Secret Admirer (M/M) (Pt. 11 of "Under The Devil's Eye")
#11 of Under the Devil's Eye
Secret Admirer
Pt. 10 of "Under the Devil's Eye"
by H. A. Kirsch (HawkWolf)
Hawk came back to his car from work, only to find something stuck under the wipers. It was a small envelope, sealed shut. He took it into his hand and opened up the car, letting the heatwave inside blast out as the turbine whirred under the hood and the air conditioning kicked in with a purr. After a few moments of looking around at the slightly distorted forms of people walking down Carleton Ave., he sank into the car.
It was a cloudless day, searing August heat, so the carefully tinted cockpit was a nice change of pace, especially with the air conditioning. It was the perfect day to take the Lagonda to work, much to the stares of anyone he passed, especially if they had a look inside at the meticulously restored futuristic cockpit. It matched the wolf in leather jeans, tall cowboy boots, and a cobalt-and-white camp shirt over a wifebeater.
Hawk was about to pull away when he opened the letter out of idle curiosity. Inside, a little greeting card, with a scene of frosted valentine's day candies and candy canes, with a similarly ice-covered pink heart with the words, "I wish it was valentine's day," made with a finger in fake 'snow'. Inside, it read, "Your Secret Admirer."
The wolf snarled and tossed the card down. He didn't need a secret admirer. He had a fox at beck and call, a prattling junkie psychopath for those wild nights, and any number of other bit characters to call upon to satiate his needs. He figured it was just someone out to irritate him, perhaps a prank from Chad. He made a mental note to see if he would come before the fox cried as he gave him a nice, severe flogging.
The note went into the trash and the wolf went back to summer laze mode, enjoying himself at home at his walk-out patio, buttery peppered grease in his mouth from a steak, soured by good rye sour mash and the leathery chocolate of a fine Maverick Conquistador torpedo.
The next day, coming out of work in a massive duster as raindrops plattered onto the slippery surface, Hawk barged into his car. When he did, something fell out of the door crack. He swiped it up; it was another card. It had an umbrella on it, a photograph of a red parasol leaning against the door with rain pelting down beside. "Here, we can share it," was written atop and below the umbrella. Inside: "Your Secret Admirer."
Hawk tossed it onto the leather seat with a hard smack, but kept letting his eyes roam back over to it as he purred through the rain, watching the glow of the computerized dash display anything and everything it could about the British supercar relic. Come to think of it, Valentine's Day would be nice and cold, a good change from the fur-searing heat. The wolf's best assest, his raven-black self, was a bit of a problem in the summer.
The third day, he had another note. It was a picture of a city map, covered in scribbles, push pins, question marks written in ballpoint, and taped pieces of polaroid pictures that showed enough of humans and hybrids to indicate casual shots of couples without offering any identity or even species. "Where can we meet?" Inside:
"Yeah, yeah, my secret fucking admirer," Hawk huffed, then tucked the card into the ashtray on the console. It was a lot easier to read it when he looked over that way.
The next morning, he wrote a note on a post-it and put it under his wipers: "Yeah?" Just a regular old pen scrawl. The first time he remembered he did it, right at the beginning of lunch, he went to check on it. It was gone.
When the wolf came out after work, he had a forth card. It had a very sad kitten looking like he was floundering amidst a busy Manhattan street, but really just sheltered by the cameraman and a trick of depth of field. "I'm lost without you." Hawk tucked it into his blazer pocket, right behind his spare pair of leather driving gloves, without even reading the inevitable inscription. The second pair were in case the first got too messy on one of his breaks.
The fifth morning, Friday, he left a note under his wipers again. This time, it had his address, with the street name underlined in triplicate.
When he came back, there was a card in the note's place. It had a picture of a clock, showing 9:00. Where there was a spot for some sort of snarky comment, the little flip out on the card had been torn off. Inside, the same signature. "Your Secret Admirer."
Hawk couldn't believe that he was actually playing such a silly game. He couldn't believe it so firmly that he grew erection merely trying to play guessing games as to who would show up at his door at 9:00PM. Alzarre, drunk and stoned and rolling to and fro, desperate for some sort of fantastically mind-altering depraved release? The black wolf strode through his house, into the basement, immediately throwing himself onto his home gym machines.
It could be Laryan. The engineered wolf - "You know," he had said, "Like that flooring with a real wood piece on top of that weird sawdust and formaldehyde stuff" - had a strange sense of humor that would often leak out at random moments. The cards were a perfect example, stunning examples of themed greeting cards, but all unpleasantly tacky or sappy on their own. Plus, Laryan was a bounty hunter and would do anything someone would pay him. Stalking someone was just another day at work. Hawk took his sweaty self off his workout equipment and went for a refreshing lukewarm shower.
Chad was a distinct possibility. The fox's come-ons usually had a bit more sexual weight to them, but like everyone, the vulpine was inevitably growing older. Hawk would have expected something messy on one card, or perhaps some kind of lip print, or a coupon for "something sexy" at Black and Silver Leather or Prance (the wolf bristled at the mere mention of the name, although the place had some awesome slinky things even for the masculine set.) But a simple lead-on to a visit from some mystery secret admirer? Hawk pondered what to smell like, and simply decided on a little spritz of New Moon on his neck. The spicy, surprisingly meaty vanilla-tinged cologne would give whoever decide to embrace him a nice calming whiff of masculine musk and luscious orchid semen.
Zale would probably never look the wolf in the eye ever again. Tomasz's reaction to the cards would be to toss them into the trashcan, then get the urge to urinate on them while swearing to himself about how much he felt betrayed by his adoptive country. The cougar was out. Clyde would have come over for a few beers, then ended up jackhammering Hawk's prostate until the wolf cried. Not exactly greeting card material. Kyle would invite Hawk out to go shooting, and then make some boy-toy he'd picked up play human target with various fruits and vegetables until the guy panicked and fled. Come to think of it, that was actually a fun idea, even if Hawk knew from experience that the reality was not really so fun at all.
Hawk slid into his leather suit, an appropriate choice for meeting some stranger. Leather blazer with black cherry burnished hornback alligator for the lapels, shoulder plates, and a design down the back like a fashionable gaping exposure of water lizard in the otherwise sleek black horsehide. Leather dress gloves, with three points on the back of each hand, slippery black cabretta. Black leather jeans, straight leg but cut just subtly to emphasize the power of the wolf's legs while also easily tucking into boots. Knee-high boots, cut stovepipe style with polished but heavy saddle-weight leather, tough snip toe and riding heel, chain and concho strap at each angle for just a slight jingle to each clopping footstep.
The wolf decided he would enjoy a little scotch as he waited for the clock to roll nines. After an hour and a half of enjoying some music in his living room, as well as two scotches, he realized how much of an old man he was. Sitting, alone, in a house full of more right angles than an IKEA store, a place built so the dark shadows funneled one to either end, to be trapped in either the dungeon or Hawk's own bedroom, listening to angular and complicated progressive doom metal.
Nine rolled around and he killed the music. He had just enough liquor in him to give a whiff on his breath, sweat to his ears and muzzle. If he was going to be a rake, he was going to be a rake. Nine ten, and he wondered if the whole thing was going to be a joke. Nine fifteen, and he started wondering what if it _was_ a joke. Nine twenty, and the doorbell rang. The wolf blanched under his fur, caught actually worrying about being rejected, having totally missed an approaching car.
He opened the door without even bothering to peek out the curtains. There, standing on his front porch, in a sharp evening jacket and club-friendly flat dress pants, was Peter Norsten.
"Son of a fucking bitch."
Hawk took Peter down into the lower level family room, oddly named seeing as it included a wood 'dance floor' area rimmed with real granite, a party-sized bar, a large chaise in the corner, and a fireplace with black leather beanbag chairs in front of it. He always thought it was more of a bachelor room. "I bet I should fix you a drink."
"I bet I'll ask for tea."
"I bet I'll give you tea-flavored vodka, lemon juice, and just enough caster's sugar so you won't spit it out," Hawk snarled, then broke it with a grin.
Peter looked actually thoughtful as he sat down demurely at the 'bar'. "I suppose this is an awful surprise. Well, it was just a notion that became a thought, a thought that became an idea, and an idea that I had to realize."
"Spare me the philosophy. What the hell are you doing here? I bet this has something to do with that mess you got yourself into. Hope you're not looking for a handout." Peter had briefely been all over the news.
The fox turned to his side so he could lean, surveying the rest of the room. "You aren't exactly hiding the fact that you could bail someone like me out, but no, I think we both know what would happen if I came to you asking for money."
Hawk was in the middle of fixing the fox's drink when he had a flash of a particular moment he shared with Peter. He ended up pouring a splash of vodka on the counter, quickly swiping it with a towel. "Yeah. Don't tell me you like this place."
"I love it. It's fantastic. Do you think I really like living in that house of my dad's? It's like someone's attempt at a miniature of that house from Gone With The Wind." Peter took his drink when the wolf finally slid it over, then had a sip. "Oh, that's terrible. This is one of those drinks that makes you drink it." He proceeded to have a few more sips.
"Look, why are you here? I don't think I need to ask you that again." Hawk left out the somehow more insidious but less realistic question of, "Why did you put those cards on my car?" Somehow, he if pretended that Peter was simply paying a visit with an ulterior motive instead of something romantic or outright sexual, the situation was less likely to give him an erection.
Peter leaned forward on the bar stool. His dress shirt had the top button popped and the collar ruffled slightly, and chestfur ruffed out, unchecked by an undershirt. "That's a little more complicated. Maybe I need to add a little perspective before I just tell you why I'm here. As you know, I made a pretty big mistake."
Damn right you did. "Yeah, embezzling money's never the right choice. Especially when you get conned and need to pony up. Might as well have responded back to Prince Mbambe Tutu al-Shitzle, who has recently come into a large amount of inheritence."
The fox frowned. "Maybe you really are supernatural. I can't imagine how anyone could have any sort of friendship with someone so offensive. Yes, I was conned. I knew all along that it was a bad idea. I had signs left and right, but like a good twist in a movie, I didn't see it coming. It wasn't even my fault; I shouldn't have had access to the money."
"Those chickens shouldn't have laid all those eggs, either," Hawk said. Peter just made another offended face, until he parsed the statement and his eyes popped open. Hawk gave him a lopsided grin up the right side of his jaw. Okay, a little erection was fine. The fox was even being good, regarding Hawk like anyone else in the world, not like six and a half feet of black fur, black and reddish leather, white teeth, and liquor breath.
"My father gave me control of some key parts of the bank just before he died, with directions to have it all transferred over to the acting CFO once he passed, so I couldn't do anything really stupid. It was only a week or so," Peter said, taking sips like he was sitting in the hot sun. The only hot light in the room was the beam of illuminating spotlight that he moved in and out of at the family room bar. "I didn't do anything stupid. Then, fast forward to earlier this year. I get a particularly great business funding proposal. Some manufacturing jobs, light work, perfect for a lot of the Fresh Start type of workers. People who can be smart and hard workers but made mistakes and came from rotten places. It was a furniture company."
Hawk knew the story but listened anyway, for Peter's slightly less demeaning version of it. To the fox's credit, the television stations threw all the dirty tricks in the book at him, framing him up close so a scar in his ear was noticeable like he was an alley-crawling mongrel, cutting to the interviewer's reaction of a head shake whenever Peter tried to defend himself.
Peter continued. "Look, I know I made a mistake. They wanted to send some of the money to an existing place they contracted for a first run, out of state? They had a catalog of things to preorder from? They had positions to fill that seemed a little skilled, but were happy to take the people we could hook them up with, who weren't skilled at all. Then, they were getting ramped up and needed to get their funding from me, and I took the bait. I was going through some things and found the old access codes for the main accounts. One of them, for a big slush fund for emergency liquidity, still was active even though the password should have been changed. I figured no one would notice, and they already had enough to come back once the orders sold. It was short term paper. They didn't even try to drag it out. As soon as they had the money, gone. A million and a half dollars and the dreams of about 40 hard-luck YMCA dwellers, gone, up in smoke."
The wolf realized that he was suddenly privy to an actual white collar problem, and it felt tremendously boring. "Yeah. Well, like you said, everyone fucks up." He left his glass on the bartop, turned away, then went down to a crouch to look for something in the bar fridge. After finding a few flat bottles of club soda he snorted and stood back up.
"My wife is living with her aunt now, helping take care of the house and working on some art. Jared's at college. I don't have a job. I only have a house because of a fluke, but now I'm not a successful banker. I'm a separated empty-nest embezzling jackass," Peter scowled. "At least I've still got Fresh Start."
Hawk's expression went slack. "Wait, what?"
"I couldn't deal with money. I made a stupid mistake because I was in a position with enough power to screw up big. So, now, I have a job, but it's for the non-profit part of Fresh Start. I was always good at going out and connecting people together. Now, I get to be the one taking the orders, looking out and hooking up, instead of watching as things float across my desk. It's good."
It doesn't really add up, but Hawk didn't say that. "Good for you."
"You don't sound very pleased," Peter said.
Hawk fixed himself another scotch, this time adding a little sour, a little honey. He took it down. Peter's expression turned to more disgust. Hawk thought of one unpleasant situation with Peter, then shook it out of his head. Then another, both situations with the fox making that face, but this new imagining had Peter just about to vomit semen. Despite the foul nature of what had really happened, the mere thought that Hawk's dick could so thoroughly torture some red-furred bushy-tailed vulpine until the poor thing coughed it back up made Hawk feel so powerful that his cock literally ached inside his leathers. "Do you want to know why I brought you down here?"
Peter looked around the room. His eyes hit the chaise in the corner twice, adam's apple bobbling, ears trembling for a few waves of vibration. "You're awfully polite, considering."
"Yeah, that's exactly it. You made me a nice drink when I came over to your house, so I'll make you a nice one when you come over to mine. Now, where'd I leave that doggy bowl with my fucking initials on it?" Hawk leaned back against the wall, boots crossed, playing enough smug that there was no way his statement could be real.
The fox stood up off his stool, denying himself another drink and moving around the room. "You don't deserve one with your initials on it."
Hawk wanted to puff his chest out, but when he inhaled with a leather-creaking fill, he realized he had a more pressing concern than Peter getting the last word. "Shit. I'll be right back. You wanna look around, go ahead. There's a little fishbowl thing upstairs, on the uh, that thing in the foyer. You can donate to the museum trust." The wolf went directly upstairs, not giving Peter the pleasure of hearing a heavy stream of urine in the basement toilet. The fox would have to earn that.
The liquor caught up fast, leaving him aching and cramped in his bladder, cock tingling inside enough that the thought of pissing made him get hard beyond any thoughts involving the business casual fox. It was easy enough to make his cock sink as he stood in the main guest bathroom, leaning forward with a hand on the slate tiled wall like he was standing at a urinal. He just imagined standing there in a German fascist uniform made of leather, overseeing Peter as he squeezed off several firm logs into the toilet, the fox's black ears searing red inside. By the time the wolf was done pissing, he was wishing that Peter wasn't slowly wandering around the house. He wished he was lying in bed, stoned out of his mind, tickling the inside of his bladder with something.
He kept that thought to himself as he shook off, did _not_ rinse his gloved hand, even wiped some piss onto the leather and then ground around his dickhead to smear a day's worth of cocksweat and fermented precum into the piss-musky leather. When he was done shifting his thumb over it, he was hard in his pants and his glove leather was no worse for the wear.
Outside the bathroom... there was nothing. Then, from downstairs, a flush. After a few moments, Peter rose from the basement stairs with a clop of dress-shoe heels. "Well, unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to take a tour. I had to take a call, instead."
"What, did nature need some money to hold it over until next week?"
Peter frowned, but dissolved the expression as he stood with Hawk in the bedroom hallway. The fox slid his blazer off, a little pink in the ears, a little sweat at the tip of the muzzle. Maybe he was warm - Hawk almost never kept the place very cool in the summer, preferring to save money and not come down with a headcold when coming in from the unexpected Northeast heatwaves that came every year. Or, maybe the fox had seriously pushed downstairs. "Do you have a closet?"
"Do you think you're staying here for a while?" Hawk said, nevertheless showing Peter to the coat closet. He took the blazer and put it inside.
"You seem to think so. You just put my coat away," Peter said, and started unbuttoning his shirt. "I'm not here to cry drunk tears in your trendy basement. I have a little bit of sympathy for you now, you know?" The fox was taking an awful long time to undo the next button. "I've made a big mistake, and it's alienated all of my life away, leaving me just a lonely, almost middle-aged canid with a house to himself." The next button exposed black, instead of creamy underfur. Black leather. Black leather and grommet holes and lace and the tense cleavage of male pectoral muscle compressed by a corset.
Hawk stared.
Peter continued to unbutton, exposing that yes, he was wearing a corset. Quite a shapely one, constricting enough at his already slender waist that it gave him a definite feminine shape without giving him breasts. He didn't seem particularly surprised or coy about it, simply acting like he was removing his clothing very slowly. He slid out of the shirt and folded it, then let it drop to the hallway floor with a soft paf. Next, his shoes came off, then his dress pants fell around his ankles. "You're a terrible person. You abuse people for your own amusement, and yet you're successful. You get away with things. I could make a very good argument that you are the devil, or one of his minions, or perhaps something in between. The trinity is mirrored in Hades."
Hawk continued to stare. Seeing Peter's naked torso wrapped in hugging, almost sculpted black fetish leather was not arousing. It was terrifying. Worse than the corset were the black lambskin panties, cut like a sexy pair of women's neglige but with enough room to wrangle a male cock into a pleasant lump. The wolf hadn't realized it before, but Peter had shapely legs, quite powerful but curved. The panties were a flame and Hawk's eyes were moths, forced to look over the fox's thighs as he couldn't stop staring at that smooth, bulging black leather.
"Pardon me. I forgot something in the bathroom," Peter said, padding past Hawk and right back down into the basement.
Hawk followed along, body moving like it was floating. Despite the sensation, his boot heels left a resounding rich clunk ringing around the house from the heavy, fine wood floor. It turned to a hollow chuck against the granite in the family room. "I'm going to fucking pretend you didn't just take off your clothes with that shit underneath 'em," Hawk hollered out, making a circuit around the family room. "I'm going to pretend you didn't leave me smartass little valentines cards on my car."
"That's a really nice car, by the way," Peter called back, doing something in the bathroom.
The wolf got close enough to the bathroom that he could see Peter's tail now and then. Why wasn't he doing anything about the fox? Why wasn't he rushing in there? He was giving the unsettling creature a chance, and privacy to boot. "So what, did I accidentally put my dick in too far and poke one of your fucking ovaries?" He couldn't help the words coming out of his mouth. The alcohol didn't lift a finger either.
"Mmm," was all that came from the bathroom. That, and the subtle creak of leather.
"Is that all you're gonna say? You waltz into my fucking house after luring me-"
"You fell for it," Peter called out. "You took the bait. You waltzed into the bear trap. You, who has, is it a fox? The wolf with a fox he can have over any time he wants. The fox he called while abusing me, in my own house." That was only partly true, in that Chad had called up Hawk. "I'm not an idiot. I know exactly what you want, because you showed me."
Hawk was not having a pleasant time. He was having an unreal time. He was pacing powerless in his house while a fox gussied himself up in the bathroom. "Get the fuck out here and face me."
Peter got the fuck out there at his own pace. The fox strode out of the basement bathroom with the unmistakable sharp clack of high heels. Almost stiletto heels, shiny patent leather mated to much firmer boot leather, shaped into a delicious point at the front, high-raked instep, calf-hugging shaft, top cuff that tickled Peter's thighs. The leather was an usual color, a purple so near-black that it almost seemed iridescent, like it was created as an exercise in dark marker work in a drawing. The vulpine's black hands and forearms were sheathed in similar leather, one of the gloves still being pulled on. Over the elbow, just a hint of a flare to the cuff. Opera gloves, the same purple black. He strode across the room, one foot in front of the other in a determined hip-sway runway strut, upper body giving just the slightest bit of opposite twist. He had done that exact motion before.
Hawk stood his ground as Peter came to a clip-clop stop in front of him. The fox lifted his gloved hands and gently held onto the wolf's lapels. Hawk just leaned his shoulders back, defiant. "I showed you what it's like to want what I have."
"That doesn't stop me from wanting it. You have something no one else can give me. I even tried to get it from Christopher again, but I had to work very hard, and he didn't enjoy it very much. You, on the other hand, enjoyed it very much. And you're going to enjoy it again." Peter leaned in close, body gently pressing up against Hawk, crotch now even with the wolf's when the fox lifted off those spike heels and pressed forward. His muzzle came up closer, closer, closer.
The fox was wearing lipstick. Purple, iridescent lipstick. Not an illusion, but a slightly glittery, slightly pearly color, matching boots and gloves while the other items were still ink black. Hawk had never actually seen lipstick up so close, and certainly not on a man. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Peter tightened his grip, producing a subtle creak of leather as he handled the horsehide and alligator of the wolf's blazer. Then, his hands spread around the wolf's upper body, up over the shoulders, behind the jacket collar, fingers weaving together. Peter smiled, and the sheer seductive warmth, the half-lidded cat-eyes, made Hawk feel like he was fainting from heat exhaustion. "You know, I never thought about wearing leather until... until you..." Despite the situation, Peter hesitated on the words. His body crumpled against the wolf, ears tucking back slightly, purple-painted lips gently working together, as if he was suddenly realizing what Hawk had done to him half a year earlier.
Hawk tilted his head down, and Peter's lips met his. The fox's tongue brushed out, followed by a struggle between two tongues as Hawk's tried to fend off the inevitable french kiss penetration. He didn't want Peter. He wanted an unashamed, hyper-kinky, bratty young red fox, the kind that would sneak into his house and hunch over on the bed, masturbating and mumbling love coos to the wolf, doing all that just coincidentally as Hawk was coming home from work. That fox was probably... whatever television weather interns did, probably looking busy for an on-camera cameo while collating reports and occasionally subbing for the real forecaster on the eleven o'clock. The fox he had instead was kissing him with the quiver of purple-sparkle lipstick just about to break into a sobbing frown. He didn't want it, but he was going to come in his pants anyway-
"Don't give me this bullshit," Hawk snarled, and swung his arm in front of his body, made a fist, and then levered it out. He shoved forward and literally disposed of Peter off to the side, hurling the fox towards the sofa. Peter lost his balance, writhing like a gymnast but losing the battle to high heels. The vulpine careened onto the sofa with a stunned whump and huff of breath. "I rape you, and I get fucked up in the head years later after getting a taste of revenge. I go over to your house to pay a little pennance but end up following the fucking voice in the back of my head that says I oughta just do it all over agian. And guess what? You liked it the first time. That gives me free license to do whatever I want, so I do exactly. what. I. want. Do you think I liked it? I felt hungover when I woke up back in my own bed. I imagined fucking cops storming my house. I imagined you hanging in your fucking closet, and not even with your dick in your hand, just fucking hanging dead because your life was just a fucktoy for some lunatic wolf who can't keep his dick in his pants! No, you don't fucking hang yourself. You just trick me into inviting you over, so you can put on your vamp shit and rub your fucking lipstick off on my dick! Did you learn to swallow come without throwing up your fucking spleen yet?"
Peter looked like he was going to cry, but the expression died on the vine as he untucked his muzzle. "Why do you get off on this?"
Hawk looked down. His dick left a lewd curve in his leather jeans, so tightly willing itself to spring forth that the v-shape of the frenum showed through both foreskin and garment leather. He looked at Peter and saw the same thing filling up one thigh-strap of the black leather panties. "Why do I get off on this? Why do I get off on this? Why do you get off on this? You need me to fuck you in the ass, is that it? You need me to shove my dick in you and ram you like a machine until you cough and sob and ejaculate until you're dripping blood. That's what you're here for? You fucked your nuts into your wife's cunt and fucking reproduced, and now you're wearing harlot leather and squirming on my couch like you're going to wet your panties?" The wolf crept forward without thinking, until his boots bumped the front of the couch. Nowhere to go but down, so he lunged forward. He was drunker than he thought, immediately disoriented, a moment of vertigo convincing him to force Peter to lie down. "You are fucking pathetic! You're a fucking midlife crisis!"
The fox curled up and put his gloved hands on Hawk's chest, head turning away. When Hawk opened his muzzle to huff, Peter flinched and squinted one eye and wrinkled up his lips in the universal expression of olfactory disgust. Hawk had enjoyed several cups of coffee with mexican drinking chocolate as makeshift mocha, a cigar, and four doubles of scotch. "I'm sorry," Peter said.
Hawk felt the words coming up into his throat like chunky bile. He let them pool around in his mouth until he felt like he should get up and run to the bathroom to spit them into the sink. He didn't want them to come out. If they came out, then he would all come out, and he would repeat himself again, and again, and again, another violent and satisfying encounter- "I'll make you fucking sorry." He smacked Peter with a gloved whack across the snout, then brought his hand back. The backhand did actual damage thanks to Peter scrunching his face up to try and guard for the second hit. Glove leather crushed one of the fox's lips against his teeth hard enough to split it, resulting in a smear of blood across black leather and white vulpine teeth. Hawk took his hand away and stared at it like it was on fire. It looked lik spit on his glove leather, but it wasn't. He knew exactly what it was, and it was right across the ground-in sour cheesy musk of piss and smegma that he'd created earlier, just in case he had an opportunity. An opportunity just like this.
Only he didn't have to ask, or order, or snarl and threaten to get Peter to lick. Instead, the fox licked his own lips, one eye watering on the side of his face where he'd been hit, then gently took Hawk's hand in his gloved fingers, cradling the wolf's much larger leathered grip as he nudged his snout along the palm and licked his spit and blood up until there was a long damp streak. The fox then moved Hawk's hand and gently kissed at the knuckles underneath.
The wolf made a fist and let Peter kiss at it in silence, then took it away. He turned and looked across the room at the curtain-hidden patio door to the long back yard. Then, he looked back down at Peter, whose face had an unreadable expression. Peter looked like an abused, beaten, submissive toy, but Hawk got a sickening feeling in his gut. The fox before him, beneath him, was like a stock photograph of an artistically messy work desk. Sure, everything was in busy disarray, but it was carefully placed into that state to create a perfect image. It only made him more angry, so angry that the wolf had to shift to the side and sit down, heart pounding at odds with his flushed drunken state and making him ferociously dizzy. "You're going to fucking swallow my cock until I get off in your mouth. If you can't breathe while doing it, well, you better hope swallowing can get my whiskey dick finished." Hawk started trying to remove his cock from his pants. Despite the liquor, his black shaft was as turgid as it could get, dickhead actually stretching his foreskin as it bulged and flared like a wild mushroom underneath it.
Peter didn't react like he'd just been hit in the face. The fox went right to task, smudging and slobbering his lips all over Hawk's erection, gloved fingers gently stroking the soft-leather foreskin up and down, even going so far as to roll it up over the head and squeeze lips against it as he tugged it back down. Then, he descended over the shaft and let the head plunge into his throat.
Hawk had actually closed his eyes, and opened them to see Peter heaving and choking, but not actually gagging and hurling. The fox sounded terrible, like he was drowning or actually choking on something, but the resulting throat-heaving felt so good that Hawk actually started to feel delirious. He closed his eyes again and the sensation suddenly moved into his gut instead of his actual cock. He popped his eyes open, having a flashback to his very first encounter with Peter, and dragged the fox's head right off. "Hey, I got a better idea. How about we go up to my bedroom and I fuck you real hard. That's what you want, right? You want me to fuck your asshole until you come, then keep fucking you until your prostate's spasming and there's nothing left to fucking drool out of your dick. Right?"
Peter looked up and put on a horrified face.
"Don't fuck around with me," Hawk snorted, then climbed up off the basement sofa. He made it two feet before he realized he was more than drunk. He felt numb, distant, disoriented but without the screaming pitch-bending queasy vertigo of being actually drunk on liquor. His legs didn't quite want to work and he tripped over his own heels. The carpet rushed up and he grabbed out for it, feeling like he was settling down onto a cloud, gloved fingers into the snowy white plush of the sitting area. It came up slow, plenty of time to brace, yet he kept getting closer, closer, closer, until his chest hit the carpet and he felt air squeezed out of his lungs. When he inhaled, nothing happened - he was stunned and immediately rolled to the side, clutching at himself, finally getting air back.
"No, I'm not going to fuck around with you. You're going to fuck around with me. You're going to fuck _inside_ me. That's what you're for. You're a big, black dick attached to a big asshole and that's the only thing I can get off on." Except Peter didn't say that. Maybe he did. Hawk closed his eyes and instead of seeing darkness and swirling blips of color as usual, he saw a slideshow of daydream images, moving by so fast it was hard to tell exactly what they were. He opened his eyes hard and Peter wasn't there. The fox's tail was just disappearing up the stairs.
Hawk managed to get up and sit on the sofa, mind slowly reeling. It was almost pleasurable, but not quite, and that left the wolf frustrated when he could latch his mind onto the sensation. Peter had clearly drugged him, and had chosen wisely, picking something that left the wolf dissociated and disoriented instead of burning with lust. The wolf slid his gloved hands up over his face, feeling simultaneously numb and overstimulated.
He made up a daydream of Peter stalking around in that girly outfit, fluffing his tail around, prancing, and it dogged him, leaving the wolf growling to himself and staring over at the fireplace. For a moment, he thought he could will flames into it, but nothing came of the effort. Peter's footsteps returned, eventually convincing the wolf to look at the source of high-heeled clops. The fox had a bundle of things in his arms. Two gag-muzzle assemblies that looked almost like horse gear; a twin-sheath arm binder; knee, wrist and ankle cuffs. "You fucking son of a bitch," Hawk managed to say, words warbling between his ears.
"You already called me that. Can't you think of anything else? I'm sure you're in this kind of situation _all the time_," Peter said, approaching the wolf with one of the muzzle gags. It had a leather sheath with two nostril holes and a drool hole at one end, a ball gag at the opening, a strap harness to fix it onto the neck and head of the wearer. Hawk always told visitors that he bought it for use on unruly houseguests or playmates. He actually bought it, fitted, for himself.
Hawk let Peter gag him, mostly because any attempts to fend him off just had his gloved hands waving up at the air, pushing and pulling at the corseted fox. Up close, he remarked that Peter's lip was doing pretty well; it must've been on the inside where all that blood came from. The gag was big, and the sheath was just a tad too small, leaving the wolf's jaws strained open, muzzle crushed on by the tough leather. "Unrrh."
"What's the matter?" Peter said, but didn't coddle the wolf's snout like Hawk was imagining. Instead, the fox reached down and stroked Hawk's shaft. That tingling sensation came up into his gut and he squirmed, spit pumping out into the gag. He finally looked down to see the fox milking loose foreskin up and down. Hawk had gone soft. "I thought you liked this? You... you came to see me twice.." the fox said, leaning on a hurt and small voice so hard that it was obviously fake. The slippery gloved fingers slid down to Hawk's balls, and that got his cock filling up again. "Oh? Well, I'll have to use one of these," Peter said, then untucked a leather cockring from under his corset, unsnapping it and strangling the wolf's ballsac with it. "That's a lot better. Now," the fox said.
The wolf sat, passive and accepting by default, eyes wide as Peter got the twin-sheath arm binder on his arms. The fox helped him out of his coat, then stroked around the wolf's upper body before bringing wrists back and feeding them into the leather. It felt like Hawk could grab through the supple hide and clutch at things, but the most he could do was offer a simple pull or a squeeze. It was too thick to work even like a mitten, more like a rubber oven mit.
Once Peter had Hawk's arms strapped parallel behind the back, the fox took the rest of the gear and stood in the center of the rug. "Oh, wait," he said, then stepped over and switched on the gas fireplace. "Perfect." The fox lifted up his own muzzle gag and stuffed his snout into it. The fox-sized one was for small foxes, and he quickly had the same problem as Hawk's (intentionally) tight muzzle sleeve. It was a tight fit and Peter let out a few surprises groans and gags, as if he wasn't actually expecting a serious piece of equipment. The fox then kneeled down and sat, strapping cuffs around his ankles, breathing hard into that leathery sleeve. Soon, condensation and drool spat out the drool hole as the fox buckled and then padlocked his ankles together. He did the same to his knees, wrists, then reached back and fitted his hands behind his lower back. He carefully squirmed until his gloved fingers could just get the padlock in place, and then Snap.
Hawk, still drugged and confused, half wondering just what the hell he was _on_, almost came when the fox self-tied himself into a serious predicament. Even if the key was a foot away, it'd take a lot of work to get undone, if the fox could even do it. Hawk tried to tell if he was padlocked, but his hands were dulled by the sleeves and he couldn't tell what he was grabbing, nor could he turn around to see it. Peter writhed around on the carpet, squirming like some kind of worm, quickly breaking into a momentary panic. The fox was certainly getting what he deserved, hyperventilating himself into a slobbering, almost sobbing stupor. Then, he slowly calmed down and started rhythmic grindings against the carpet like a snake.
Peter weaved himself towards the love seat, then twisted around so he was sideways. He slowly writhed, pointed boot toes flexing and shoving the sole against the carpet, arms wrenching around, breath heaving and splattering more mess out the drool hole, almost like puffs of fog from a stomping horse in the winter. Hawk's eyes went wide as Peter did something that Hawk would have never thought really possible: the fox got himself up onto the sofa, body shaking by the end of it. Instead of sitting, the bound and gagged fox rolled himself over, grunting as his legs slipped back off and thudded against the front. Bent over, he wagged his tail around, then forced his head to the side so he could breathe freely. After a few minutes of the wolf just staring, fixated on the red and black fox spent and yet unsatisfied, Peter cleared his throat and let out a grunt, then twitched his muzzle towards his ass.
Hawk heaved forward and rose up to his legs. After a moment of wobbling, and a couple cautious steps, he grunted and started moving over towards the upended fox. With that band around his ballsac, every step made a little tingle run right up into his insides, right up where he assumed his prostate was, and convinced his dick to swell a bit harder. By the time he was standing behind the fox, he was drooling enough precum that it hung from his mushroomed dickhead off the underside.
Peter's panties had a thong strap in the back, and they were easy to push out of the way with a penis. What was much harder was trying to force the shaft into the narrow opening. Hawk tried and tried and tried, heart pounding, cock throbbing against the opening, skidding aside over and over. That helped lube the fox's hole up, but it made Peter yelp a few times as it apparently hurt. Then, just at the right angle, about to bend in half, Hawk's cockhead punched through and the rest of it followed. Peter yelled into the gag, two hollers and then a pained whimper, body shaking and trying to reject the painful intrusion.
What Hawk wanted to say was, "I bet that feels just like when your wife gets that big strap-on shoved in. Oh wait, she left you to take care of a sick family member. That must mean you're a real rotten husband. I bet you just suction cup it to the bathroom floor and bounce on it while you cry like a lonely fuck." What he actually said was just a few seconds of mumble, and then a hard enough exhalation to propel a big splatter of saliva out of the muzzle gag and onto Peter's back.
Without hands, thrusting was a workout, muscles having to simultaneously force the weight of a full-grown wolf back and forth and yet prevent said wolf from crashing to the ground. Even though Hawk kept in very good shape, even though he'd had ample chance to thrust into someone from just about every reasonable angle, he was panting ragged and burning down his thighs after just a minute of pumping into Peter's ass. Worse, the angle meant he could go all the way in real easy, but it wasn't nearly as pleasurable as face to face or the tight, painful squeeze if the fox had been lying face down.
Peter didn't seem to care much about the position; he just let out a stream of groans, a kind of sobbing sound piping up if Hawk pumped especially hard.
Hawk wasn't sure if he was going to get off. The drug that coursed through him made him want to close his eyes and go to sleep, even right in the middle of energetic thrusting, but if he closed them for just a second, he saw that massive overwhelming culture-shock slideshow again. He kept pumping and pumping because keeping up the rhythm was easier than stopping it.
Without much warning, Peter's groans turned into actual sobs, tears welling up out of his eyes, squeezed out as he scrunched them shut and heaved back and forth. His asshole clenched and started milking, cock pumping off so hard that the first few splats into his panties made for a wet squelch as he milked the rest out.
With as little warning as he gave for the orgasm, Peter kicked Hawk backwards and sent the wolf hurtling backwards to sit down in the easy chair of the family room's sitting area. Then, the fox just sat there, squirming himself around until he was seated on the sofa again, panting hard. After a few moments of recovery, he scooted to the side and looked down at where his ass was. Then, he looked up at Hawk and shook his head.
What? The wolf thought. What's the problem? I didn't come in your filthy ass, he thought, even mumbling along. Peter's eyes half-lidded at the reaction.
While Hawk sat, swaying and breathing, hazy and softening up again, Peter slithered off the sofa and started writhing across the floor again. He made it all the way to the basement stairs, then started going _up_. Hawk stared, vision cut off, Peter suddenly appearing as he moved up the stairs, disappearing as he made his way into the rest of the house. The fox made occasional sounds, thuds and scrapes, as he moved overhead, going the entire length of Hawk's house over to the master bedroom.
Peter had left the keys in Hawk's nightstand, where they always were, and was going to get them.
Minutes, and then, thud! A particularly hard thud, furniture falling over. Slight creaking in the floor that Hawk had always meant to fix. Then, creaks and thumps back across and over to the staircase. Peter was crawling _back_. The fox eventually huffed and grunted his way to the middle of the sitting area carpet and turned away from Hawk. As the wolf stared on, Peter unlocked his wrist cuffs, then extricated himself completely. His boots and corset were a little scuffed, lip fat and swollen, and he looked exhaustedly refreshed like someone after a run.
"Well, that worked out, didn't it?" The fox said, tottering on his heels and then starting to pace around the family room. He moved the loveseat with a grunt, then the sofa, then started rolling up the loose shag carpet remnant that made his struggles so comfortable. "I have something I think I ought to tell you. It's about that wolf. Christopher. Remember him? You said he's a whore now. I wasn't really sure I should believe you, but it turns out that you're right. He was a whore."
Hawk let the past tense slide right on by as he watched Peter rearrange furniture. The fox disappeared upstairs, then came back with one of the heavy dining room chairs, which he sat right in the middle on the stone floor in front of the fire. Peter came over and helped Hawk up to his feet, then moved him to sit on the chair. The wolf complied mostly because it was easier and less dizzying than if he tried to turn away.
Peter took a length of rope and started tying Hawk to the tall-back chair. "At probably my darkest moment earlier this year, when everything had just freshly fallen apart, I ended up going to that brothel you said he worked at. I wasn't really sure why I went, at least until I got there. You said he was a slut and a whore, but you apparently missed a slightly more important fact. Prostitution is, of course, immoral. On some level, everything in today's world is immoral. You sin just by being born a human, but you can work against that. Christopher wasn't just selling himself. He was very, very badly hooked on some kind of designer heroin mix. I'll be back in a moment," the fox said, then left to go upstairs.
Hawk processed the words. Not a surprise. Not even really that interesting.
The burlesque fox returned with a foot-long black rectangular thing. It looked a lot like a CD binder, but it wasn't. Hawk knew exactly what it was and struggled against the chair, finding that Peter had actually done a good job of binding him to the wood. "I didn't really hire Christopher. More like I snuck in and found which room he was in. He was right in the middle of finding a vein, so I stopped him and had a little talk. Well, we wrestled a little bit first. We used to do that a lot back in high school. He actually knew how to wrestle. He was really good at it. He'd always win, no matter what I did. He was bigger than me, stronger than me, and he always came real hard and fast after he subdued me. Then, he'd get tired and he wouldn't really bother to finish me off. But you know that. We already went through that before." Peter opened up that black case and displayed a full set of curve-tipped hollow surgical steel urethral sounds. He took one out, in between pencil and permanent marker in thickness, then came over and inspected Hawk's cockhead. He went back, zipped the case shut, and then went back upstairs.
Hawk didn't really listen to what Peter had to say. He knew what the fox was going to do, and normally would have been very excited. Instead, he dreaded it. Bondage was one thing, but something so sensitive and intimate as plumbing the depths of his cock was not something Hawk wanted anyone else to do unless he knew them very well. All he knew about Peter was that the fox had somewhere gone off the deep end.
Peter returned with a tall bottle of lubricant and came back to Hawk, quickly spurting it out over the wolf's dickhead. He then forced the bottle up against the wolf's pisshole and shot some lube inside, then massaged it hard down the wolf's cock. Aside from the fact that his cock had just been in Peter's asshole, the fox seemed to know what to do. When he met the rod up with Hawk's trembling pisshole, he carefully guided it in, letting gravity help. "After we wrestled, I managed to get him tied up. Wow, he's become really kinky. All those toys in that closet he had, and stuff like this. I was really surprised." The fox had chosen the right size; Hawk's shaft eagerly took the rod in, especially since he was soft. Once it reached the base, the wolf started to hyperventilate and groan as the powerful tingle of metal against deep sensitive flesh crawled up his back. "Once he was tied up, he was apparently jonesing very hard, which made him very hard. I'd never really seen that before. So, I climbed up onto him and rode him until I really didn't have much left inside. It just oozed out a little."
Too deep too deep too deep! Hawk screamed into the muzzle, not exactly in pain, just feeling the gut twisting sensation of that rod as Peter angled it so it slid through his prostate, then into his bladder. Peter gave it a nudge and stepped back out of the way; Hawk's cock throbbed upwards, filling up and aiming up towards his body as a heavy stream of urine pumped up and sprayed out all over his leathers and the hard stone floor. No matter what Hawk did, he couldn't stop the flow, and it made him faint, coughing slightly as he nearly blacked out. Finally, the last spurted and dribbled out, leaving him wet and reeking of that awful bitter asparagus scent.
"I managed to get him to talk. He'd met up with a particular client who introduced him to this really euphoric strain of heroin. He'd gotten hooked, because it made him feel great when he generally felt like a bit of a failure. And then, like it goes with this kind of physical addiction, it made him recover from that dark bottom of the hill. Then, it just made it so he could keep going. It sounded really unfortunate. So, I gave him another hit."
Peter went around looking for his messenger bag, heels clopping against the hard floor. He found it and brought it back, rummaging inside.
"Well, I don't really know much about, you know, actually doing something like heroin. I know you put a band on the arm, and then you cook it up and mix it and then go right into a bulging vein. That wasn't that hard. I just wasn't sure how much to put in, and I decided to gag Christopher because he started freaking out and sweating for it. So, I couldn't ask him."
The fox withdrew a regular old hypodermic needle, and an unlabeled vial. Hawk desperately tried to force the sound out, but it wouldn't budge. He tried to grab onto the chair, but his sleeve-mitted hands were useless.
"Luckily, I happen to have made a few connections recently, so I was able to get that accident sorted out."
Peter looked awfully shaky as he brought the needle over, spurting a little out. The fox grappled with his panties and retrieved his dick, exposing the hot chlorinated butter scent of a slimy load of stale seed and dick sweat. His cock filled out within seconds. Hawk snorted and grunted, attempting to twist away.
"Now. The person who happened to hook Christopher is something you know very, very well. And I think you're quite possibly the closest person to him. So, I need your help. But, I really need your help. I don't need you to help yourself and bring me along. I can't tell if you're going to do that or not. If you are around in the future, I'm going to come to you with something a little more concrete. If you aren't around, then I'll just take care of my problems."
Hawk stared on as Peter fingered around in the fur over his arm, then met the needle up. The fox let out a gasp as a little blood richocheted back into the clear cylinder. As he plungered the syringe into Hawk, his cock exploded and bubbled semen up again.
The wolf had about ten seconds of absolute ecstasy, and then everything grayed out to nothing.
He came around, staring at the fireplace. Something smelled terrible, like that scent a public rest area gets in the hot summer from all the dribbles at the urinals. Bloody and rotten and piss-like. There was an extra awful smell, sour and familiar, and it made him want to vomit as soon as he caught the whiff. He looked down and saw metal sticking out of his cock. He looked around; the hard floor was wet, with something yellowy in spots - stained where the heat from the gas fireplace had baked it onto the stone - and something chunky on others.
"This is a pretty big surprise," a voice said. It wasn't Peter. Deep, a little gruff but well spoken, no real accent but a little touch of the long and throaty vowels from the west coast. Hawk turned his head, and it hurt, terribly, not to mention vile vertigo that made him gag into this throat before he could swallow it back. "I came out here expecting a mess. Not this kind of mess. I expected the same mess the first time I was helping that fox. Well, almost the same. Wolf, tied to a chair. Needle on the ground. Urine and vomit all over the place. Except-" A gloved hand grabbed Hawk's chin and introduced the wolf to the speaker. A black-skinned canine thing with no fur, only stubble on his snout and actual black chest hair on his chest. No shirt; a sam browne belt, a gun-holstered duty belt, some kind of leather pants, tall boots that looked as officious and practical as they did authoritative. What the hell? "You were still breathing. Well, you stopped a few times, but that was easy to fix. Boy, you're a sick freak, you know that?" The gloved hand pulled Hawk's head over, to where the strange thing was holding a paramedic's breathing bag. Hawk felt embarrassed for the first time in... well, a short while at least.
"So I'm not dead?"
"Nope. I don't know what the hell he hit you with, but my guess is some kind of opiate from the vomiting." The furless wolf thing set the breathing bag down and picked up a towel. "Sorry about your chest. I got out a de-fib just in case."
Hawk looked down again, tighter, and found that his chest was shaved gray. "Why the fuck didn't you untie me from this fucking chair?" He looked back up and grew instantly dizzy, then nauseous.
"At least I didn't shock you. You'd probably like it. I did a little research. I've been milling around for a few hours. I wasn't sure if you were asleep or unconscious. You know, really unconscious." The unusual black creature just leaned on the arm of the nearby sofa. "Everyone around this fucking town knows everyone else, at least when it comes to filthy shit. Sounds like some angry cougar tied you up, knocked you out with some valium and demerol, just like at the dentist. That was oh, a couple of years ago. Am I right?"
Hawk hunted around in his head. At first, he had no idea what situation _that_ had been, but he forced the pieces together until they pulled the rest back. The basement, a dungeon, an elaborate dungeon, a jackal who dyed his fur black and got hard over anaesthesia, a couple German canine things, a pile of tigers in insane rubber full-enclosure gear, haunted-house tricks, a hanging, being strapped to a chair and knocked out, waking up in a nice warm bath from that jackal. "Yeah. You're right." Hawk looked down again. "Why didn't you fucking take _that_ out?"
"I oughta tell you my name. Laryan. That's all of it you need to know. You're what, Harry, right? Hank? Harry? Harold?"
"Hawk."
"Oh, so it's one of those things," Laryan said, but didn't go further with an explanation. "Well, Hawk, I was hired to deal with your cold body. Since you're not a cold body, well, technically I don't have to deal with you. Since I don't really fancy the idea of making enemies, I'm still standing here. You want that out?"
"Yes, please," Hawk said, licking his lips. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Vomit-soaked cotton. "So what, are you my anti-angel? You kept me from dying, except you're not white, no wings, you're kind of a jerk.."
"It comes with the color. I'm a Shenaus. You know, from the arcologies down in Arizona. Long story. Not very important." Laryan reached down and gently touched at the sounding rod. "I took some blood. I'm going to see if I can run a toxicology report on you. Don't worry, I'm not a cop anymore. I just have friends. Like I said, everyone knows everyone."
Hawk ignored what Laryan said, because the sound was still up in through his prostate. The sensation was somewhere between pleasure and contact with God, the kind of contact with God where one hears the true voice of God and is instantly immolated. He whimpered and gagged on something in his throat and squirmed and fought against he chair as Laryan drew it out. It forced an orgasm, but only a little trickle of seed came out of his cock.
Laryan inspected the rod. "Well, no blood. That's good. I have no idea if he cleaned that or not. You're going to want to go buy a few bottles of cranberry juice and guzzle them. The real stuff, the nasty stuff that tastes like vinegar and pennies."
"I'd like to get out of this fucking chair now. I'm sick of this chair. I'm sick of this room, it's making me sick, I'm gonna throw up again!"
Without answering, Laryan spent a few minutes carefully untying the wolf, then stepped back. Hawk got up, made it about three feet, veered to the left and fell onto the sofa. He felt profoundly drunk, just like he had before being penetrated by that vile fox's hypodermic needle.
Laryan started packing his things up. "You get to clean up your own mess. I cleaned up you. I have other things I need to do now." With that, he was gone, leaving Hawk to deal with his own bodily fluids and the disgusting feeling of having been used, penetrated, and nearly killed.