame him for doubting it's real. "Get outta here," grumbles the bull terrier, shooing him away with his fingers. One more wild-eyed look, and the muskrat backs away slowly around the limo's hood and leans against his blocked car, fondling it like a lover.
"Thank you," says Ms. Devonshire in a civil tone she can't seem to use with me, then: "Magli, let's go, please." The bull terrier nods and they both get in. Seconds later we're speeding away in silence.
It takes me a minute to get up the guts to say anything. Maybe it's the fact that I'm an employee now, or maybe it's just nerves. That fox lady just seems to radiate waves of repulsion. It's intimidating, and I don't see how she made any money as a prostitute, no matter when she did it.
"Was that a thousand-pound bill?"
"Yes, and it was much more than he deserved. It was all I had."
"I didn't even know they made those."
"They don't. Not since World War II. If he's smart, he'll know not to spend it." Ms. Devonshire's face doesn't change. No smile, no frown, merely a continuation of the steely neutrality I've seen ever since she sidled in through the cafe door. "Your point is what, Mr. Altair?" Her question is pointed enough that I realize I don't have a point. Not anything I could make with conviction to back it up. The vixen recrosses her legs, watching me with one dark eye. Passing streetlamps form acrobatic shadows across her shoulders. I'm so unnerved I turn away and pretend to find the view out my window the most interesting thing in the world.
"Nothing, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Yes, very well then," she replies, her voice softer, and I decide to leave it at that.
* * *
I'm not at all surprised when Magli (it's Italian, I guess, pronounced MAH-lee) pulls the limousine up to the gate of a high fence topped with barbed wire. We're in the warehouse district, which, in this town, means the bad part of the neighborhood. The warehouse business left years ago, leaving the city with the property and the taxpayers with the debt. Let's just say even the bobbies have a curfew around here.
Magli rolls down his window and speaks to an intercom up front. There is no one around. No bums either. That is unsettling in its own right: if the disparate homeless can't even wander around, there is something deeply, deeply wrong. Maybe that's why I see twin Dobermans dressed in suits, with twin revolvers drawn, appear from the premature winter darkness to guard our entry. Magli pulls us in quickly and the dogs disappear.
"You would be amazed how cheap this land is," says Ms. Devonshire as if she was taking afternoon tea with the Bridge Club.
"How did you get the city to sell it to you?" For prostitution, I wanted to finish, but I hold my tongue. I doubt the city cares what it's used for as long as they get their taxes.
"They don't want it. They'd sell it to the Mafia if they could get away with it."
"There's a Mafia in London?"
"You'd be surprised," the vixen deadpans, pulling out her phone and pressing it to the base of her ear. "Michelle? Michelle, c'est moi. Nous sommes arrivés. S'il te plaît, si tu doit nous rendezvous à la porte..." The only words I recognize are Michelle and the merci that ends the call.
Ms. Devonshire shuts the phone and sees me looking at her with raised eyebrows. The down-under cadence was good, but now I'm paying attention. I can feel my tail tip twitching on the seat behind me, and I remember that foreign women are people that I'm strongly attracted to. I guess I should say foreigners in general. I dig people with accents...the right ones. "My mother sent me to a Parisian finishing school for girls."
"You speak it well."
"For the money Mum spent, I hope so," she replies with a tinge of bitterness that leads me to believe the relationship is strained. I don't just believe it; I know it. I can see it in the way her shoulders slump. She yawns, and her air of impregnability fades.
"I'm sorry for being...indignant in the cafe." She waves it off.
"I expected nothing less, Mr. Altair. You signed the paper, did you not? Here we are. Out, please." The vixen has her door open before Magli rolls to a stop, and she's out just as quickly. I have to struggle to follow her, stumbling around the limo to join Ms. Devonshire and a petite calico dressed like...well, you know. She's pretty, though, rather than slutty.
"Allo, Monsieur Altair! You're le nouveau caoutcheur, yes?" She turns to Ms. Devonshire: "Madame, où avez-vous trouvé quel beau renard?"
"Lucia." The cat giggles like only a little French girl would, and erupts into a stream of words to complex and fast for me to even begin to understand. Like I've understood any of it up to this point. I understand renard, too. I know enough French to get me a date, and enough Spanish to get shot. I feel a delicate paw on the back of my neck, and a much more urgent pressure on my lower back, pushing (more like forcing) me through the heavy-looking steel door and into a sterile-looking, brightly lit hallway.
The calico and the vixen converse in quick bursts of French, a cacophony of clipped syllables and silent, slurred vowels that makes me feel more important than I really am. The hallway seems interminably long, stretching through into what I can only guess are the bowels of the building. Endless walls with no doors, until one comes up on the right. If it wasn't for Ms. Devonshire stopping me in my tracks, I would have run right into the wall. The lighting is that even. She opens it for me, and I can sense an air of barely-concealed aggravation. I find myself hoping I do right by Lucia. Her career may depend on it now.
"Right this way," the calico bubbles as she whips out in front of me, leading the way down a much different hallway. This one is painted a deep brick color, with moldings and a chair rail, and tasteful abstracts hung at intervals.
"Is this where Lucia works?"
"She's off tonight," is all the vixen says, all business. For some reason, I'd always pictured someplace more...whorey, I guess. Something dingier, more stereotypical. Not a classy setup like this. I can only guess that we're in an employees-only part of the building, carefully hidden from the clientele for obvious reasons. Patrons don't like to see what goes on behind the scenes. It ruins the fantasy for them. I've never been one, but I can tell how it works just from what I've seen so far.
We turn left and appear to be headed toward the reception area when the girl stops abruptly to enter a passcode on an unmarked door. "Aprés vous," she says, smiling, and I wisely step to the side and let Ms. Devonshire whoosh past us both.
The lights are triggered by our motion, and bathe the room in that same surgical whiteness as before. It's an odd place, set up like a combination exam room and cargo dock. The vixen sets her things down on a counter to my right, then seats herself in a plush leather chair. The calico dons a white lab coat from a hook by the door, and by her name tag I can see she is Sophie Debarde. I can finally put a name to the face. At the other end of the room is--what I discern to the best of my ability--a loading dock. Pallets. Crates. Shrink wrap. I am mildly concerned.
"If you would sit down in that chair over there, Monsieur Altair," Sophie says, directing me with her paw on my shoulder to a basic wooden chair surrounded by various equipment that I can only describe as Frankensteinian. "Oh, yes, and take off your clothes, please."
"Now?" The vixen looks up from her clipboard and gives me a severe look. "Okay..."
"Please don't ask questions. We've little time as it is. This procedure usually requires a full physical and four hours of training. I couldn't care less what your penis looks like." Well, that is certainly a vote of confidence. She'll have to do a lot more to see my penis anyway, since I'm so un-horny right now it might at well be tucked under my stomach.
"Just pile them on the floor," Sophie adds. "We'll store them until your appointment is finished." Still feeling unduly self-conscious, I doff everything, not being able to help pausing before shucking my boxers. I can't even fathom what I'm going to be doing later on tonight, so this should be no big deal, but...I guess I just have to get over that. My paws go directly over the center of my lap anyway.
"Is this going to hurt?" I ask, before becoming aware that it's a completely moot point. Either I put up with any pain or I get extradited back to the good ol' U.S.A., and probably derail my life in the process. One night. All you have to do is one night. Sounds easy on its face, sure.
Ms. Devonshire is fighting to keep her ears forward. My version of trying to be obedient isn't what she's used to, and it makes everything very awkward. "The transition isn't designed to hurt, if it's done correctly. This depends almost entirely on you and your behavior." She stands and walks stiffly to loom over me. It's worse than getting a physical. "If you struggle, it won't be pleasant. Now, could you please sign and date this at the bottom so we can get started?" The clipboard is thrust into my paws, and even though I can feel her aggravation building, I have to ask the question.
"What does this say?"
"By signing this, you're giving us the right to use the transition process on you, and keep you there until your duties under my care are completed. Legalese. You can't sue me, you can't take me to court, you agree to arbitration."
"But what if something goes wrong?" Sophie's fingers come around my neck and work quickly to fasten the collar. Already I feel like a belonging.
"This is my business, Mr. Altair. Nothing goes wrong." I can't tell whether she's lying, but I have bigger things to worry about. I sign the paper, and she sighs in relief. I want to ask her if she knows what Xanax is. "Thank you. Are we ready to go, Sophie?"
"Oui, Madame." The vixen nods and sits back down, whipping out her cell phone and pressing it tight to her ear. Sophie comes around in front of me and lifts my chin. "Are you ready, Mister Fox?" She pronounces it "MEEE-ster."
"Not really."
"You'll do fine. Lucia said so. From what she's told me, you have nothing to worry about." And then she places a plastic mask with a hose on the end of my blushing muzzle, stretching its elastic behind my head, careful not to snap it. It fogs up immediately, and I don't like the claustrophobic sensation of my own breath coming back on me. "Here we go. All you have to do is breathe in a little and it takes over. The key is to relax." She holds my shoulder as I look up to see her turning a valve below a gallon-size intravenous bag of translucent red goo, which is hooked up to an even more menacing-looking bigger tank.
"What is that?" I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
"Rubber," Sophie says.
"I can't breathe rubber! How am I supposed to--" But her paw is on my shoulder, keeping me in the chair, and when I look over to Ms. Devonshire, she isn't even paying attention, the bitch. A line of red snakes down the tube, curving under and crawling up towards the mouthpiece. Before I can get the next sentence out, my nose is struck by the powerfully sweet scent of maraschino cherries. Then it glops onto my snout. I want to sneeze, but hold it in for fear of blowing red goo all over the room and myself. The mask fills slowly; the stuff feels cool on my whiskers.
"You need to breathe, please," Sophie reminds me, but I can't talk without getting my mouth full of...whatever it is. "You'll be fine." But I can't. It's not something I can just do, with my nose all covered up like that. I feel the growing rise of panic in my chest, the burn in my lungs starting to grow. I can't hold out forever. "If you don't breathe, Mr. Altair, I'll have to do it for you." What does she mean by that? I can't really ask her, can I? I have to get the mask off.
As soon as my paws rise toward it, though, the calico rears back and punches me deep in the gut. My first reaction, of course, is to breathe in real deep, and once I open my mouth the goo goes in immediately. There is exactly one moment of pain from my lungs, and then a slight revulsion as I feel my throat and esophagus coated, filled with cherry-flavored stuff. My vision goes over red, and the last thing I see is the vixen, her phone glued to her head, conducting business as usual.
***
I come to in a very relaxed state, much to my surprise, but I don't care because I'm not freaking out and that's fine by me. It's dark, and quiet, but bumpy. I'm moving.
Well, not me per se, because I can't feel my arms and for some reason they don't want to move, but I can hear enough outside my dark world that tells me I'm in a vehicle of some sort. It's actually a little scary that I'm not scared at all, but for some reason my brain isn't telling me to freak out like it normally does. Maybe Ms. Devonshire does know about Xanax after all.
So I settle in. I'm on my back, because the greatest pressure is there. Everything smells like cherries, but I'm slowly getting used to it the way you eventually lose your ability to smell your own musk. At least, until things start getting hot and heavy. Other than that, I have nothing to do but wait.
Time is impossible to gauge in this state. Sounds and motion are muffled heavily, but at least I know when I've stopped. There is a sound of approaching footsteps, followed by a violent heaving as I am stood up on end. My stomach churns (maybe not my stomach, but something does), and for one horrific second I think I'm going to throw up. But all that happens is a thick gurgling that sounds like nothing I've ever made before. And then I'm rolling.
I can only imagine the steps and thresholds as the dolly (I think) rolls over them. One thing I know for sure is the elevator; the hum and momentum transfers perfectly through to my body. It occurs to me that I am very soon going to be in an intimate situation with a stranger, and my heart does a little double-take. For most people, transitioning is a life-altering experience. Before tonight, I thought the process was irreversible. People save up forever to become a living toy, to give up their freedoms and their entire way of existing to serve someone else. I won't deny I've thought about it. Tempting, to be free of the traditional trappings of society. But for the rest of my life? It's a little much for me.
Muffled voices as I'm set down, upright, and the dolly (I'm fairly sure) is yanked away. Then nothing. Fingers feeling around the sides of whatever I'm packed in. A drill. The sound is loud but echoless. I hear the same thing three times, and on the fourth the darkness falls away when the lid on my crate falls to the floor.
Everything is blurry and unbelievably red. A large form steps away from the crate and backs up. I can't see, and when I try to blink it doesn't feel like I even have eyes.
"Christ," comes a throaty baritone. At least I can hear fine. "Amazing. You can come out now, if you want." Slowly the red fades, like a developing Polaroid, and other colors start to return. Blues and yellows, at first, then things start to come into greater focus. The big black-and-white blur moves toward me like a stranger would approach a lost dog. One paw outstretched, unthreatening steps. "Here, lad, let me help you." I feel the weight of him on my shoulder as he pulls me, and when my legs finally deign to move the noise is startling in the otherwise quiet room. I sound like a balloon.
A flood of packing peanuts follows me out onto the carpet as I will my wobbly legs to work. I make it to the bed before I have to sit down again; I feel literally and figuratively like rubber.
"Here, let me get you something to drink," the man says, and leaves my side. I hear running water, and by the time he comes back I can see clearly enough to know he's a badger, and a large one at that. All I care about is the glass that's raised to my lips and the fact that most of it misses and runs down my chest. What little does go in, drains into my throat without the aid of me swallowing. The badger gets a towel from the bathroom and wipes me down, but when it comes away red I nearly freak out.
"Hey, hey! It's not blood, see?" He holds it up to my face, and that cherry smell gets stronger. It's grenadine, I can tell now. Oh, God, what did I get myself into? "Are you at least feeling better? Can you talk?" I try, but I can feel myself gooping up so I suppose that's a no. I shake my head, and he says, "That's okay. I didn't think you'd be able to anyway, not with the, um...thing." My vision has mostly cleared up, to the point where I can see his blushing cheeks.
He's a professor-type, from what I can see. Spectacles frame his striped face, and he looks to be in his fifties. Khaki slacks, and a maroon argyle sweater vest over a black collared shirt. A normal-looking guy. Then again, a lot of clients look perfectly normal. He's got a fatherly look about him. I feel a bit more at ease.
Until I look in the mirror across from the bed. There's a toy looking back at me. And it's me. I don't look like myself, as much as a rubber mold of a generic fox, shining and smooth, without a trace of fur. I don't know how I can see anything, because the creature looking back at me has no eyes. And no arms, which would explain why I couldn't feel them in the first place. The nubs I do have taper to nothing by the time they're halfway down my torso.
"Here, let me see if I can help," the badger says, leaning past me to dig in the box. "Please tell me they put it in here..."
My throat itches. Normally that wouldn't be a big deal, but when you feel like you don't even have a throat, simple things get difficult. When I make what I think is the action for coughing, what I hear is a sickly gurgling followed by a spray of red that I'm sure will stain the carpet. Some of it dribbles down my chin and feels downright cool. I wonder if I'm supposed to be body temperature or something hotter. Before I can think about it further, something hitches in my throat and what passes for my stomach lurches. More grenadine spews out onto the floor.
"Shit...shit!" the badger growls, turning away from my box to run to the bathroom, almost tripping over an Ottoman as he goes. By the time he returns with a towel, the flow has reduced to a dribble and my guts are gurgling angrily. "Guess I should have expected this, huh?" he mumbles to himself, attempting to dab up the stain, but he gives up after it only spreads around. He takes the clean side of the towel and wipes my muzzle off.
"That lady was right about bringing a change of clothes. I think these are pretty much done for," the badger says while he pushes pawfuls of Styrofoam peanuts to the side. "Here we go!" He turns around, having found a piece of paper, the top of which reads "Instructions." The rest is too small to read, but the information is for him, not me. His eyebrows attain various heights during the next few minutes, and at one time I see his hackles bristle out. He gives a low whistle when he's done. "This stuff is kinda kinky."
Isn't that what you signed up for? I think. I'm sure this is costing him an ungodly amount of money, since it's getting the IRS off of my back as well as netting the venerable Ms. Devonshire a healthy profit. He's going to have to pay for the carpet cleaning, if not its replacement, and we haven't even started yet. By the way he's dressed, though--not to mention whatever it costs to convert a living fox to a rubber toy--it shouldn't be a problem.
"Well...okay." The badger looks around for a moment, stands up and the next thing I know I'm being lifted, easily. He looks strong, but not that strong, which leads me to believe I'm not quite the 160-pound fox I was yesterday. Yesterday? Actually, who knows how much time has passed since they hooked me up to that machine. The world spins and I am on the couch, next to the box. More rustling around, and he plops down on the couch next to me with a piece of paper in his paws. His eyes widen as he reads it, mumbling to himself.
"Holy cow, this is intense...it says here you used to be a real person, but they transformed you temporarily so you could turn back after we were done. Otherwise you wouldn't have a collar on." I don't know what he's talking about, and it occurs to me that I might have wanted to take my time in reading over the stack of papers I signed. But there wasn't enough time for any reading. I get the feeling there's a lot more Ms. Devonshire didn't tell me, but I swallow the lump of panic I feel growing in my throat. Not much I can do about it now.
"Here," the badger says. "If you didn't come with a collar, that would mean you're a permanent toy. You have a collar with a silver tag, so that means...restricted form. So if I change it to the green tag, it means you're unrestricted. You'd probably be more comfortable." He takes the green tag from the instruction sheet and clips it to my collar, but nothing happens until he unclasps what I assume is the silver tag. He's extra-careful about it, too...his paws are shaking.
I'm on the floor again, looking squarely at the badger's shoes, but I push myself into a sitting position before I notice I have arms and legs again. What a relief! I wiggle my fingers and toes, making sure I have ten of each, counting the thumbs.
"Are you okay?" the badger asks, gripping my wrist to help me up.
"Yeahhhh..." The word ends in a fresh flow of grenadine, over my chin and narrowly missing the badger's shoes.
"Whoa, okay, maybe I should just skip the undressing part. My fault for wearing work clothes to a very after-work activity, eh?" His laugh is nervous, and his accent thickens due to his anxiety. It's not quite French and not quite British, but something in between that I can't quite place. In any case, I'm glad I have the capacity to talk, albeit messily.
"Th-thanks for the tag," I sputter. "I didn't know it did that. Hand me that towel?" He tosses it and I wipe the inside of my mouth, which is now devoid of teeth. It sounds like balloons rubbing together. Once I feel reasonably clean, I walk over to the bathroom on wobbly legs and drop it to the tile. When I come back into the room, the badger is back on the couch, nude, his paws covering himself. I remember why we're both here, in this room, and it seems accentuated by the silence between us.
I taste cherries in the back of my throat and swallow them back down. There's been enough regurgitation already. Then I go about thinking of ways to break the ice that's so recently formed in the last minute. "What's your name?" comes out, not the best question, but not the worst either.
"I think it would be fair to call me 'John' for tonight," he responds. "Not like I'm embarrassed to be here, but it would make me feel better." He has trouble looking at me squarely, but eventually his eyes end up there. "I must admit I've never done this sort of thing before. I hope I don't disappoint you."
"Are you kidding me? I hope I don't disappoint you! I'm straight!" I laugh, feeling much more comfortable, but when I'm done the badger isn't laughing.
"Oh...I didn't realize..."
"It's not like that, John, really," I say. "Shit, I probably should never have mentioned it. I really hope you're not mad at me. You're paying good money and I need this gig...oh God, I sound like a prostitute..."
"I'm not gay either."
I pause and look at him. "What?"
"Come now, friend..."
"Call me...uh, call me Todd." The most unoriginal vulpine name ever.
"Come now, Todd, do you think I would be hiding myself from you if I were even remotely homosexual? Oh hell, that came out wrong. What I mean to say is, I'm curious, and I wanted to try it out, and I felt this was much safer than going through a service because there's no real paper trail that can be subpoenaed by the courts." At least his paws are on his knees now, showing me a nicely-sized package. No reaction from my own sheath, though.
I would be blushing if I weren't already colored bright red. "But...why this?" I say, referring to my current inorganic status. Taking one look at John's face, I immediately realize I've made a cardinal mistake: assuming a status of equality where there should be none. What it comes down to is this: I'm the toy, and he is the master. Until I can look down the bridge of my muzzle and see russet fur instead of red-whip rubber, I have no place calling shots. "I'm sorry," I mumble, kneeling before him. I really need that money.
"You don't have to do that. Stand up, Todd. Actually, why don't you sit next to me? Maybe it might help if we just talked a while." I climb onto the couch, squeaking softly the whole time, wanting to apologize but knowing I don't need to. The dubiousness of the situation still hasn't sunk in; I don't even begin to think about the mechanics behind my transformation. I'm apparently still alive, I have my mind, and that's about all that matters right now.
So I sit next to John, with my paws in my lap, trying not to squeak too much. I keep attempting to come up with lines to break the ice, but they're all clichés, all things much better suited to a cheap porno.
"I hope you don't think you wasted your money," I say instead. It's no better coming out of my mouth than it was in my head.
"What do you mean? It's not over, is it?"
"Well...no, it's just that...I don't seem like I would be able to make it worth your while."
"Look here," John says, patting my thigh, "We just got you situated. Neither of us has ever done this before. What else is there to do, besides take our time? Are you in some kind of hurry?" My ears go back; the insinuation horrifies me. That I would seem like a...a whore, for lack of a better term, waiting only to collect his current fare so he can move onto the next...
"That's not me at all. That's not what I want to be. This is weird, yeah, but I don't do things half-assed." For emphasis, I put my paw on his knee because it's the closest thing to me. The heat from it transfers quickly into my rubberized skin. I can feel his pulse--barely--but it reverberates up my arm and doesn't dissipate until it's made two trips around my body like tiny seismic waves. The natural reaction follows, and I feel something stirring between my legs. Not a traditional hardening, but the same basic concept.
John smirks slightly. "Heh. That's nice. I haven't felt that in a while." His eyes are closed, his back straight, so it pushes his belly out farther than normal. He reminds me of a college English professor: the way he dresses, the way he speaks. And the shyness with which he conducts himself makes it all the harder to be the aggressor in this situation. I may be a fox, but it's still hard to be submissive in a straight relationship. At least with the girls I tend to hook up with.
"You know, it's funny." John grins. "When the delivery boy left that box at my door, I signed for it with such an erection. Doubt he knew what he was delivering, but it felt so delightfully naughty. But when you started having trouble...it kind of went by the wayside. God, I hope I won't need one of my little blue friends. So embarrassing."
I rub over the badger's knee a bit, putting my words of consolation in order. It never occurred to me that erectile dysfunction might be a problem. The more I think about it, though, it seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to expect with older clients. "Well, let's see if we can avoid that. I'll take it as a compliment." Talk is cheap, and the words of any kind of escort are even cheaper, but John smiles at me all the same. It pays to have a little faith now and again.
So I sit closer to him, kind of nudging my way against the side of his belly, and put one arm around him while the other is over his thigh. His fur is coarser than a female's, of course, but the closer I get to his groin, where the fur is short and white, it gets much softer. I rub in lazy circles and nestle my head near his armpit, which is the best I can do due to our size difference.
"That's...nice." That was almost too easy. John spreads his thighs a bit and leans into me, but not so as to be an overwhelming presence. He sighs again, his belly rising and falling and shaking just slightly to let me know he's still nervous. I keep making those little circles, though, not one to push too hard too soon. Hell, I hardly know what I'm doing in the first place.
John is so vulnerable right now; I can feel it in the way his body stiffens and seems to resist my paw even though he's hard and throbbing against my fingers. You would think a man of his...maturity would be more used to a simple touch, but I'm reminded that John may not be a normal man. Is not a normal man, in fact, judging by his preference for male rubber toys. Maybe he can't believe it's happening. I can, because I'm the one giving him the pawjob.
"You're way too tense to enjoy this," I say, softly, caressing the space between his thigh and his scrotum, which quivers and draws up at the contact. It's almost scary how convincing I sound while trying to slow my beating heart as well. Except...I don't really have a pulse at the moment, because I technically don't have a heart at the moment. The pulsing must be a psychosomatic remnant or something.
"What would you have me do, Todd?" the badger asks, sounding even more professorial now. I'm pretty sure he's a teacher of some sort.
"Let's go to the bed. Lie down and get comfortable, relax your back so you can concentrate on feeling good. I wouldn't want you to think you wasted your money." John starts, then, and looks at me with disbelief on his face. He then pulls me to him, more gruffly than I could expect, and mashes his muzzle to mine.
It's been a long time since I kissed anyone, and even longer since I kissed another male (he happened to be my dad, and I happened to be ten years old, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't like this). After a few awkward seconds, he finally tilts his head and we slide together, his tongue dancing wildly over mine. A small gag from the back of my throat is followed by a rush of fluid and a burst of cherry flavor; the grenadine is back. But it stays mainly between us, because our lips provide a nice tight seal.
Yeah, I'm actually kissing him. No moment of revulsion, no thought of "this is gay." Because we've already gone way past gay. John's paws hold each side of my head, stroking what used to be the fur on my ears. Now his pads squeak softly, sending pleasurable reverberations through my rubber body. Suddenly this gig isn't turning out as bad as I thought.
There's passion in this man. Whatever reason he had for ordering companionship of this type, he's not a pervert and he's definitely not a lush. Lonely, maybe, but definitely passionate. Perhaps that's why I find it so easy to let him swirl his tongue along mine as we both taste the sweet cherriness that seems to come from nowhere in an endless supply. I let go of his cock and turn slightly, placing my paw instead on his chest and rubbing there. He's so very warm.
I could get used to this.
For such a large male, John is gentler than I thought a guy could be at kissing. Once we've settled into the embrace, he is quiet, reflective and holds me as one would a real lover, not a plaything. What came across as desperation before is just loneliness, and a wont to be wanted. I suppose I could say I want him...the money's nice, and it saves my skin, but it's been so damn long since I've been held by anyone.
The kiss ends when he slips one arm under my knees and picks me up, carrying me the short distance to the bed. He lies me down, spreads my legs, and proceeds to suck me off as if it was the most normal thing in the world. For a moment I wonder what happened to the reserved man who dusted packing peanuts off of me, but then I remember how good it feels to get my cock sucked and I give in to that. It's funny how I thought, just a few minutes ago, I was going to have to lead the badger through this evening. Maybe all he needed was a kiss.
I try to talk, but I can't. Not with the pleasure coming from between my legs. It's the same, but it's different too; my sheath and cock are the same color and the same material, squeaking softly under John's attention. Those little vibrations go all the way up my spine as if I were molded from gelatin. In addition to that, I hear high-pitched sounds coming from my muzzle that I've never made before, little yips and yaps as I hump up into his mouth, my tail pounding the bedsheets below me.
I've never put a balloon on my dick before, but that's the only way I can describe the feeling of having John's lips and tongue bathing my member. I imagine I feel to him like one big fox-shaped dildo, made out of the same stuff but warm and much more pliable. The whole package is one piece, molded seamlessly after my own, except with a notable lack of fur or veins. I know what I would see if I had strength to open my eyes, but at the moment it's just not possible. I had no idea women sucked so much at sucking cock! Or maybe I've just had shitty luck.
John is leaning over me, his ample rear wagging in the air above the rest of him, a man possessed by something I can't place; all I know is that it's powerful and that I've opened a door for this man who seemed so reserved just a half hour ago. His claws dig into my hips, sliding along the slick surface but miraculously not catching or tearing. He doesn't seem to be breathing, but when he pulls himself off of me he's not working as hard as I thought.
"I'm sorry..." he says, smiling, a sparkle that wasn't there before inhabiting his eyes. "It kind of came to a head there, and I had to make a move before I thought about regretting it."
"Regret it? You're the one who ordered me, right? I'm here for you. I just hope I'm living up to your expectations somewhat."
The badger lifts himself to his knees. "Somewhat? I think you're fine, Todd. And by the way, your penis is leaking cordial crème."
"What?!" I mean, I heard what he said, but...
He squeezes my knot and the rush of sensation causes my hips to buck of their own accord, accompanied by a dribble of thick white fluid from my cock. John swipes it off with his finger and puts it to my lips. I lick it off; he's right. Right out of a cherry cordial or a Cadbury egg.
"That's awesome. I didn't know I was supposed to do that."
"Neither did I," John says, cleaning his finger with his tongue. "I'm not complaining, not one bit." He looms over me, kind of imposing due to his size, but I can see down the length of rounded belly his member, leaking, bobbing with his heartbeat. Nicely endowed for a big guy; it looks right on him. Dark red and very much alive.
I'm starting to get used to this feeling.
"Would you let me finish you?"
"Huh?" I hadn't been listening fully.
"I want to finish you. I want you to come in my mouth. Will you let me?" It sounds rehearsed, but I don't think it is. It also sounds like truer words were never spoken by a man releasing his pent-up desire for other men. He may have said he isn't gay, but this is a pretty big indicator that these feelings have been bottled up and stuffed down deep for a long time. It's no experiment. I can only nod and spread my legs further, my rubber cock squeaking along my rubber belly. I feel more like a plaything than ever.
Then John slides his lips down over me again, and I can feel the crème splashing against his tongue. Little globs of it, and I have no idea where it's coming from, or what inside me is making it. Ms. Devonshire didn't bother to explain anything before she hooked me up to her tubes and her machine. But it feels pretty damn good, and I don't mind the badger's finger pressing against my hole either. It gives a lot easier than it would if it were still a ring of muscle, and I'm glad for that.
If this is John's first time giving head, he sure doesn't act like it. For such a gruff-looking exterior, he's as gentle with his tongue as he can be. He slides his head down to my knot and back up again, tightening his lips as he withdraws, making me moan louder than I can remember being able to. Except when I'm drunk. But then I'm embarrassingly loud. Then again, all those times I was mounting a female of one sort or another, not getting blown and finger-fucked at the same time.
"You sure you've...never done this?" I manage in between pants.
"Mhm," replies John while adding a second finger to the first, which slides in with no resistance. It's frankly amazing that I feel no pain, but...I don't think I have pain receptors at all at the moment.
Pleasure receptors are another thing, and those are having a field day with my lower half. Each time it's less than smooth it reverberates halfway to my head. It almost feels like I'm beginning to melt, but then he goes down again and I'm just as hard as ever. But those ample fingers are making me clench, and that flares my shaft, and it just keeps building on itself until I have nowhere to go but splurt directly up into John's muzzle.
You would think, through all that moaning, I would have breath to verbalize some kind of warning. Actually, once I feel the pulses starting, I go silent, preferring to just get enough breath into me to keep from passing out. John curls his tongue around the underside of my head and laps there, catching the full brunt of my release. He takes his fingers out and I collapse onto my back, not realizing it had been arched off the covers this whole time. A moment of panic strikes me when I see the red stains, but I remember the whole grenadine thing.
"I never thought I would get up the courage to do that," he says. "Not even with an escort, or something. I've always been much too shy." In my post-orgasmic condition, I'm much too pliable to resist when he climbs further up my body to plant his lips against mine, my legs spreading easily to accommodate him. I just let his tongue find its way inside and play around, and the residual taste of crème is pleasant in addition to his own natural flavor. Musky and mature and masculine all in one.
I feel so small below him on the bed, truly like some kind of toy. Probably that machine also shrank me while it rearranged my molecules to make me less like a sex doll and more like a glorified rubber plush. But I can't get over how strong that climax was, and how much I must have shot; it surely didn't come from my balls, which are more or less solid rubber.
John's a very quiet kisser. Just the soft smacks of flesh lip on rubber lip, his saliva mixing with my grenadine, and the whole room smells of cherry and musk. My legs can't begin to wrap around his waist, but I'm lean enough so his cock has plenty of room to slide around between my legs, and it's no surprise when, just a few dry humps in, he penetrates me and hilts himself in the first go, and freezes once he realized what he's done.
"Oh, shit...oh, shit..." He's staring ahead at the wall behind the bed, breath coming in slow, ragged draws. Suddenly my head begins to throb; it's the beat of John's heart as felt through his member, into my body. All I can really sense down there is a comfortable painless stretching, that pulsing and a spreading heat as he warms me from the inside out. This can't be what it's like for a flesh-and-blood person, but I could get used to this. I might even do it again. Maybe.
"John? John, are you there?" I see my smooth, shiny red paw move toward his face before I know what I'm doing, and then I'm stroking his cheek, smoothing down the ruff there. He looks down at me with tears in his eyes. "Are you okay?" He blinks, sending down droplets that ricochet off my muzzle onto the bedspread like rain off a tarpaulin.
"Yeah," he sniffs through a voice thick with emotion. "I'm just fine." His smile tells me he has a lot to talk about after we're through, and I'm more than okay with that. It was supposed to be about sex, but as fate would have it, neither of us are here just for the sex. No way. Not anymore.
"Then fuck me, John." I wipe his eyes off as he closes them and touches his snout to mine.
"It's too much..."
"I don't care."
"I'm gonna..."
"Then do it."
Barely two thrusts in, he collapses onto me, bellowing into the bed, hilting once and again, the breath knocked out of me and a slick warmth filling me up down deep. It's almost violent, the way he pummels in short bursts every second or so, until his muscles relax and he covers me fully, literally flattening me into the bed. My flimsy body compacts underneath in complete darkness, and a moment of panic seizes me when I hear snoring before I remember I don't necessarily have to breathe. And after that, passing out seems more like falling into a pleasant, warm (and sticky) slumber.
**
Afternoon at the Cafe Nivel at the corner of D'Arblay and Werwick Streets in London's Soho district is a harried affair no matter how much time you have to spare. The tables are crammed between the side of the building and the street, sunlight has only a few hours to warm the cobblestones, and even on a clear day you're liable to get splashed by a passing lorry. It's quintessential London, and one of the reasons I moved here in the first place.
I pick up the teacup from its saucer and put it to my lips, sipping loudly to cool it as it goes into my throat. Earl Grey, two sugars, smooth and still bitter on the back of my tongue, the bergamot finish lighting up my taste buds to a tingle. The accompanying cupcakes aren't as good, however; Earl Grey cake with a mild lavender butter-cream frosting. I can't place my gripe about them, but they're definitely unsettling. Now they're both waiting for Lucia.
Until I open my mouth and speak, I'm the kind of fox who blends in with all the other foxes around here. Cockney or Standard, Bowler or bare paws, British foxes really just carry themselves the same all over the world. Except as I was walking here from the Underground, I couldn't help but smile at myself like I knew I had some wrong, naughty secret that nobody else knew.
Well, I do. But how many people have to know before it's not a secret anymore?
"Oy, there," comes a raspy, rheumy voice from off to the side. I turn and see a hunchbacked weasel in a skullcap looking at me with feral, beady eyes. He can't be more than forty, but he looks at least sixty. "Lend me an Oxford, eh? Maccy D's across the way." He thrusts his paw forward as if it were a foregone conclusion that I was going to give him the money. But I'm having a good day--a real good day--so out comes the wallet. I find a five-quid note among larger bills, no change in my pockets, so I just hand it to him and watch his eyes light up.
"Chiz," I fake, saluting him smartly. He just hobbles down the road to the golden arches for a much-needed meal. Five won't get him much, though.
"He looks like a winner." I hear Lucia's voice before I see her black frame slink into view, then slink into the wrought-iron chair across from me at the tiny table.
"Guy was hungry. Besides, I'm quite a rich bloke now, unless your boss felt like reneging on her deal. Here, I'm not into these," I say, sliding the cupcakes across to Lucia's plate. Her brilliant green feline eyes study me, then the cupcakes dubiously. She takes a nibble of one, considers it, then decides she doesn't not like it enough to keep from eating the rest of it.
"I wouldn't call you rich," she says, licking her fingers in between words. "Colette agreed to break you even with the feds, take her cut and give a finder's fee to me. Eight whole percent of the gross, thank you so much Mr. Altair." Lucia slides her backpack off and plunks it down onto the edge of the table, unzipping it and pulling out a box wrapped in plain brown paper. "She told me to just give this to you, and thank you for your participation in this matter."
"A real friendly one, isn't she?" I say, taking the box and pulling at the twine holding the lid in place.
"She's a businesswoman first, acquaintance second, friend nineteenth," the feline replies with a smile. "But you have to give her credit for knowing what she's doing."
"Like taking a perfectly good fox and turning him into some kind of rubber sex toy?" I ask, taking the box and pulling the loop of twine to release the knot.
"You knew what you were getting into."
I look at her over the package; she's dead serious, but I can tell she's amusing herself with my reaction. "Why don't you try it, then, Lucia? I'm sure you would love to feel, I don't know, blackberry or licorice-flavored lube coming up your throat onto some guy's dick."
She giggles. "It's an acquired taste, forgive the pun."
I study her. "Really?"
"Russian diplomat on a visit to the Embassy here in town. Missed his wife and his food so much that he found a way to combine them."
"You can't be serious."
"I was Caviar Cat for a night. Believe it or don't; I have the Vespa to prove the payoff."
"Christ," I say as I shake my head. And then: "Oh, Jesus, come on!"
"What?"
"Nothing," I mumble, pushing the box of cherry cordials out of my sight and skipping to the envelope that was wrapped up with the candy box. I swear to God, if I ever see another one in my life it'll be too soon.
The check is in there, rounded up to the next hundred American dollars. How nice of Ms. Devonshire. Also included is a terse note, a formality really, stating that my contract is hereby terminated and I have fulfilled my obligations herein, etcetera mumbo jumbo. Lucia's trying to stifle her laughter; she already knows what I know.
"Well, she was right when she told me you would get the joke," she says. "Though it doesn't look like you think it's funny."
"Makes me sick to my stomach, money or no."
"That's probably a side effect of the reorganification process."
"Maybe."
"Is it all there?"
"Plus a few extra bucks, yeah."
"Was it worth it?" Lucia asks. No hidden meaning, no sarcasm, just a direct honest question. It's such a goddamned subjective thing, too, loaded with double meanings and caveats, so I have to be careful how I phrase my feelings.
Of course it was worth it for what it was supposed to do in the first place. As soon as I cash the check in my paw, I can go down to the Embassy and do some kind of special deal through their representative there, wire the money to the appropriate office and sign some paperwork. They don't care where it came from, and if anyone bothers to ask, it was a family loan. Not that hard.
But there's something else. Even as I sat there in the Cafe Nivel for a half-hour waiting for Lucia, I was still attempting to wrap my head around the whole thing. Trying to figure out if I liked it or not, beyond what a pure physical rush it was. And, amazingly, if I ever wanted to do it again.
John and I talked. Quite a bit, actually; after he passed out on top of me, he rolled over and I was able to put myself back into shape. If you've ever imagined yourself being made out of a slightly-more-resilient version of Silly Putty, that's what it felt like. No pain, either, and it got me wondering how material like that reacts to things like blades and fire. Just for a second, before it got weirder than it already was.
If it had ended up as just a fuckfest, I wouldn't have thought twice about going on with my life and chalking it up to another interesting, and fortunate, experience. But John wouldn't leave it at just sex. Don't get me wrong--neither of us slept that night--but there was so much more to that man than just curiosity and a longing for something he'd never had but always wanted.
He was, indeed, an academic. Tenured, never married, though he'd held a number of relationships over the years. After the third failure, he'd started to wonder if he should try something different, but he'd been afraid of tarnishing his reputation with scandal. Granted, being a gay teacher isn't much of a scandal in Europe, but his paranoia was strong enough to drive him to a service that afforded him complete anonymity.
I finally looked up at Lucia's black-furred face, her Latin features. "I think so." I recall John spooned up against me, still hard and buried under my tail from our second session of the night, when he broke down crying and held me so tight it distended my belly.
"You're unlike anything I've ever done," he confessed. "And you're also the best. Take that how you want; this feels right." The bed was just as good as any couch, and we spent hours comparing stories and backgrounds, throwing exclamations at each other when one of us discovered a commonality. And at some point shortly after that, it ceased to be a gig for money and became a genuine relationship, however odd. The intense make-out sessions didn't hurt any, either. That badger knew how to kiss a guy...better than a few girlfriends I've had. In the end, I was glad to be what he needed me to be, whatever that turned out to be.
"Would you do it again?"
Just then, the noise of the world rushes in on me, all at once, like I just took out a pair of earplugs. I can smell the tea and lavender on Lucia's breath, the cooling breeze of the dying afternoon, the crush of people stepping out of their way to avoid us and the rest of the tables outside the Cafe Nivel. I remember John objecting at the end of the night--not to having to give me up, but having to pack me back into the box in which I came. He didn't think I deserved that, and I didn't mind much, because I knew I was going to wake up my normal self anyway. But I assured him it was part of the way business was done.
And that last kiss goodbye...was just as tender and meaningful as the first one we shared. John is quite a man. I'm glad to have made him happy. Well, happier than he was.
But would I do it again?
"Maybe I should tell you what Colette told me before she sent me over here," says Lucia, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "Apparently, your badger fellow wrote her personally to thank her for your 'extraordinary service and impeccable manner.' That mean you're really good at taking it up the butt?"
My expression and its matching growl tell her I'm probably never going to reveal my feelings about last night to her.
"Okay, I get it, jeez. Just saying. Anyway, the letter was long, but the point was that he was asking for you again, sooner rather than later."
"I'm flattered, but I'm not sure I'd want to go through that machine again so fast," I reply.
"You don't have to," Lucia says. "He doesn't want a toy. He specifically said he wanted to see what you look like minus the rubber. Guess he liked you after all."
For a second there I just stare at my half-full cup, its liquid long cold. After I've slowed down the beating of my heart so it's not the only thing I can hear, I say, "I'm going to have to think about it." Though, judging by what's going on between my legs, it's not entirely out of the question. Even if it is only to talk, I would like to see him again. But I know it won't be only talk. I wonder if my body can take that kind of punishment without the aid of rubber to help things along.
Wait...of course it can. Gay guys do it all the time. Does that...oh, fuck it.
Lucia's paw comes into view, a business card slid in between her fingers. "Colette told me to give this to you, and to pass along that she would very much appreciate having you back for more special assignments, but she understands if it's not something you wish to continue. And, if you want to see this guy for pleasure rather than business, it's out of her realm. But, she also mentioned she'd much rather see you get paid for what you do for free."
I take the business card and turn it over and again. Walker, Edward, Professor of Analytical Science. No kidding he was so uptight; I wonder why I didn't see any sport coats with shoulder patches. "Shit."
"Well, think about it. You already have Colette's phone if you need her. And there's always me, if you don't decide to go Double Rainbow All The Way on me."
As she stands up to leave, I force myself to thank her, though I'm still studying the business card. Just a phone number and an email, but the design is simple and effective. The mark of a smart man. A smart man with a lot of questions, some of them I can answer and some of them we could answer together. I really have no idea what I'm going to do.
"No problem, sugar." The feline stands and pats me twice on the shoulder. "You'll be all right; you're a big boy. Oh, and thanks for the cupcakes. Not bad. I'll have to remember this place." All the tea has gotten me hungry, and I think I'll go back into the Cafe and pick up two double chocolate ones to make up for the Earl Greys. Lucia's heels clack-clack-clack along the sidewalk as she goes to catch her train to Hampstead. I vacate the Cafe Nivel and head to the Tottenham Road station, on my way to Grosvenor Square and an appointment with an auditor.
Still, I twist the card through my fingers, as if I'm expecting it to do something unexpected, something new. It won't work until I call the number on it, and I can't make that decision right now. It's not that it's hard, it just has the appearance of difficulty. I really need to learn to suck it up and do what I know I want to do. If only to thank Mr. Walker for his kind words.
Though I've kind of grown used to "John."
9/27/08-8/20/10