Fyfe's Curse
Hello everybody. This is my first try at writing something yiffy. I know it's not particularly original and the setting is a bit cheesy and the plot is a bit thin, but I had the idea bouncing around and it wouldn't go away, so please accept this offering in the spirit intended: Not too serious, fairly camp and porn for more-or-less its own sake. I hope you enjoy it, glaring flaws be damned. Cheers.
Oh yeah, and if you're under 18 and about to look at porn, make sure your computer is facing away from the door. People tend to barge in at the worst times. Can I get away with saying that?
Edit: Er, had a bit of a hiccup with the upload. It blanked on me for a bit, tried uploading it a different way. Hope this works.
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Life isn't easy for a mercenary at the best of times. A lot of people are lured into the business with romantic ideas of a band of merry Robin Hoods, confronting injustice by day and quaffing and carousing by night. The fact that the industry is populated mostly by young, fit males only adds incentive for some. The reality, though, is a lot harsher. One has to endure long periods of inactivity in cramped quarters with no idea of where the next meal is coming from, and any decent-paying work, quite apart from being invariably morally dubious, always goes hand-in-hand with near-certain death.
It was no different the mercenaries of the Snapdragon Hill company. Their headquarters was an aging fort on a forested slope covered with knapweed (which was odd, given the hill's name). While it certainly looked picturesque enough, the place was slowly crumbling to the ground. The meager assortment of warriors, mages, alchemists and others was too small to push for any big contracts, and the company was stuck in a rut.
Things especially weren't easy for Fyfe. A red fox with a slight figure and a charming personality, Fyfe specialized in subterfuge and reconnaissance, particularly those tasks in which diplomacy was required. Now, given certain preconceptions about foxes, one's mind might jump to certain conclusions about how he conducted his 'diplomacy', but one would be entirely wrong. Fyfe had been known to use his species' reputation to put his marks at a disadvantage, but had never done anything to uphold it. Blackmail, bribery, flattery and manipulation were all weapons in his arsenal, but he did have his pride.
Unfortunately, that pride was becoming harder and harder to sustain. His last mission came with some unforeseen consequences in the form of an unusual and oddly specific curse, courtesy of a magician who had also jumped to certain conclusions based on species. His bitterness at being proved wrong had inspired him to take revenge on Fyfe with an enchantment tailor-made to its victim. Thus far, he had managed to keep his condition a secret from the rest of the company, but it was only a matter of time.
Although the curse was always on his mind, he pushed it to the back of his head as he stood outside the captain's office. The captain was quite literally an old warhorse. An alcoholic, foul-mouthed old sot who was a veteran of at least three wars. Fyfe rapped on the door. "Yeah" came the gruff reply which served as an invitation to enter. The captain was, as usual, drinking from a bottle containing a mysterious liquid that had the colour of whiskey but the smell of widowhood and lost hope. As the small fox entered the room, he saw that Viol was already present, standing stiffly to attention.
Viol, crack marksman and wilderness survival expert, was a tall, lean painted dog who was never seen without his trademark red scarf, the only thing he usually wore above the waist. His fur was a dusty blonde with rich chocolate and caramel patches. He was an arrogant fur, proud, haughty and aloof. "That should be it, then. Off you go," the captain said to him. Viol cleared his throat. "Permission to speak, sir"? "Viol, we're not the bollocking army. If you've got something to say, say it," said the captain, taking a slug from his bottle. "It's just that I'm not sure how I feel about...non-combat personnel," and he pronounced this phrase with extreme distaste, taking a sidelong look at Fyfe. "being included in this force. I'm sure Fyfe is very useful, but..." "'Non-combat personnel'?" the old horse repeated, mockingly. "I wish you'd trade in your five-gold-piece words for some real money, then we could fix this place up. Maybe hire some more 'non-combat personnel' just to annoy you. Now piss off". With freezing dignity, Viol bowed his head and left the room.
"Now", said the aging horse, turning to Fyfe, "what can I do for you"? "Actually, you asked to see me". The captain gave a liver-felt groan. "Urgh...did I say why"? Fyfe shrugged. "Perhaps something to do with my last job"? "Oh yeah..." the horse rummaged through the beer-stained papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for. "The Duchess wishes to thank you, blah blah blah, services to the region, boring boring, ousting traitorous mage, we know that, position - ah, here! 'Wishes to offer a position as personal attendant, duties include valet s-'" "I'm sorry", Fyfe interrupted, "I can't accept that offer. It goes against my rule: Contracts only, no long-term employment". He grinned. "Besides, valet services? Pressing clothes and fetching wine? Hardly fitting work for a charming rogue like me". "Hah! I knew you wouldn't go, Fyfe", said the captain, returning the smile. "You belong here, whatever fuck-face says. Bugger off now, I've got work to do".
It was a somewhat pointless meeting, Fyfe reflected as he left the room, but they usually were. To the captain, administration was something that happened in between bottles. He was surprised to see Viol still standing in the corridor outside. "So," said the tall hound, not giving the fox a chance to react. "Personal attendant to Her Grace, is it? What services did you provide to be offered such an exalted position, I wonder"? "Eavesdropping, Viol? Hardly worthy of a respectable 'combat-oriented military resource' like you," countered the fox, parodying the other fur's officious tone. "You're a fine one to talk!" snarled the dog with rising bile. "I know exactly your game. You slip through life with a pretty face and free favours, while the rest of us toil and struggle". "What do you mean?" said Fyfe, knowing exactly what Viol meant.
"Don't play innocent! Admit it, you get a free ride up the ladder in exchange for a free ride up the..."! "Excuse me!" Fyfe interrupted. "This is slander. I always perform my duties with complete professionalism. Besides, even if I whored myself out like a tuppenny tart, I could never hope to have a stick so far up my butt as you have". The fox was pleased to see Viol's eyes widen in indignation. He smiled slyly. Just one more jibe should assure his victory in this little verbal duel... "You're not the first man in this company to try and entice me. 'Pretty face'? Not the best line I've ever heard. I'm sorry, but I don't mix my job with my pleasure". It wasn't his most subtle effort, but his adversary was already so incensed that it didn't need to be. "How dare you..." Viol was nearly trembling with rage at this affront. Unable to form a coherent reply, he spun around and marched away, growling softly to himself.
As he left, Fyfe noticed the muscles on his back rippling underneath the patched fur. Almost against his will, his eyes drifted downward and took in the form of that shapely backside, with its tail swishing haughtily to and fro. He snapped back to himself with a rising sense of dread. They weren't his normal thoughts. Thoughts like that were a warning; they meant the curse was beginning to take hold and he didn't have much time...fortunately, his quarters weren't far. With slightly more haste than looked natural, the fox hurried away.
Upon reaching the dormitories, he was dismayed to see Taskill, burly but mild-mannered tiger specializing in heavy weapons and armour, blocking the way to his room. "Oh, uh...you'll be wanting to get into your bedroom, then?" he said, seeing the fox approach. Fyfe said nothing, and Taskill continued. "I...have to keep you out. Sorry..." "Why!?" was the only thing the desperate fur could think of saying. "Well...you know Luther has been experimenting with enchanting intelligence into inanimate objects? He...kind of got it to work, but the inanimate objects weren't too happy about it". A sudden series of loud bangs and shouts emanated from Fyfe's bedroom, and the tiger gave him an apologetic look, although a growing part of the fox's brain tried to interpret it as a provocative, come-hither expression.
Desperately, feeling his sanity and self-control desert him, he dashed away again. His only choice now was to make it into the woods outside the fort. Not as private as he would like, but what else was there? Anywhere inside the castle had the risk of discovery, and sound carried all too well. He swallowed down his panic; he still had enough time. He'd find a quiet little spot where the only things to observe him would be the spiders in the trees, and he could allow the sorcery to run its course... He was at the main entrance to the castle...good. He'd be in the woods in no time, and no-one would be any the wiser about his predicament...
Throwing open the woodworm-infested door bolstered with rusty iron, he was faced a bespectacled jackal brandishing a sealed letter. "Important message for your leader." declared the fur. "R-right...you go up the stairs, turn left..." Fyfe began, dreading the inevitable interruption. "Don't be stupid, boy, you take it to him. I'm a messenger, I can't waste time giving people letters in person. I have to travel another 30 miles before sundown". He ignored the faltering protests while he remounted his steed and galloped away.
He could just drop the letter...let the wind carry it away. It was stamped 'urgent', but what were the odds of it being a matter of life and death? Actually...pretty high, given the circumstances. And could he let some horny magician dozens of miles away control his life? No, that would be giving a victory away. If he met someone else on the way, he could give the letter to them and carry on, but no matter what, he wouldn't let himself be a slave to this curse...even if the strain drove him mad.
Of course, he met no-one on his way back to the captain. Rapping anxiously on the door, he received the usual invitation and entered. "Huh? Oh, Fyfe, I got a letter from the Duchess somewhere..." "N-no, captain, you told me that earlier...I've got a letter for you, this time". "More bloody papers...alright, hand it over". Fyfe did as he was asked, and the captain began to read. Fyfe went to leave, but the captain stopped him. "Hold it a minute, this might interest you...how do you feel about going on a three-man job?" The innocent phrase had Fyfe's mind instantly constructing dozens of unbidden fantasies. "Can we...can we discuss that later"? "But you're here now." The captain looked at him with the bleary gaze of the never-sober. "And it's urgent, you'd leave tomorrow". The fox hesitated. It was becoming harder and harder to focus, and the increasingly frequent slips his mind took into depravity were beginning to make him hard. Fyfe tried to cross his legs to hide his arousal, but couldn't stop himself from squirming slightly. "Heh...alright, we'll finish this later. When a guy's gotta go, right?" said the captain with a smirk, fortunately misinterpreting the fox's body language.
Fyfe managed to smile as he left, but didn't trust his voice any more. He could feel his legs going weak and he didn't know if he could make it in time now. He sprinted back in the direction of the entrance with what little speed he could muster. He was in such a rush that he collided with Viol again. Having his snout suddenly pressed up against the lean, toned chest with its masculine scents almost made the fox lose control. "Watch it!" said the canid, irritably. "S'rry..." was all Fyfe could mumble, although it almost came out as a moan. Viol watched him suspiciously as he scampered away.
Fyfe's mind was disintegrating , but he managed to cling on to the desire to make it into the forest. Even the light brushing of his linens as he moved created tormenting sensations. It was so tempting to just let go right in front of the castle; break down and give in to pleasure regardless of who saw. He fought it, even though he knew he wouldn't win in the end. All too slowly, he closed the distance between himself and the edge of the forest. Stumbling on a tree root, he instinctively began to raise his tail but regained his footing and carried on.
Barely into the woods and only just out of sight of the castle, he just couldn't hold on any more. Losing all strength, his knees buckled and he sprawled on the soft, fragrant grass. Instantly, his paw was at his crotch, rubbing himself through his fine linens. He whined, half out of despair and half out of pleasurable frustration. He had not the wit left to try and remove his clothing, instead only rubbing with more desperation until he had clawed them into tattered fragments, his pinkish-red erection exposed to the elements.
He worked up and down his modest shaft as the last of his will deserted him and he was left only with the instinctive desire to cum, as soon as possible and by any means necessary. He didn't have the self-control to even try to stifle his loud groans. His arm was moving in such a frenzy that he began to pant heavily, and he bucked his hips in rhythm with his strokes. The small vulpine knot began to swell, getting ready for release...Fyfe's eyes closed and he bit his lip as the pressure built.
Suddenly he was being hauled upright by strong, unseen hands. They took his arms and pulled them away from his precum-slicked cock so that he could no longer reach to pleasure himself. His hands were brought together an arm's length above his head and were held there firmly. Someone's breath gently tickled the fur on the back of his head. "Well well," said a smug voice just by his ear. "Performing our duties with complete professionalism, are we"? Fyfe's mind was completely lost, his only reaction was to whimper and strain ineffectually against the strong grip, not caring to recognize the sarcastic tone. "You seem quite desperate for someone who doesn't mix pleasure with their job", it continued.
Viol grinned. On a whim, he had decided to follow the fox and find out where he was off to in such a rush. What he discovered filled him with shock at first, but that soon gave way to glee. His earlier argument with the fox had been vindicated. As he held Fyfe captive, he felt a certain sense of power; the hated fox was desperate for something and he was forcefully withholding it. The more Fyfe struggled, the greater the pleasure Viol took in the situation, knowing that the smaller fur could never overpower him. All the same, something was odd... He spun the fox around by his wrists. It was plain to see that his will was gone; his unfocused eyes had a slightly glazed look and his tongue lolled out carelessly. Viol didn't know much about magic, but Fyfe didn't normally have a slight pink glow around his eyes, did he?
He was concentrating on these thoughts, so it took him a moment to notice that Fyfe was trying, without much success, to grind up against his leg. "You really have lost it, haven't you?" the canid asked, knowing that Fyfe was beyond speech. The proper thing to do would be to restrain him somehow, and take him to see Luther or perhaps Sofia, the alchemist. Viol hesitated, looking down at the small, slender figure in front of him...
Fyfe was panting hot, shallow breaths, hitting a spot on the dog's chest with their warmth. In spite of himself, Viol felt a stirring in his own loins. Suddenly he found his head full of decidedly unprofessional ideas. Perhaps it was the slightly girlish look of the fox, or the scent of his extreme arousal, or the sense of power that he gave Viol, but somehow doing the 'proper thing' didn't seem such an attractive idea any more. The eternal soldier in the dog decided to go on leave for a while.
A malicious smile slowly spread across Viol's face. In a way, this was perfect. He could get revenge for his earlier humiliation, countering verbal domination with physical domination, as well as turning the fox into the very thing he professed not to be...with a little fun for himself thrown into the bargain. All this time he had kept the fox's slender wrists in the grip of one long-fingered hand, leaving Fyfe to hump the air helplessly while his raging erection throbbed, occasionally sending small drops of precum into the air. That left Viol a free hand... He ran the tip of a finger along the underside of the twitching cock, making the helpless fox whine and struggle, desperate to reach down and release himself. The electric sensations that Fyfe felt were the only thing he was capable of comprehending, and he instantly wanted more, burying his snout in Viol's chest-fur.
The painted dog nearly laughed out loud with the sense of control this gave him. He alone had the power to grant or deny the one thing his victim cared about. He teased him a little more, running one or two fingers at a time up and down the pink member, stopping to gently squeeze the small knot or fondle the swollen balls. Fyfe moaned and instinctively started lapping at his captor's chest. Viol switched between the light, teasing touches and firmer strokes, using the fox's pre to make things smooth, never quite giving enough to bring his victim to the brink.
Before long, Fyfe was ready to explode. He threw his head back, gasping at the overwhelming sensations. Viol chuckled, and pinched hard at the base of Fyfe's shaft, bringing the pleasure to a sudden stop and making sure that any climax was stopped before it could start. The heartfelt moan of frustration, pleasure and anguish made the canine's tail wag with delight, and he laughed again. "No finishing yet, foxy" he taunted. "I haven't even started". With snakelike speed and sinewy strength, he forced the smaller fur to his knees, making sure to keep his hold on the arms. He knelt behind the fox, allowing his body to rub alongside the smaller one. The heat coming from it was astounding, and it warmed Viol's body like a fire.
Viol reached out with his free hand and grabbed a handful of nearby knapweed, allowing the sap to drip on to his own cock, now just as hard as the sex-crazed fox's. He pushed against Fyfe's tight hole, and the fox gave a delighted little squeal. Although the fit was extremely tight, the sap allowed Viol inside without a great deal of resistance, and he soon had his knot nearly up to the stretched flesh. He took a moment to reflect that, unless Fyfe was a magnificent bluffer, this might well be the first time someone had been inside him...it was certainly tight enough to be true. "Heh...I'll make your first one a good one, pretty boy". The 'pretty boy' was already grinding the dog cock as much as Viol's grip would allow.
He put his fingers up to the fox's mouth, who suckled on them greedily, and started slowly moving his member in and out. Fyfe grunted and grasped around his captor's elegant digits, enjoying the lingering taste of his own precum. He pushed his hips back when Viol thrust forward, hoping that the cock would find the right spot. It did, but only fleetingly; Fyfe could never quite get the pleasure he needed for release, although the sensations around his ring kept him murring. Viol's own pleasure only built and built, and he began to quicken his pace. He moved his hand to tease around the fox's nipples while nipping at his ears, driving him to frenzy.
Now taking one of Fyfe's wrists in each hand, he pushed the fox so that he was no longer kneeling upright and used his arms as leverage as he thrust in and out. Fyfe began to moan with each push, so close but never quite at the climax. Viol cursed under his breath...this fox was too tight, he couldn't keep this up for very long. He did not knot the fox, hoping that this would make him last longer and unsure if the virgin tailhole could take it. If Fyfe's mind could be lost any further, it was. As he was fucked roughly, kept perpetually on the wrong side of the edge of orgasm, he could do nothing but be lost in sensation.
Even Viol was beginning to lose it. His thrusts began to lose a little regularity and he tried to focus on holding back as long as he could. Once or twice, the increasingly wild sex brought Fyfe tantalizingly close to the release he craved, and if Viol had not been so determined to punish the poor fox by denying him release, he would have come. Unable to hold back any longer, Viol exploded into the fox, who was too tortured with pleasure to even notice. At last, Fyfe's arms were released, and he quickly brought himself over the edge, pent-up seed spraying over the grass and his chest even as Viol pulled out and began to clean himself off. Exhausted, Fyfe collapsed again, heedless of the cum-soaked ground, while a little of Viol's seed spilled from him.
With an evil glance back at the fox, reduced from his confident pride to a panting mess of sweat and cum, Viol caught his breath disappeared into the forest. It took several minutes for Fyfe to come to again, and several more for him to realize what had happened. If anyone caught him trying to sneak back to the castle like this...it would need some seriously smooth talking.
Away in his office, the mercenary captain tried, not altogether successfully, to focus on the mess of paper in front of him. Huh...the Duchess wanted to give Fyfe a job? No, he'd never go. He wasn't the type to fetch napkins and fold wine...all the same, he'd have to speak to him about it, just as a formality. He tried to take another swig from his bottle, but he had emptied it long ago.
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Disclaimer: Do not use knapweed sap as lube in real life. A mild burning sensation and/or unpleasant itching may result. Viol can do it because of reasons.