FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

A rather tall and fit fox entered the house, closed the door behind him, and headed for the living room. His black shirt was unbuttoned to the fifth button, revealing the middle of his snow-white chest with noticeable muscle definition. His black pants were perfectly ironed, the buckle of his expensive leather belt was so shiny you could see your reflection in it, and his fluffy red tail with a white tip was combed and gleaming with cleanliness. All this, along with the unopened bottle of wine in the fox's paw, clearly indicated that some special event awaited him.

"I'm home!" the red male exclaimed happily, expecting to be greeted.

"Finally!" came a low voice from the kitchen. "I thought you weren't coming back!"

A bull came out to meet the fox, a huge male covered with short brown fur, barely fitting through the doorway leading to the kitchen. A festive white shirt and gray pants hugged the male's developed muscles, threatening to tear at any careless movement, and over his formal attire, the bull wore a white chef's apron to protect the expensive fabric from accidental splashes. Fox inhaled deeply with his sensitive nose and broke into a satisfied smile, the kitchen smelled of spices, roasting meat, and, it seemed, boiled potatoes.

"Not coming back?" the red male grinned, approached his partner, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on the lips. "And leave you alone on your last evening?"

Breaking off the brief kiss, the fox immediately went to the table, placed a dark bottle on it, and sat down on a chair next to it.

"Sorry," the male continued, "It wasn't easy to get it. The most expensive bottle of wine in this city for the man I love most in this world. If you were worried, you could've call me."

The bull went back to the kitchen as soon as he heard the last words, and returned a couple of minutes later with two dishes in his hands, one with baked poultry, the other with salad.

"Call," the bull grunted, "I keep forgetting what year we're living in. Phones, the internet, social media, and still…"

"...we have to kill a bull in the middle of town to have fun?" the fox caught his partner's train of thought. "What's wrong? Having second thoughts?"

"No, no," the smile on the huge bull's face grew even wider. "Not at all. Tomorrow we'll go out into the arena and it will be the best show in the history of bullfights."

"I'm sure it will be," the fox got up from his chair, touched the bull's chest, and stood on his toes again to give him another kiss. "Let me help you."

In half an hour, the living room was transformed beyond recognition. There was so much food and snacks on the table that the two males could hardly have finished it all in a whole day. In the middle of the table were lit candles, the lights were turned off, expensive wine was poured into two glasses, and the males sat opposite each other.

"So..." the fox began the conversation, tearing piece after piece of meat from a baked chicken leg with his predatory teeth, "...have you thought about how you want to die? Quickly or slowly? Do you want to be dragged around the arena afterwards?"

"Why?" smiled the bull, not putting anything on his plate and just watching his partner eat greedily. "It will turn out the way it turns out anyway. You don't think I'm going to give in and just let myself be killed easily, do you?"

"Oh no," drawled the fox, "I hope you won't. It would be disappointing, and this is the main fight of the year, we can't ruin it. The best matador and the strongest bull can't play games."

Arrogant red bastard. It was precisely because of this self-confidence and bragging that the bull had once fallen in love with his partner, and even now he couldn't help but be touched every time the fox began to dream about upcoming fights, even if it was a fight with him.

"Didn't you think I could kill you too?" the bull snorted, not trying to threaten, but rather to further inflame the red male's mood.

"No wa-a-ay," the fox rolled his eyes playfully, "Don't even hope for it. I have two dozen dead bulls behind me. And even though you're the most delightful of them all, you don't stand a chance."

"Where will you find another one as delightful as me?"

The fox's smirk disappeared for a moment, something sharp stung inside. Ever since they met at one of the training sessions and fell in love at first sight, they both knew this moment would come. The strangest office romance could not end any other way, one of them had to die, and the other had to live on and try to find a new relationship or grieve alone. The fox was rather glad that fate had brought them together in the arena and that it was he, and not some other toreador, who would have to pierce the heart of his beloved, but thoughts of what would happen next periodically assailed him, and no matter how hard he tried to chase them away, he knew he would never find anyone else as beautiful, strong, caring, and cheerful.

"So," the fox smiled smugly again after a second's pause, "Why aren't you eating? Dinner is delicious, as always, and you'll regret it if you let it get cold."

"Well..." the bull grunted playfully, as if embarrassed, "We have a special evening today, and I've prepared... not just dinner..."

"You should have started with that, the chicken could have waited!"

The fox took another sip of wine, then grabbed a napkin, wiped his face, and got up from his chair. At the same time, the bull stood up to his full height, carelessly bumping the tabletop with his knee, and moved toward his beloved. When the two were so close that they could feel each other's breath, the bull knelt down, which allowed the fox to be at the same level as him. Without hesitation, the two immediately merged in a kiss, the cheeky fox's tongue immediately entering the bull's mouth, touching the bull's fleshy tongue, the fox's hands wrapping around the large horned head, and the massive hands of the hoofed male grabbing the red male by the waist.

"How could I leave my matador hungry?" The hoofed animal switched to something more like a purr than a moo when the fox finally broke the kiss. "My male must be well-fed and satisfied."

The bull leaned down even lower, licked the fox's neck, then ran his tongue between the chest muscles visible under the shirt and began to deftly unbutton it one by one with his thick fingers. In response, the fox proudly thrust his chest forward and placed his hand on his partner's head like a master, beginning to scratch him between the horns. Meanwhile, the red male's face showed tenderness—even now, on his last evening, his horned partner sought to give pleasure rather than receive it. How damn much he would miss this!

Having dealt with the shirt, the bull ran his tongue over the fox' muscular chest, covered with white fur, leaving a wide, slobbery trail, while at the same time undoing the buckle of the belt and the button of the pants. Then, as soon as the fox's cock, already full with blood, sprang out like a spring, he licked it from base to tip and took it whole into his mouth.

The two males were a very strange couple. Friends laughed at them, and acquaintances did not always believe that a fox could dominate a bull twice his size, but now a mass of muscles capable of tearing its partner in half, piercing him through with his horns, or trampling him with his hooves, obediently sucked that cock. Bull saliva dripped onto the floor, and smacking sounds echoed throughout the hall, as testament of voluntary submission. The bull would take the whole shaft into his mouth, easily sucking in his balls along with it, then pull away to tease the very tip of the dick with his fleshy tongue. Over the long course of their relationship, the hoofed animal had learned every point to press and every movement to make to give his partner pleasure. Along with this, the bull had learned all the sighs and growls and knew that he had almost brought the fox to orgasm.

"Cum on my face." said the bull. Despite his rough, deep voice, the phrase sounded like a request or even a plea.

"Whatever you want. It's your day." grinned the fox.

When the bull moved away a little, the red male took his cock in his paw and began to pump it with all his might, using the abundant saliva as lubricant and bringing himself to the limit. After a few seconds, the first burst of semen shot out of the tip of his penis, and, resisting the urge to close his eyes in pleasure, the fox, as if aiming, began to paint as much of the satisfied horned muzzle as possible with white.

Ready for this, the bull did not move away, but instead positioned his muzzle at the right angles to help the fox with his task, only flinching and closing his eyes when one of the spurts hit his right eyebrow. Some of the white mass stuck to his cheek, a little got into his nose, a few sticky drops fell from his chin, and the bull licked the rest from his lips and immediately swallowed it, clearly enjoying the taste.

"You've stained your shirt." the fox grinned, nodding at the semen dripping from the chin.

"I won't need it anymore.” the bull smiled back, "You can stain something else, my killer, or even tear it if you want. Just don't damage the hide, I have to look good tomorrow.”

"You always look good." the red male scratched his boyfriend between the horns again, "Even with a couple of cuts and bites. But so be it, I'm willing to keep my teeth to myself if you're willing to offer something in return.”

The bull had no intention of continuing foreplay. Without getting up from his knees, he began to turn his back to his boyfriend, like an obedient puppy on his master's command. The clumsy mountain of muscle caught the table with his horn, dishes clattered, and the fox almost instinctively grabbed the wine bottle before it had time to fall, took a couple of gulps, carefully placed the drink on the floor at a safe distance, and, without rushing, got rid of the rest of his clothes.

The horned male, who had not taken off his pants or shirt the entire time, got down on all fours, spreading his legs wide so that his ass was at the perfect height for the fox. His fully erect penis demanded attention and pressed painfully against the fabric of his pants, but the bull did not allow himself to even touch his own erection — his partner had to get pleasure first.

Standing on all fours with his muzzle smeared with semen, the bull waited patiently and did not even look at the fox, his matador could do whatever he wanted with him, and he would wait for it as long as necessary. Almost a minute passed without anything happening, and then the horned male finally felt a cold blade on his back. A slight tremor ran through his whole body, not from fear, but from anticipation. Carefully wielding the knife, the fox slowly cut off the remains of the bull's clothing, deliberately touching skin with the sharp steel from time to time to tease his lover. Each new touch caused a feeling of excitement inside the bull - tomorrow, his partner would have a bigger blade in his paw, and he would not be so gentle.

After cutting off the shirt and exposing the muscular back, the fox did the same with the pants, carefully avoiding the base of the thick tail, whose tip swayed slowly from side to side. Then, having finished cutting open the gift wrapping, the red male put the knife aside, took off the rest of his clothes, knelt down, and positioned himself directly behind the bull.

"Tell me when you're ready," the fox said gently.

"I'm all..."

Without letting the bull finish, the red male abruptly inserted his dick to the hilt, causing the bull to let out a long, low moan. The fox's shaft was not huge, especially compared to the bull, whose powerful shaft now hung between his muscular legs. The difference in size didn't work in their favor either, the red male could enter his partner with almost no lube. But despite this, the tip of his dick reached the right spot inside the bull, and the fox himself always moved so sharply and forcefully, literally hammering his penis inside the bull and making him moan with pleasure.

The fox did not wait long, immediately beginning to rock his hips back and forth, the bull did not need time to get used to it, and the fox himself did not want to wait. The room was immediately filled with the sound of the fox's hips slapping against the bull's rear, occasionally accompanied by even louder slaps of the fox's paw against his partner's muscular ass. As if this demonstration of dominance wasn't enough, the fox grabbed the tail swinging from side to side, using it as a lever to ram the bull's prostate even harder.

They didn't need any special poses or pretty words; the fox simply used the bull roughly for his own pleasure, and the horned beast liked it. After just a few minutes of monotonous friction, the fox began to pant for the second time, growling slightly, and soon the bull felt the shots of warm semen inside him.

Exhausted from the short but intense race, the fox lay on top of the bull, which made their size difference even more obvious, the fox's muzzle barely reached the huge beast's shoulder blades. The bull just smiled, easily supporting the weight on his back, and waited patiently and silently until the fox finally pulled the cock out of his ass and got to his feet.

Without waiting for requests or orders, the bull quickly turned around, once again bumping into some furniture, he didn't even notice what it was, knelt down, and took the fox's cock into his mouth, licking the remains of semen with his fleshy tongue.

The bull was on his knees, the fur on his muzzle matted with dried semen, a new portion of semen dripping from his anus and onto the floor, the cock that had just been in his ass in his mouth, and he couldn't have been happier than he was at that moment.

"Do you want me to help you with that?" The fox lifted one paw and touched the bull's cock with it.

"Ah..." The bull looked away from the fox's cock and looked down, as if just remembering that he had his own. "Right. No, don't, I'll do it myself, just a second."

The bull's erection, comparable in size to the fox's foot resting on it, had been trembling with impatience for a long time, pre-cum dripping from the tip and collecting in a small puddle on the floor, but only now did the bull remember his own needs. Taking the fox's penis in his mouth again and grasping his own with his palm, the horned male began to work his hand furiously. With each movement of his palm, the bull tried to suck the penis even harder. At some point, the fox began to feel a slight pain from such treatment of his flesh, which was sensitive from a recent orgasm, but the red male did not show it, allowing his partner to finish.

The word "second" used by the bull turned out to be not such an understatement, it took less than a minute for the hoofed male to bring himself to the limit. There were no moans or sighs, the bull's face didn't even change when sperm began to shoot out of his penis. The hoofed beast looked as if he didn't need his own orgasm, he had simply satisfied some basic need and now wanted to return to something more interesting.

"Want to continue?" the bull asked, freeing his mouth and looking up at the fox's face.

They continued. An attempt to wash off the dried semen in the shower ended up with the two of them getting even more dirty. Deciding to move to the bedroom, the males realized they couldn't wait and lingered in the hallway for an hour longer than necessary. Then the neighbors listened to the creaking of the bed for another couple of hours until the bull and the fox finally exhausted themselves and fell asleep in each other's arms.

The next day, the two males couldn't even see each other properly, each was busy with his own preparations, and only in the evening were they finally able to meet. Standing on opposite sides of the arena.

The sun had not yet set below the horizon, filling the arena with bright orange light. The metallic smell of fresh blood hung in the air - the previous victim had just been dragged around the arena, pierced with small spears and his heart pierced. The arena itself was a combination of ancient and modern: stone walls and corridors under the arena, rows of seats for admiring spectators, a box for the mayor of the city, who was traditionally the organizer of the fights - all this was combined with modern cameras, some of which were aimed at the spectators to capture their joyful faces, several drones occasionally flying over the combatants to capture particularly memorable moments up close, and somewhere deep within the ancient walls of the arena was hidden a booth of commentators, covering the events for a live broadcast.

The naked bull calmly entered the arena instead of rushing into battle as soon as the gates opened. He did not try to play to the camera or the crowd around him, but there was something about his calmness and confidence that immediately thrilled the audience. His back was straight, his muscular chest was protruding forward and heaving with every movement, his wide shoulders, his clearly visible abs even on his relaxed belly, his perfectly clean brown coat, and his long, thick dick, firm as if in anticipation of love rather than battle - the male was undoubtedly the most impressive representative of his species that evening. One of the drones flew twice around the huge male at a respectful distance, showing off the new victim in all its glory, and then flew to the opposite side, to the matador and his team.

At the head, directly opposite the bull, stood a fox, the matador. His traditional costume, red pants lavishly decorated with gold and a jacket of the same color over a white shirt, went perfectly with his red fur. A red cape fluttered on the fox's back, a sharp sword glinted in his hand, and a smug smile shone on his muzzle, revealing his predatory fangs.

The two males, who just yesterday had lived together in love, care, and tenderness, stood facing each other, confident and ready to fight no matter what. And while the two main characters were in no hurry to take action, three other participants in the show - the banderilleros, the fox's assistants - began to circle the bull. The wolf, raccoon, and otter, dressed in slightly less provocative outfits, kept a respectful distance from the huge beast and held small spears, more like needles, decorated with red and yellow ribbons. The purpose of these spears was not to kill, but rather to anger the bull by sticking into the skin, while the bullfighters themselves had to wear the bull down so that the matador could later deliver the final blow to the heart.

The wolf attacked first. Coming up behind the bull, the gray male rushed up to the beast, thrusting one of the spears into him, and immediately jumped back, trying to get to a safe distance. The beast roared, more out of anger than pain, and the crowd in the stands screamed when the bloody spectacle finally began.

Turning toward the wolf, the bull received another spear in the back, this time from an otter, which had rushed up from behind just as suddenly. Next was the raccoon's turn, and the bull understood this as well as anyone else. When the beast turned toward the approaching toreador, there were only a couple of steps between them, and although the guy still had time to stop, he continued running. Perhaps it was simple stupidity, perhaps the male wanted to be known as the fearless hero of the evening, or perhaps he wanted to die beautifully in front of the cameras, it's not only bulls who can dream of a beautiful death in the arena, either way, this corrida was his last. Falling sharply to one knee, the bull lowered his head, thrusting his horns toward the approaching raccoon.

The striped male felt two sharp horns pierce his chest. The force of the collision was enough to slam his stomach against the bull's forehead, and the tips of the horns broke out of his back. The raccoon began to twitch like a fish caught on a hook. Reflexively pressing against the bull's forehead, he tried to push himself away, but before he could free himself, he felt his feet leave the ground.

With a nasty crunch of bone against bone, the horns caught on the raccoon's ribs, and the bull began to slowly rise to his feet. Although each of the bullfighters had undergone serious physical training during hundreds of hours of practice, and the raccoon was far from the weakest representative of his species, the bull still had no trouble lifting his body and standing up to the full height, holding the dying body only with the horns. The spectators roared with delight as they watched the impaled body continue to twitch in an attempt to break free, and fresh blood began to flow down the bull's forehead and the back of the head. Tears appeared on the raccoon's face, hidden in a patch in the shape of a gangster's mask. He tried to scream in pain, but couldn't hear himself, either because of the roar of the crowd or because he couldn't get air into his punctured lungs.

The striped male did not stay in the air for long. With a powerful shake of his head, the bull threw the body off his horns, and it rolled several times across the sand before coming to rest on its back. The raccoon was still alive, two wounds in his chest produced bursting blood-red bubbles with each attempt by the male to breathe, but he had no strength left to even get up. Before sinking into darkness, the raccoon could only look around to see the crowd applauding him for the last time.

The bloody death did not stop the fight. The wolf, the matador's first assistant, continued to look for the right moment to thrust a second spear into the animal's skin, while the otter was visibly confused by the brutal death of his partner.

The bull was not interested in the lost and almost motionless target, but the wolf, the largest of the three banderilleros, darting from side to side, was much more attractive. Turning toward the new target, the bull prepared to take a running start. The wolf, in turn, prepared to meet the monster—the male's muzzle was focused, but there was no trace of fear on it. The two ran at each other almost simultaneously, many spectators jumped up from their seats in anticipation of the blow, the bull crouched slightly to hook his opponent with his horn, but the bullfighter was agile enough to jump aside and stab another spear into the bull's side.

The bull roared again, but the wolf's success was short-lived. Unlike the needles still sticking out of the bull's bloodied back, he was able to pull the spear stuck in his side out without any trouble. When the wolf turned back to the bull, he saw his own weapon flying back at him. It was too late to do anything. The wolf's own weight could not help him, the needle with colored ribbons, thrown with surprising force and accuracy, pierced him through, threw him back, and knocked him to the ground.

The wolf howled in pain, but he didn't have to endure it for long. Rising on his elbows, the gray male saw the beast running at him again, and this time, pinned to the ground, he had no chance to avoid the attack. The wolf put his arm out as if trying to stop the horned monster, but the attempt was doomed to failure.

This time, the bull couldn't use his horns, his target was too low, and instead, the huge male, without slowing down, kicked the wolf in the chin with all his might, like a soccer player kicking a ball. There was a sound that was a mixture of a crack and a crunch as the hoof touched the maw. The wolf's head snapped back 180 degrees, and the male saw his world turned upside down, now the sand was above and the sky below. The skin on his throat could not withstand the tension and tore along with the flesh beneath it, forming a huge bloody wound from which a fountain of blood immediately began to gush. The cervical vertebrae, visible through the huge wound, were shattered into small fragments, thanks to which the male's death was painful but very quick.

According to the rules, each banderillero had to stick two spears into the bull, and although the otter had only completed half of his task, he clearly had no intention of making another attempt. The guy stood still, looking alternately at the bloodied beast and the cooling bodies of his partners, and was visibly shaking. The fox, whose performance was supposed to begin only after his assistants had finished, cursed softly, why go into the arena to kill a bull if you weren't ready to die yourself? Having learned to read the crowd over the years, the matador understood that no one would be interested in watching a beast torment a lifeless doll, so he decided to break with tradition and join the fight earlier.

"My love," the fox's cry was clearly audible even in the distant rows of the audience, "It's time for us to dance!"

What happened next really did look more like a dance than a fight. Leaving the stunned otter alone, the mountain of muscle rushed at the fox, tilting his head slightly to bring his sharp, blood-covered horns forward, but the fox easily dodged the attack, deftly jumping to the side. Several more such lunges also failed to wipe the cheeky grin from the red-haired face.

The fox, as befits all bullfighters, treated his victims with respect, but at the same time sought to entertain the crowd, either deliberately letting the sharp horns fly within millimeters of his shiny jacket, or striking deliberately defenseless poses, teasing the bull. After a while, the matador took off his cape to provoke the bull even more, taking advantage of the fact that the monster's rage and blood loss made it difficult for him to concentrate.

The fight was not easy for the bull. Although not all the banderilleros survived the fight, they still accomplished their task, the spears stuck in the bull's back, swaying from side to side as he ran, made the wounds on the back more serious, causing more and more blood to flow down and drip onto the sand. The bull's muscular chest heaved heavily as the monster tried to catch its breath after every lunge, The image in his eyes blurred slightly, causing him to stagger from side to side, but his eyes still burned with rage, his dick, swaying as he ran, remained hard, and his powerful, stained body was ready to continue fighting.

The last show lasted about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of the bull's absolutely serious attempts to kill his beloved and fifteen minutes of the fox's haughty superiority. The crowd began to calm down, each subsequent taunt from the fox brought them less and less joy, and the matador understood that it was time to end it. The bull looked over at where the mayor, the official organizer of the fight, was sitting. He had the power to spare any bull's life, and now only he could change his fate and save him from death, but there was no sign of mercy. So be it.

The two lovers looked at each other, knowing that these were their last minutes together, but what was happening did not feel like a farewell, there was no sadness in their eyes, only excitement, defiance, and a willingness to go all the way.

This time, the fox did not just wait for the bull to attack, but rushed towards the bull himself, planning to meet him exactly in the middle of the arena. In one hand, the matador held his own cape, in the other, a sharp sword. The fox's task was to plunge the tip into the bull's heart, killing him without unnecessary suffering, and at the same time not to injure himself.

Both males were focused, their bodies tense and strained in a final burst. The bull aimed his horns at the matador's head, who, in turn, threw his cape right in front of the beast's muzzle a moment before the collision, blinding him. The left horn pierced a hole in the fabric, and when the irritating pink rag covered his face, the bull lost his bearings for a second and jerked his head to brush the cape away from his muzzle, but at that very moment he felt a sharp, needle-like sword pierce him between the ribs.

Was this the end? The bull stopped, frozen, listening to his own sensations. Was this it? The moment he's been waiting for so long? The male could only imagine what death felt like and could not understand if this was it. They say that after being struck in the heart, the victim continues to live for a few more seconds. One. Two. Three. The bull looked down in surprise at the hilt of the weapon sticking out of his chest, it was there, so his life was about to end. Four. Five. Six. How is it usually described? It should start to get dark in his eyes, right? Should his head be spinning? Should his heart be pounding loudly in his ears? No, his heart should stop. Something was wrong.

The bull's gaze shifted to the fox standing nearby. For the first time all evening, the insolent smirk disappeared from his face, replaced by genuine surprise. Could it be?

"Missed!" the bull croaked rather than spoke. Now it was his turn to smile triumphantly.

Missed? He couldn't have missed. The movement had been perfected through years of training, but the bull was still standing on his hooves and had no intention of falling.

The muscular body immediately turned toward the matador and, before the surprised red male could even defend himself, grabbed him by the throat with the powerful paw. The surprised bullfighter wanted to say something, but he couldn't think of a sharp reply or utter a single word, the strong hand on his neck reliably cut off his air supply.

The bull looked down again, blood was flowing from the wound, and although he did not die instantly, he could hardly leave the arena on his own hooves. His strength was rapidly leaving him, but for now it was enough to lift the fox so that only its toes touched the ground.

The lack of oxygen forced the fox to fight for his life. He grabbed the muscular forearm with his hands, trying to pull it away from him, then hit the bull's arm, then kicked with his legs, but he couldn't even reach the beast.

"Come with me," the bull said quietly again and immediately coughed. Drops of blood spurted from his mouth and landed on the fox's muzzle.

The matador's hysterical attempts to escape slowed down. He had lost. He knew it would happen one day, he would not die of old age in bed, but at every bullfight, he was sure it would not happen today. But maybe it was really time? Maybe leaving with his beloved would be the best solution? Yes, he had lost, but wasn't it a worthy death, to fall at the hands of the strongest bull of his career, the one he had grown to love so much?

The bull continued to smile, seeing the confusion on the fox's face, and, either to help him calm down or simply to satisfy his own desires, he reached for the matador's crotch with his free paw and began to massage the fox's groin through the fabric of the pants. There was no time to waste, if he planned to finish what he had started, he had to act quickly. His powerful hand began to squeeze and stroke the fox's penis, which, in turn, began to fill with blood, feeling the familiar touch.

The bull's own penis remained hard, but he didn't care. As always, he wanted to give his partner more pleasure than himself. His hand moved faster and faster, massaging and stroking the fox's dick, still not removing the red male's pants.

After a few seconds, the bull's powerful legs gave way, the beast fell to his knees from exhaustion, but still continued to hold the fox's throat with one hand and play with his hidden penis with the other. For a split second, the fox felt his paws firmly on the ground, but then he immediately fell to his knees after the bull, either because he was as weak as the bull, or because he simply did not want to resist what was happening anymore.

A little later, the fox felt as if his tongue had become too big and heavy and stuck it out of his open mouth, still reflexively trying to get at least a little air. Seeing this, the bull leaned closer, pulled the fox's muzzle toward him, and first grabbed the protruding tongue with his lips, then entered the fox's mouth with his own tongue, merging with his partner in a strange last kiss. The fox felt a metallic taste on his tongue, the bull suppressed the urge to cough as best he could, but more and more blood collected in his mouth and entered the fox's mouth.

The fox tried to look around, moving only his eyes. No one was going to interfere. Tradition forbade anyone from interfering in the fight between the bull and his matador, regardless of what was happening in the arena. The crowd fell silent, waiting for the outcome, which made it feel as if there was no one else around except the fox and the bull. It was as if they were back in their bedroom. Alone. Left to themselves.

The fox's gasping sounds began to change over time. If before they had been merely reflexive attempts to get the oxygen he so desperately needed, now the sounds were more like moans. The bull's rough movements, especially through his pants, felt much less pleasant than his mouth or ass, but the suffocation added something unusual to the experience, something he had never felt before, as if intensifying the sensations. He was close, and now all his thoughts were focused solely on his own crotch.

For years, the fox had enjoyed control over a partner twice his size, but now the roles had reversed, only the bull decided what would happen next, and the matador mentally begged to be allowed to cum before his oxygen-deprived mind finally shut down.

The bull, however, wanted to achieve the same goal. It was getting harder and harder to maintain his grip, but he couldn't let go - if the fox got even a little oxygen, it would give him a few more minutes that the bull didn't have. He couldn't give up. He had to squeeze the life out of his lover's body. There was not much left.

The fox's eyes slowly rolled back, he was almost unconscious, but he could still feel what was happening. His hips moved toward the powerful paw to intensify the sensations even a little more, and after a few moments, he finally felt warm semen shooting from the tip of his penis and soaking into his pants.

The red male had never been particularly religious, but at the last moment, in his mind, clouded by lack of oxygen and the pleasant afterglow of a strong orgasm, a thought flashed through his mind - maybe they were about to meet there, on the other side, to continue what they had started?

The bull pulled away slightly, inhaling the familiar smell of fox semen through his wide nostrils and looking into the dead face of his matador. It was all over. Now all that remained was for him to join. The beast felt as if some unknown force that had been helping him hold on for the last few minutes had suddenly abandoned him. His paw on the fox's throat relaxed and hung limply, his muscular body fell forward, his heavy horned head resting on the matador's shoulder, who in turn rested his red forehead on the broad bare chest.

"I love... you..." the bull squeezed out his last words, whispering them into his beloved's ear, and then his eyes, full of love, seemed to go out in an instant.

A few more seconds passed in silence. The crowd seemed to be waiting for one of them to come to their senses, as if it were all just a game. Then someone in the crowd shouted something. On the opposite side of the arena, someone clapped their hands, and within a second, the entire battlefield was filled with deafening applause.

The camera drone flew back to the center to capture unique footage. The two dead bodies continued to kneel, leaning on each other. The bull's face expressed sincere happiness, and even though his dick, which had not received any attention, had already begun to lose its hardness, he still died with the feeling that he had done everything he wanted to do.

The fox's face, pressed against the bull's chest, showed the bitterness of defeat — he had not planned to die today, especially not kneeling with his pants soaked in cooling semen, but meanwhile, traces of his trademark smug grin remained on his face. Everything ended right. Everything was exactly as it should have been.