Myshel: Awake (Part I)
Myshel
Part I: Awake
Myshel woke from what felt like a lifetime of tortured dreams, his face moist with sweat; panic overtook him as he found waking reality indistinguishable from slumber. His heart beat rapidly and erratically; his breathing was muffled and constrained, and he could not see. His limbs felt trapped, unable to move. Violent shudders ran through him, and he wanted to scream, but something filled his mouth and covered his nose, allowing such minimal airflow that any meaningful inhalation took an eternity.
His thought process skipped back and forth like a shattered record. He knew that he should think of something coherent...figure out what was going on...think of what to do...but he could not free himself from the throes of terror, or still a mind racing with the reality of suffocation and entrapment. He strained hard trying to move anything, squirming hard, trying to free a limb. Was he buried under something...? He felt too...clean. There was no pressure, and nothing rested on or against him.
Time passed, and slowly he calmed. His paws ached and felt numb. Every breath was a struggle, every movement pain--clarity of mind refused to come, and his chest ached with the exertion of breathing. Scents and sensations eventually began to register--the orientation of his body, immobilized on his back, knees up, legs spread; the scent of waste, a strange chemical odor, and the smell of sweat and musk; the sting of abraded flesh on his wrists and ankles, and the sour taste of acid in his dry mouth. His fur was compressed beneath him against a cold, hard floor which seemed to suck the warmth right out of his bones.
_ What the hell?_
For a few moments, the effort of breathing was forgotten, and he tried to fight through a mental fog to recall what had happened before. He remembered ... nothing. Old memories percolated up grudgingly, but of the preceding days there was nothing at all.
He began to hear little noises, and his ears perked.
Light filtered in as a tight blindfold was removed from his head. Blinking through stinging, blurry, crusted eyes, he could make out a form, working over him. It moved out of view, but Myshel was unable to turn his head to follow. He rolled his eyes hard to the side to try and steal a glance at his captor, but he only caught blurred images of something large and black.
A niggling notion tickled in his head--some memory that eluded thought. The harder he tried to pin it down, the more vague it became, until at last his the shape came into view once more. Myshel's breath caught, and solid, tangible memories began to trickle back in teasingly, one by one.
"Well good morning, my little toy," said a rich, fluid voice. Said Knoskali's voice.
Knoskali.
Who is...ohh.
_ _Memories of the genial black coyote sitting across from him at a city diner, clad in a long black coat; images popped in, one by one, jarring him softly. How had he gotten there? He remembered Knoskali's car...a ride home. He remembered being sick...dizzy...
He blinked, focusing on the face that had swung in before him. Knoskali smirked back, his head framed by a heavy chain-link fence, bracketed by two bare fluorescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Knoskali was sculpted beauty, perfection in form. His breath was warm and moist against Myshel's muzzle, his nose almost touching the little arctic fox's as he peered down. Sleek and angular, he looked as if carved from solid obsidian, and his green eyes sparkled with a deep intellect, shadowed by something intriguing that Myshel now, too late, recognized as an eldritch darkness that ran very deep. Icy fear began to run through his veins, and his eyes narrowed to conceal another deep and growing panic.
"I hope you slept well. You'll need the rest. I convinced some friends to bring you a visitor who I just know you'll be happy to see," Knoskali purred playfully. "But regardless, smile! Show your future fans how happy you are to be here."
A camera with a very large lens was interposed, very close to Myshel's face. It stared at him steadily, unwavering, and he stared back for a while, then closed his eyes. It was obviously fixed in place. He groaned and squirmed against his restraints as he felt large, blunt claws dragged slowly through his thighfur and softly lower. A large paw patted him softly between, and he felt a squishy warmth there that he couldn't identify.
"Oh, my! I see my sleepy little fox lost control nicely. Couldn't hold it for two days, hm? Oh well," the coyote said, voice rich with dark humor, squeezing what by its sound and feel Myshel realized must be a diaper. Myshel cringed, his face becoming hot beneath his white fur, black ears burning in shame. What had been done to him? His nose wrinkled against the scent.
Paws moved forward along his trim waist, checking the tightness of straps that held him relatively immobile, and then Knoskali left his side. Noises and scrapes told Myshel that heavy equipment was being moved around, and then sound receded.
He flinched in sudden recall.
Renn had brought him into the city. Renn had suggested that he come with him to the party. A very drunk Renn had abandoned him to hook up with a cute mink boy. He somewhat remembered hiding in the corner while nobody looked his way, but he couldn't remember leaving the party. He couldn't remember anything else, in fact, except for flashes of Knoskali sitting across from him at a diner, and a hazy but very specific memory of vomiting in Knoskali's car.
Breathe in, breathe out.
One breath took half a minute.
A door opened; there was a rustling and several people approached, uneven footfalls on the concrete floor.
"Oh, and guess what? It's wonderful! We found him. He says you really are a virgin. You poor thing."
Found him? Found.. no. No!
Myshel began to writhe as he smelled a familiar scent, lungs sucking hard against the restriction to his breathing. A scent he would have hoped to never smell in a situation like this.
Carson.
_ _Carson had found him at fourteen years old, as a wayward child of the border colonies, quiet and shy, working as farming engineer. Beguiled by, and infatuated with the broad-shouldered fox from the moment they'd met, it had taken Myshel but half a breath to agree to come with the charming and charismatic red fox wherever he might wander. Circumstances of economics and opportunity had led them to Fenna City, here on Brynton, just three years later. Brynton was a very industrialized world, filled with hundreds of millions of people but billions of machines, and Carson was a machinist by trade, an associate of the ... flamboyant and (as they'd found out shortly after arriving) remarkably unreliable Renn.
Myshel hated Brynton, and loathed Fenna City. The city--the whole planet, really--had a mean streak that made him want to stay away from anyone, and the world had been polluted so badly that little vegetation remained anywhere. All native wildlife was long dead. Carson insisted they would move to a rural planet somewhere once he'd saved enough money to do it, and Myshel knew he meant it. There was no deceit in his character.
... But why had they brought him? Why was he here?
"Dammit," and that was Carson himself, sounding somewhat horrified, "What have you done to him?"
"You," Knoskali murmured in a warm, friendly tone of voice, "must be Carson." The conversation remained infuriatingly outside of Myshel's peripheral vision. "Thank you for agreeing to come," and that was quite sarcastic. Carson wouldn't like that. "We have your little lover foxy all swaddled up and safe from everything. I found him wandering somewhere very dangerous! You're lucky we found him. Not sure he's too happy, but he's ok. Dirty, disgusting little thing, though. Anyway, we're all going to play a little game. Consider it a ... finder's fee. Now if you're a good fox, the two of you may live. Otherwise, well.. otherwise. Bring him over here."
There were sounds of a small struggle, and he heard Carson suck in his breath.
"What was that?" Myshel felt a cold chill in his gut at the fear in Carson's voice. "What was in that?"
"Oh, don't get your hackles up. It's a little chemical cocktail to help you perform," the coyote said merrily. "You'll like it, really. Now, let's make sure we understand each other." His voice shifted from acid saccharine to clipped and direct. "You will do what I tell you. You will do everything I tell you, and you won't make me tell you to do it twice. If you don't, this adorable little white thing will suffer for it. You will suffer for it. And any hesitation or resistance will substantially reduce your chances of leaving here alive." His tone broadened once more. "Lots of fun!" He chirped gaily. "All make sense?"
"I don't want-"
"Ahh, no. Stop," Knoskali interrupted. "These conversations often go this way at this point, so let me take a short cut. I really, truly don't care what you want. I have my goals. You have yours, which I'm going to assume include staying alive. The only way to do that is to do what I say. Now, just say 'Yes', my dear."
"Yes," Carson said sullenly.
"Ah, music to my ears. Now you, darling," and a sweetly smiling black face hove once more into Myshel's field of vision, swinging the camera out of the way, "you will do your part by not saying a single word to your rust-colored companion here. Anything more than a syllable and you lose your tongue. Oh, but you're free to make noises though. I don't imagine you'll even be able to restrain your enthusiasm once we get started!"
As Knoskali was talking, he had been removing Myshel's head restraints and muzzle. The coyote finished by pulling a slimy, saliva-coated wedge of foam from the arctic fox's mouth and discarding it, giving him a little warning tap on the lips with a digit as the small white fox gasped the deep breaths he had been denied.
Head freed, Myshel turned, hoping against all chance that a stranger would be gazing back, but no. There was just Carson, eartip torn, muzzle slightly bloody, wearing his work jumpsuit. He was unbound, but surrounded on each side by two of the burliest equines ever to exist.
Their gazes met, lost and afraid.
"Lovely. I see you two have met. Let's get all the angles rolling, shall we?"
Myshel looked up as three canids in fur-tight latex suits and gloves filed in behind the crew and began setting up for what apparently was going to be an event covered from every angle. One was a doberman-type, but the other two were, as near as he could figure, some variant of husky...not so much an oddity in this past decade, one that had seen inexpensive interplanetary travel become commonplace, but the two planets that the husky genotypes had chosen to settle were the same two as his own species, both of whom were inclined to isolationism. While not related, there was an implicit kinship in the snow-country caniforms and the cold-weather foxes, and it was rare for the two to meet far afield; for some reason, being exposed solely in front of the coyote hadn't felt nearly as embarrassing as being seen in such a state by brethren, of a sort, and he felt withered with shame.
He looked away once more, taking stock of his surroundings. He was bolted directly to the concrete floor inside what appeared to be cage of sturdy chain-link fence, within a dark storage room of some sort. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, and at least half a dozen cameras were pointed at him. As he peered about, trying to make out some of the strange equipment behind the cameras, flood lights were switched on and he had to close his eyes against the bright light.
"Now, my dear Carson, get rid of that flour sack. Get naked for me, beautiful."
Carson looked unhappy, but began to comply; despite his state, Myshel found himself watching with shy, veiled interest. He and Carson had dated for almost three years, but even though Myshel had wanted physical intimacy, Carson had refused--Somewhat of a traditionalist, in a handful of strange ways, he insisted on waiting until Myshel's eighteenth birthday and wouldn't hear of doing anything sooner. They had kissed many times, but the older fox had always playfully deflected the arctic fox's advances and he hadn't ever so much as seen Carson in underwear.
The jumpsuit came off quickly, and the underwear quickly followed, revealing a toned chest and belly, thick thighs...and Carson's semi-hard sheathless member; a strong waft of his musk reached Myshel's sensitive nose. In happier times, he would have been desperately excited and aroused by the sights and scents--Even today he felt stirrings of his own, though a stab of hopeless regret followed at the situation and sabotaged what arousal had come. He had dreamed of this moment, but never like this.
"Oh yes, that's lovely," Knoskali said approvingly. "Now," and Myshel could see his smirk broaden, "kiss him! This is my gift to you. Show him all your love and desire."
Carson walked forward, kneeling beside his love. He raised his paws, resting them on Myshel's cheeks and turning his head to gaze into his eyes. Moist, fearful, loving blue eyes met big, deep brown eyes.
"I love you. Myshie...I'm scared. I don't exactly know what's going to happen, but I'm truly afraid, because I'm pretty sure I have an idea. I'm now...I...regret that I insisted on waiting, but I wanted it to be perfect," Carson whispered, tears moistening the corners of his eyes. "I ... Please forgive me for anything I'm made do, but they will kill us if we don't cooperate. We must, must obey. I don't know what he wants, but as long as we survive, we'll be happy someday. I swear to you," he breathed softly into Myshel's ear, his voice soft, breath warm. Remembering the cost of words, Myshel merely blinked away tears and nodded, eyes slipping shut as Carson nuzzled towards his muzzle.
Lips brushed, and Myshel felt an unexpected jolt of sensation. Enervated shivers gave way to soft quivering as the red fox pressed a loving kiss slowly into his mouth, paws tilting his head to gain better access. They kissed for many minutes, Myshel lost completely in Carson's embrace, as though the pair were worlds away. Eventually, Carson pulled back slowly, and gave Myshel's lips a final, gentle lick.
"Good boys! Let me see... Ah, yes. Let's start out with you throat-fucking dear... Myshie, was it?."
Myshel swallowed nervously, peering at Carson Carson winced and looked away, his expression pained.
"Still waiting," Knoskali sang impatiently.
With a soft sigh, Carson planted another little kiss on his lips. "I am sorry, fox," he sighed, then stood, preparing to straddle the fox's chest. The small fox tilted his head, eying his partner's swinging shaft with a mix of trepidation and excitement as it was raised to press against his chin.
"Ah, no, not that way. Turn around, face his tail. Actually, you know what..." The coyote paused, grinning. "Make him give you a rim-job first," he said with an authoritative nod. "Yes, definitely. I think I like that best."
Carson gritted his teeth and stood, turning and carefully swinging his leg over a somewhat confused Myshel. Rim-job? Confusion turned to disgusted realization quickly as the red fox lowered his musky rump over Myshel's muzzle, lowering slowly. He tried to twist away, but Carson rested a paw between his ears, holding him in position and easing down softly against his nose and lips; all he could smell was strong musk, and it filled his nose. He could even taste his boyfriend's musky sweat. His ears flattened, and he squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment.
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Now Myshie, start licking. Lick him like there's no tomorrow, until I tell you that you may stop. Get that tongue deep."
Licking was the last thing Myshel wanted to do. The promise of death, however, at the hands of these capable-seeming folk was more than enough to counterbalance his reluctance, and Myshel began to play his tongue out against the hot, dirty flesh under Carson's tail. He cringed at the saltiness and the musk of the moist undertail pressed to his nose, moaning in muffled unhappiness. He was answered by a moan of a different sort from Carson, whose paw clenched in his hair, pulling him more firmly between his legs. It was not easy to breathe, but he slowly fell into a rhythm. As Carson's pleasure grew, Myshel found it easier to escape his qualms, seeking solace in that at least the fox he loved was enjoying the moment, slowly growing inured to the scent and taste even as he tried to keep from swallowing his saliva.
By the time the coyote directed them to stop, Myshel had nearly forgotten about anything save the aroused squirming of Carson above.
"Ok, great. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, throat fuck him," Knoskali said with a grin, leaning forward a bit to adjust a camera, a hint of eagerness in his airy manner.
Myshel trembled as Carson lifted up and brought his thick shaft to bear, up along his muzzle to his lips. It was rock-hard, veiny and thick, as big around as Myshel's slender black wrists and nearly as long as his forearm. Wet foreskin brushed across his nose, the strong scent of male fox overpowering his senses, and he stiffened against the inside of the diaper with a quiet little groan. He opened his mouth obligingly as Carson tugged slightly on his lower lip, only to have his muzzle spread wide by the larger fox, who pressed forward almost eagerly, sliding inexorably down his long tongue towards the back of his throat. About half-way in, Myshel gagged, eyes watering. Carson drew back, stroking his muzzle, and then pressed in again, not quite as far. Myshel lapped softly along the underside of his length, trying to imagine them far away.
"I didn't say 'gently allow him to suckle on you'," Knoskali snarled, leaning back and drumming his claws on the arm of his chair. "I clearly said throat-fuck him. Show no mercy, and stop for nothing until I tell you to stop. Now do it."
Myshel was unprepared for the speed which Carson responded, and he gagged repeatedly as his soft throat was quickly stuffed with most of Carson's length, the red fox's foreskin catching on the constriction at the first turn and exposing the head, which was pressing deeply in. A wave of nausea shot through him, but he didn't get a break; firm paws grasped his head once more, aligning it to the best angle and holding it in place as the thick meat began to piston in and out. His toes curled, and his gags became retching, wet saliva and bile from his very empty stomach coating his muzzlefur.
The sensation grew horribly, until his whole body was contorting with the cramping of his belly. Sweat, tears and saliva soaked his face, and he had to draw gasping little breaths between thrusts and heaves. He tasted Carson's musk and pre, the urine trapped in his foreskin, and, after a few minutes, blood from his abused throat, his teeth-lacerated tongue and lips, and even Carson's member as it slammed home indiscriminately, its owner seeming to care less and less with each thrust. Cameras were brought close, on each side of his face.
It took the red fox little time to find the perfect angle to get maximum depth and push his hips fully down against the white fox's nose and chin, his heavy white-furred sac hanging across Myshel's nose. Myshel's eyes rolled back slightly, his lungs pumping desperately, creating a suction around Carson's penis as he ached to breathe. He squealed with relief when Knoskali made Carson stop, with an aristocratic wave of his paw, turning his head to the side and spitting stomach acid and bloody saliva on the concrete floor as his head was released. After a moment of pause, the two foxes panting and reeling, Knoskali spoke up once more.
"You know what comes next," Knoskali said, affording the pair a saturnine grin. "Put the diaper in that can, and make the cute little foxy your bitch," he sneered, nodding to Carson, then pointing at a trash container. "And no, no cleaning him up. He's your lover boy, right? Take him as-is."
Myshel tried to blink back tears. Disoriented from nausea, it took hearing and seeing Carson peeling back the tapes on his diaper for him to realize what was happening. He closed his eyes in shame, trying to shut out the smell that quickly reached him, the cool waft of air against his butt, the sodden thlop of the diaper into the pan, the little sick groan of ... disgust, he hoped ... from Carson and the sensation of paws touching the fouled fur between his legs.
His quiet shame failed quickly, however, when he felt a hot pressure building against the mess under his tail, a very hard shaft beginning to dimple the firm flesh of his virgin ring in a forceful attempt to convince it to spread. Myshel gritted his teeth, grim with the fear of physical pain. There was no way it would fit. He whined nervously, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw tighter, tilting his head back as if hoping for some sort of divine intervention.
"Stop being soft." Knoskali's voice had the mellifluousness of divinity, but none of its content. A fallen angel, playfully sadistic, he sneered, steepling his big black paws and resting his chin atop, perfect, graceful ears swiveled forward. "Ram it home, dear Carson. Don't you dare be gentle.. any pain you don't cause him, I swear to you I will!"
Carson leaned forward to kiss Myshel's ear, slightly sloppily. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice oddly slurred. He tensed, tremulous, sweaty paws clutching hard at Myshel's spread thighs and drawing a deep breath in the moment of equipoise preceding the storm. Myshel wanted to beg, plead, scream in panic, but the inexorable momentum of the moment intervened and stole the opportunity.
With an almost savage snarl, the red fox slammed forward, spreading Myshel wide and deep in one violent motion, forcing his way in until nearly hilted. Myshel squealed and writhed; he had thought himself prepared, but it was not possible--The speed of the entry, the girth of his lover, the tightness of his small ring and the length of the shaft now driven deep within him all combined to send rivers of agony coursing through his body. His muzzle hung open, wide with choked, shocked pain, and the breath caught in his throat; no mercy was shown, indeed, and Carson picked up his pace instantly, disregarding the mess and his lover's torture, lost in a crazy lust which Myshel began to suspect as drug-fueled. Carson leaned forward and placed his big, dirty paw on Myshel's muzzle, wrapping fingers around and holding it shut to stifle the incessant squealing that each thrust provoked.
Seconds turned to minutes, every subsequent motion building on the pain of the last as Carson's movements grew harder, firmer, and faster every moment, drawing nearly all the way out before spearing deep once more. Myshel felt a warm wetness spread across his belly, and realized that he was losing bladder control to the deep, hard thrusting deep inside. The scent of his urine fought for dominance with...other scents for a while, but lost.
As if snapped from his reverie momentarily by the smell, Carson slowed. Myshel's burgeoning relief was short-lived, however, as the fox atop immediately began a firm grinding, which pressed far too deep into the little fox's full bowels. For nearly fifteen minutes, Carson fucked him slowly, methodically, using every centimeter to full effect. His eyes were closed, his ears splayed, blunt clawtips squeezing Myshel's thigh so hard that they threatened to break skin, the muscles of his torso and arms standing out even through his fur as he raped his fox boy with a mechanical violence that bordered on cold rage.
Myshel's world spun around him. The hard grip on his muzzle never lessened, and drool and sweat mingled with blood. Forced to bear the unbearable, he could only squeal into Carson's muffling grip with each brutal thrust. His frequent attempts to imagine himself being made love to simply failed and fell away, brushed aside by a much more frightening reality, surreal and ugly.
Drawing a hissing breath through his teeth, Carson increased his speed, beginning slowly, but gradually working his way into a wild, out-of-control frenzy. He grunted with the effort of every thrust, using his full body to pile-drive the fox with every ounce of his strength, his actions evoking wild, frantic, heavily muted shrieking from the fox beneath him. Sweat rolled down and dripped from the red fox's muzzle, which hung open, tongue lolling out; his eyes were closed. Myshel's thoughts were fragmented and chaotic, wide eyes and unfocused like prey being devoured, barely able to breathe.
At his peak, when he simply could thrust no harder, Carson's jaw snapped shut and he snarled again, tossing his head back and impaling Myshel deep, pulling the little fox's hips against his as if in sheer desperation to drive deeper within, flooding his insides with his seed.
More minutes of postcoital thrusting passed, both foxes gasping for breath as Carson slowly collapsed atop, leaning forward to softly nuzzle Myshel's nose and lick away the tears from his eyes in the first instance of concerned coherence Myshel had noticed from him since he'd started.
Myshel half-closed his eyes, shuddering softly as he returned the nuzzle. It was enough for all that passed before.
I forgive you, my love. I always forgive you. My forgiveness is always yours to claim.
"Very nice, very very nice. That, I suspect, will make me a lot of money," Knoskali said, in the first neutral tone Myshel had heard him use ... this day. After giving the two a few moments, the coyote stretched and stood, stroking his sweaty paws down his soft black pants. He grinned, and Myshel noticed that he was sporting an obvious arousal under his clothes as he walked around the pair with one of the cameras, slowly recording the details the scene.
After a few minutes, Knoskali placed the camera back on his mount and shook his head with a little grin, recovering his manner somewhat. "Yes, indeed. Such a lovely couple. You're a mess, though, you nasty things. Use his muzzle again, Carson, dear. Make him clean you. It's what foxes are for, isn't that right?"
Carson stood, eyes glazed. He opened his mouth, looking as if he were about to say something but was unable to find his tongue. Knoskali merely shook his head at Carson and pointed to Myshel's muzzle.
_ Definitely, absolutely heavily drugged,_ Myshel concluded, only then realizing the import of the coyote's words. He sucked in his breath.
"No," Myshel whispered, twisting away sharply as Carson turned towards him. "NO," he sobbed. Carson moved towards his face, in a glassy-eyed daze. "Please, please.."
Carson grasped at, then clutched Myshel's muzzle once more, squeezing painfully. More painful for Myshel was the dull look in those normally clever brown eyes.
Knoskali laughed, shaking his head, counting his digits as though measuring the length of Myshel's words.
"Well, well...Your monosyllabicism serves you well, fox." Knoskali said, then snorted in self-amusement. "But don't tempt fate, or me. Speak again and it'll be your last time. You-" he gestured to Carson- "Hurry up, muzzle-fuck him. Now, before he does something he'll regret for the rest of his life."
Myshel struggled as Carson's moved over his head, his plump, filthy shaft dangling inches from his nose as his muzzle was slowly pried open by one dirty paw; The red fox's other paw clutched his hair firmly, holding his head fast. Unable to resist further, he could only watch and twitch in revulsion as the thick, shit-covered length descended, dripping dirty glops of brown cum into his muzzle.
Carson's belly sank towards his nose, rising and falling with his deep, aroused breathing, spatters and flecks of bright red intermingling with darker colors amidst the soft white fur. The foul stench drove home a primal desperation to escape the situation, and once the still-hard shaft began to press against his tongue the texture made him gag anew. He struggled...but there was no escape, and the pong and taste of his own waste filled his muzzle as saliva began to work it free.
He closed his eyes, feeling less than a person, descending into a sort of black psychological despair. The awful taste was unbearable, and Myshel retched a dry, weak cough as Carson pulled his foreskin back with a paw, exposing the dirtiest parts to smear against his tongue and soft palette before sliding deep once more. Pressing his crotch all the way down against Myshel's nose, Carson moved his wildly tremulous paws down to the back of the arctic fox's head to hold him in place. Unable to breathe, Myshel could only gurgle feebly around the wide flesh that filled his throat, forced to swallow most of his contaminated saliva--the rest ran from his mouth to stain his muzzle and cheeks. Too weak to even heave or vomit, he merely struggled briefly; the motion only served to entice the bigger fox, who pressed deeper.
Myshel's head spun, and his vision was greying around the edges even before Carson began to thrust again, his face slack, moaning in pleasure.
"Ah, true love. Sometimes I forget what filthy creatures foxes are," Knoskali said, snorting in feigned disgust. The coyote moved forward, towering above Carson, who was increasing his pace once more. He frowned as he noticed Myshel's increasing incoherency.
"That's enough, boys. This isn't a snuff scene yet," he purred, with another little sneer. "Let's get the cameras off. Jif, Manim, split them up and clean them. We'll get started again in two hours."
Myshel nuzzled Carson's paw as the latter was pulled away by one of the equines, slickened cock pulling from his throat with a little slurp. His young body ached from the abuse, his mind subdued, dizzy and submissive. Wordlessly the two named guards forced the bigger fox to stand, then dragged him stumbling from the cage. The remaining three assistants donned thick rubber gloves.
Myshel squinted up incuriously at the doberman, who had brought over a large rubber bladder full of liquid and hung it high on the chain-link. One of the huskies attached a tube to it. It didn't take long for Myshel to realize what they were doing, but he felt so defeated that he didn't even bother trying to protest or care.
The doberman loomed over him, smirking a lecherous little smirk, and reached between his legs; twinges of pain shot through his body as the rubber-clad dog began to firmly force the metal tip on the tube, shaped like a wide pointed bulb, into his (very) sore ass. It took some time, mostly to spread the tight black flesh of his anal ring around the broad head. After passing the widest point, it quickly slid deeply inside, sealing in place as his flesh slipped back down around the thin neck.
A slight groan escaped his muzzle, and that was all. Stinging pain spread through his insides as a valve was opened, and pressure began to build within him, quickly at first but slowing gradually as he became more full. It increased again as the doberman squeezed the bag to empty the remaining liquid into his bowels, and then the valve was closed, and the tube disconnected. He glanced down and whined--his normally flat belly, even emptier of late from two days of not eating, was visibly distended slightly, gurgling and cramping softly.
Taking up sponges, the huskies began to roughly clean his white body, as coldly as if he were a piece of furniture. Leaving his muzzle spattered and stained, they thoroughly cleaned his cheeks and belly, thighs and between his legs. He ground his teeth as he watched the doberman stroking himself, paw sliding along the slick rubber of his crotch as he leaned close to sniff at the fox's muzzle. The dog didn't persist, however, merely giving Myshel a pat on the muzzle when the huskies had finished cleaning and put away the gear.
All he could taste was nastiness. His throat hurt, his tail hurt, his body hurt. His insides were painfully full, and he still felt a persistent nausea. More than any physical pain, though, he ached for what might have been, terrified by what was to come. Eventually, he was left in silence, bonds re-secured, silent tears wetting his cheekfur.