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**The invitation lay on the bed beside the suitcase like a butterfly at rest, its parchment wings and embossed lettering cast in shadow by the canopy bed. Across the room, Basil Ramley sat and stared at it, both paws folded in his lap. His muzzle puckered slightly, and then relaxed before consternation could set up camp across his face. Three surprises in so many days can stress even the most mellow of fellows.

First had been the summons sent by messenger, handed to the ram well early in the morning of Thursday. Unaccustomed to deliveries by sharply dressed couriers, the ram was further taken aback by the contents, which tempted him to the historic Macellum Manor and day spa with the promise of a free weekend. The second came when he checked in, and the elegant clerk had comped him the Ambassador Suite. The refusal to reveal why such pricey accommodations were gifted to a common ram was both troubling, but intriguing.

So when another invitation arrived, this time to a dressy formal masquerade dinner, Basil's sense of curiosity finally overwhelmed any apprehension about the whole affair. Maybe some fine young son of the owner or manager was using their pull to woo him? Maybe it was a secret contest that he had won through one of his social clubs? Regardless of the reason, Basil decided right there to complete two objectives. Firstly, to enjoy himself at the fancy Victorian spa, which would be easy enough with all the provided services. Secondly to discover why he had been invited, and that seemed as if it would work itself out at the dinner.

Basil's muzzle turned up in a bit of smile with the conclusion of his decision-making. Taking things easy and letting situations resolve themselves happened to be his favorite tactic, especially when it seemed like it would work! With that smile on his lips, the ram picked up the spa menu and took a look at all the options. Some of it seemed a little too fey, even for him, but a good soak and massage would be just fine. Maybe a stop by the farrier to get his hooves and horns trimmed and buffed for maximum shine. His hoof-fingers curled around the phone and lifted the receiver to make a schedule.

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Basil had to admire the mansion. According to the brochure, it was very old but constantly renovated to maintain its decor. The attention to detail and quality showed, even someplace like the locker room in which he changed. Old-fashioned wooden lockers, well polished benches and vintage tile matched the brass sconces well. The service was excellent as well - his name was etched in a wooden tag at a waiting locker, and within rested sandals and a fine terrycloth robe.

Basil could have done without the full length mirrors though. Though they did give him an opportunity to admire the job the farrier had done, and boy did that squirrel know his business! His horns were the shiniest and smoothest he'd even seen or felt, and his hoofs stepped so lightly. After doffing his shirt and sitting down to tug off his pants, the ram had to take a moment to just feel over his lightened and buffed hooves. If the service thus far was any indication, the bath and massage would be as excellent. Putting on his robe and sandals, Basil headed out to find his spa agent.

The search was cut short when Basil nearly walked full tilt into a beefy malamute when coming out of the locker room door. Though shorter, the dog dwarfed Basil in terms of mass- between thick strong muscle and fluffy fur the ram was outweighed easily. The spa uniform of tiny white shorts and an even smaller white shirt put all the malamute's best attributes on display for Basil's hungry eyes to roam across. Somehow Basil managed to tear his attention away from the sexual banquet to read the name-tag pinned there.

"D-darren then! Sorry to run into you like that!" Basil mentally kicked himself, once for being so clumsy and second for all but eating the dog with his eyes. He hoped the malamute would not notice the tent he was starting to pitch in his robe for that matter!

"Its alright." The dog brushed himself off, his fluffed tail curled up in a wag. "I'm fine. Basil I presume? I was told a certain handsome ram would be taking up my afternoon slot for a soak and rubdown. " His sharp ears perked forward expectantly, fur fluffed down.

Basil could all but see the tension bound to rise with such a studly dog rubbing him down. Still, the dog must be a professional, and used to such things -right? Best to just go with the flow and allow things to happen. So, with a soft bleating, Basil tightened his robe and responded. "Well you've got a date then! I mean, that's me. I mean, I'm Basil! Your, uh, client!" He laughed weakly at the end of it, to boot, intimidated by Darren's baby blues.

If anything, the malamute appeared nonplussed, just looking a bit amused or possibly bored. Wordlessly, he held out a paw for the flustered ram to take and led him down a hallway. Darren stepped with confidence and purpose through the maze-like corridors of the mansion's underbelly. Basil walked behind, his attention focused on the rolling and bouncing dog-ass that made his muzzle water and cock ache.

It could have been five minutes, or an hour, but it was too soon for the show to stop when Darren turned round, releasing Basil's paw. "Here we go. The Skull room." The door was plain oak, as unassuming as any of the other doors in the checkered hallway. The brass knob turned under the malamute's paw, and swung open to reveal a small chamber painted in red and daubed in black. Dim light from red candles burning in wall alcoves filled the space with flickering illumination, intimate and primal. Piped in music reverberated with the sounds of organs and strings, sonorous and grimly relaxing. In the center of the room rested a massive Gothic tub of black marble, complete with a skull faucet and crossed bone handles. "The managers go a bit overboard with the themes. Just get right in."

If not for the big, powerful dog-paw that fell on Basil's rump, the ram might have been a little too surprised to saunter on in. The feel of the friendly fingers giving his left ass-cheek a squeeze was more than enough to snap Basil back to a state of action, if not calmness. His hooves made nary a clop on the gray tiled floor, swaddled in the luxurious sandals. He let his hoof-fingers feel along the edge of the tub, caress the beginning of the contoured inner bowl. Behind him, Darren stepped in and closed the door firmly, sealing out all external light. Basil's non-predatory vision struggled to compensate, the ram holding stock still out of reflex.

"I need you to just relax." Darren's voice came butter smooth from the shadows, his canid eyes glimmering green with reflected candle-light. On bare and silent paws the dog had circled, stepping forward almost nose to nose. "I'm a professional. Just let me do my job." Basil did not resist, almost could not bring himself to even move as Darren's paws tugged at the robe's tie. Terrycloth parted like the sea, releasing the heat and scent of the ram's erection.

While Basil started to ramble out apologies, the malamute proceeded without hesitation to push the robe off the ram's shoulders. The terrycloth puddled around his hooves like a pile of snow, leaving him fully exposed to the studly canine. Just when Basil had at last untangled his tongue, thick fingers pinched his muzzle shut. "Its not the first time a client has responded like that. So just relax." A request Basil found increasingly difficult to follow as the other dog paw latched onto his throbbing ram stick and used it as a lever to turn his hips and pitch him into the tub.

The ram's hoof-fingers skittered along the edge of the tub, vainly attempting to arrest his fall into the deep and well sloped tub. The smooth marble slipped out from under his paws, and he bleated in alarm as he feared the unyielding marble imminent crack into his back and head! The hideous crack did not come, but instead a modest pffftas he hit the padded contours of the sculpted tub. His head, back and rump were cradled by foamed mesh eggshell padding, supporting without flattening out his fur much. Above him, the smirking malamute looked down with a wicked grin.

"You are far too tense. No wonder you have come to the spa." Darren's bass voice melded with the instrumental tones playing through the speakers, echoing slightly as the dog leaned over the tub. One paw turned the handles, and from the mouth of the skull faucet steamy warm water began to pour. The other paw took hold once more of Basil's cock, feeling up the nearly foot-long length. The feeling of those warm, surprisingly soft pads gliding up to the tip elicited another bleat from the ram - but this one of pleasure. "Stay here while I fetch the oils." Despite the surprise and somewhat awkward way he had been to casually handled, Basil did try to relax. Darren didn't seem upset by his arousal after all, the tub turned out to be comfortable, and the water was splashing across his feet in a comfortably warm way. The view couldn't be beat either, for in the flickering candlelight Darren's white shorts and pale fur shone like a beacon. When the dog went digging for oils and creams in a low cabinet, it sent that big muscled rump to eye level. Basil savored every moment of it until the malamute returned with a large basket.

"Here, relax." Darren cooed, passing by the ram's muzzle. Dropping a warm scented towel across Basil's face, swathing his vision is darkness. Blind and helpless, Basil could feel his other senses sharpening. Over the rushing water, caps and corks coming open. Glass clinking. Cool silky creams and oils splashing across his body. Splattering across the marking on his chest. Running down his flat stomach and pooling in his navel. Heavy, luxurious fluids drowning his throbbing shaft, bathing his nuts. All the while the warm water rising higher, submerging limb after limb and mixing with the aromatic concoctions to fill his nostrils with scented steam.

Taking the studly hound's advice, Basil did relax. He let his eyes close, and his breathing slow. The music filled his ears, and then slowly faded away as he became intimately aware of his own heartbeat. The pattern of his breathing as it flowed through his mouth and nose, the way the thick and mellow scents of the oils infiltrated his lungs. Slowly at first, a heavy feeling began to creep up over all his limbs. A numb sensation of weight stole over his hooves, his hands, and up past his thighs and biceps as the muscle relaxants soaked into his body. In short order, Basil felt as though his head was attached to little more than 160 pounds of well dressed meat.

The ram could barely move his neck, his muzzle opening slightly as he attempted to speak. For all his efforts, Basil managed to open his snout somewhat, and have his tongue loll out limply. With his head cocked awkwardly to one side, the warmed towel slid right off and onto the floor. Inside, Basil began to fume - he must look like fresh roadkill draped over a truck hood to Darren! Troublesome, as he wanted to impress the dog enough to get into those tight white shorts. Not that Basil was a slut, or at least didn't think of himself as one, but that malamute was one fine stud.

Said fine stud eliminated the dilemma Basil faced with his inability to move. Strong paws lifted up the ram's turned and drooling head, straightening it more comfortably on the cushioned edge of the tub. "You look rather goofy all relaxed like that." Those strong, broad paws stroked up the ram's cheeks to explore the base of his curving horns, gripping them firmly. Darren stepped to the edge of the tub, letting Basil's horns press against his hips. From that view, the well-muscled dog towered up over the soaking ram like a mountain of masculinity, bulging in all the best places.

If he could move, Basil would have been trying to kiss and moan out platitudes and pillow-talk about the dog's bedroom prowess. If he could move, Basil knew he would have been doing something sexy and confident. However, with the powerful aromatic drugs that paralyzed his muscles, he could barely waggle his tongue. Basil felt incredibly passive, almost like a living doll as the huge dog cradled his head. Darren rocked Basil's muzzle back, pressing the rams nose against the throbbing bulge in those thin white shorts.

Though Basil could not move, he could feel. In fact, his inability to move seemed to enhance his sensation. With his nose, he could feel the contours of Darren's overstuffed sheath, the laces passing under the outer layer of cloth, even the lightness of the pubic fur. "Yeah, I bet you want this, huh? Been looking at me all morning." The malamute smirked, and with one paw grasped the end of the lace, tugging the knot apart teasingly. "Well the client gets what the client wants."

Basil could not tear his eyes away from the bit of braided cloth as it wound out from its knot, the lacing sliding loose with an imperceptible hissing. Without the cord holding back the material, those tight white shorts split open like a pale flower. Underneath, the malamute's fine plush fur was so pale, so soft, almost like wisps of fog. Shorn closely, the pinkness of Darren's skin showed through, the heat of his sheath radiated, and the scent of his maleness was strong and intoxicating in Basil's snout. With no barrier now, the spa dog ground his fat, swollen sheath across the ram's muzzle-tip, wagging that plush tail.

Basil wanted to laugh as the fine hairs tickled into his nose, but could barely manage a weakened gasp as the dog saturated his snout-fur with potent male-scent. Darren wagged and murred, giving notice of his lustful enjoyment. Wholly unnecessary, as Basil had a front row view to the groundbreaking of Dogdick Tower. The fat, well swollen sheath surrendered an impressive cock, not quite ten inches in length, but of stunning thickness. Those Basil had a longer cock, the girth and forced perspective made him feel dwarfed and childish. Throbbing with every beat of Darren's heart, the massive dog cock rested along the side of Basil's muzzle, leaking watery pre-cum into his face fur at an incredible volume.

Basil could do nothing as Darren used deft fingers to open up his slack muzzle and move aside the limp tongue. Without his muscular coordination, the best he could do was to move his eyes in rapid anxiety as the malamute aligned his slick cock to the open muzzle. A hip thrust, and the wet heat of a steel-hard dog cock filled the ram's muzzle completely. A little more pressure, and the fat length slid into his paralyzed throat. In the space of a moment, Basil's entire sensory world became confined to the plush crotch fur of the studly malamute, those massive bouncing nuts, and the oversize cock crammed down his throat.

Without a word, Darren took hold of the ram's curving horns and began to hump that wet muzzle. Sure, he huffed and growled and made other such horny doggy noises, but he didn't say a word to Basil. In fact, as the massive dripping phallus slammed down into his throat and then slid back out, the ram began to sense the level of detachment in those selfish rhythmic thrusts. He was being treated like a sex-toy. Not a word about how he could breathe, or an effort on the out-thrusts to let him get a gasp, no manipulation of his face or gentle caresses. Just firm paws grasping his horns, and a hard cock fucking his throat. Complete passivity on his own part, the ram could not even gag or lick. Extreme helplessness married with a form of sensory deprivation.

As Darren humped furiously into the warm but slack muzzle, a new awareness of danger crept into Basil's awareness. The frantic, powerful motions of the canid stud gave no time for the ram's nearly paralyzed lungs to refresh their air supply and slowly but surely Basil was sure that he would suffocate. That realization should have worried him more, but in the deeply drugged and relaxed state he felt a strange detachment from himself and his own survival. The taste of hot doggy pre-cum splashing across his tongue and down his throat seemed muffled, the bruising slams into his soft throat slightly numb. His vision swam, and Basil could all but see himself out-of-body, his frame concealed under the dark water. Just his head, floating in froth and being impaled by that massive, pulsing length. Darren's muscular malamute body curling and humping powerfully into the slack-jawed ram muzzle beneath, so vitally primal and alive! A marked contrast to Basil's lifeless flaccidity.

Basil wasn't even sure if he was still hard anymore, all his feeling had drawn in to the single white track of bludgeoning force caused by the steel hard cock muzzle fucking him. His limp tongue could divine every throbbing vein as Darren humped in harder and deeper. His bruised lips could detect the swelling knot as the dog masturbated himself toward climax. His tender throat was only slightly soothed by the hot watery pre-cum flowing down it, to fill his belly. His entire sensation and being reduced to a sexual toy. Helpless, Basil accepted the role forced on him, but hesitantly. His breath was becoming increasingly restricted, and Darren showed no signs of slowing as his knot grew.

In fact, that knot engorged with blood, forced the ram's muzzle open wider. Throbbing with each strong heartbeat, every pulse swelled the knot's dimensions to increasingly uncomfortable levels. Every thrust popped an ever fatter mass of flesh down across Basil's tongue, and into his already battered throat. Even as the ram panicked, helpless and paralyzed, the malamute drooled and howled in ecstasy. The knot, swollen ever larger, lodged itself firmly into Basil's throat and locked there as Darren's furry hips pushed in for a final thrust. With his airway completely blocked, Basil's lungs burned and heart raced, almost matching the dog's frantic pulse. The ram could feel it, the intimate vitality of the malamute as hot, virile dog cum sprayed down his throat in a long, lingering orgasm. An orgasm that threatened his life, as every second Darren spent cumming was a moment he could not breath!

Basil could all but see the details in his imagination. Darren's blissed out muzzle, tongue lolling out and drooling; all those masculine muscles on display under a thick layer of monochrome fur. His own muzzle, cranked wide and wedged open by the sheer mass of that dogcock buried deep in his throat. The bulge of his neck, forced outward by a knot far beyond its capacity to handle comfortably. Of course, he could really see nothing, considering Darren's pelvis was crushed against his face. Not to mention the increasingly dire lack of oxygen that would put black spots in his vision.

In fact, almost too quickly, Basil saw nothing at all.

He sank into darkness.

Quiet stole over him completely.

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Eventually something like awareness came swimming back to the ram. Slow, buoyant lightness filled his vision, as sensation returned as if from under a shroud. With a quiet groan, Basil awoke, his body spasming slightly from the aftereffects of a deep slumber. Muzzily, the ram tried to take stock of his condition and placement. Where had he been? What had happened to him? He turned his eyes in a circle - red walls, candles, low lit oil lamps. Light music. Bone-themed hardware and pentagrams on the floor. The skull room.

He sat up, or tried to do so. Three tries, and he swung his nude body up into a sitting position and off a padded table. More aware now, he saw that the padded massage table on which he had been lying was supported by the tub. Laid across it and fastened down somehow for him to use a bier during his period of unconsciousness. What had rendered him unconscious, by the by? Was it the drugs, those doped oils and lotions that had coated him? Or was it - the rape?

The memory of Darren's brutal muzzle-fucking brought Basil's body awareness into high gear. His throat felt bruised and battered, his breaths were slightly strained due to the constriction of his bruising neck. A paw lifted, and hoof-fingers explored his own muzzle, finding swollen pillowed lips and a thick, heavy tongue. The aching stretch in his jaws, however, matched a whole body feeling of looseness. While blacked out, he had been rubbed down. Which seemed out of character for a rapist, Basil had to admit.

His reflection on the nature of the studly dog was interrupted by the deep, mourning sound of a clock chiming. Six o'clock, if the bells could be trusted. He had slept the afternoon away in the Skull room, sedated and massaged and bathed by the spa dog. An agent of evil, or part of some benevolent master plan? The ram knew he would find out at dinner, the traditional place for plot revealing. It was a masked party, was it not? He rushed to find his robe, and then back to his room to get dressed.

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An hour later Basil found himself in the best tuxedo he had ever worn. Like the hammered silver and white Venetian mask, it had been delivered to his room while he had been out at the spa. Tailored, maybe? Fancy as all get out, and the ram was as impressed with it as the room to which he had been directed. A converted parlor, the private dining room was rather intimate and replete with Victorian touches. Portraits, a mirrored ceiling, and dominated by a massive wooden dining table and fancy looking chairs. Everything was sophisticated enough to make Basil a little bit nervous.

The other furs in attendance did not help at all. While the ram felt a bit uncomfortable in such fancy attire as his excellent tuxedo, they all seemed at ease. There was a smart looking ferret with black-socked paws chatting with a very tall zebra and a somewhat portly grizzly bear. Another malamute, with strawberry and white fur, appeared to be in deep conversation concerning lacrosse with an overlarge tiger. Or was it about water polo - the posh accents made it a bit difficult to hear from across the room. The prospect of trying to break into the little high-class cliques sent a wave of anxiety over Basil. How could a relaxed ram like him fit in with this obviously high-tone class of sophisticates?

The Gordian dilemma found itself handily cut when a slender cheetah appeared at Basil's elbow, full of the characteristic speed of his breed. Even under the hammered and gilded mask, well bred charisma leaked with ease. A cocktail glass was held firmly in each well groomed paw, the chilled drinks frosted and pale. Basil found his hoof-fingers soon full of fine crystal, and alcohol begin goaded toward his lips.

"Take a drink, ram." The cheetah's voice was silken, and layered with a far Northern accent that would be at home on yachts and in vineyards. "You must be the guest of honor. Basil, is it?" The felid pronounced the name with a European lilt, Baz-ill, instead of the more vulgar Bay-zil. "I am Samuel Rothschild Saint-Claire the Third. A pleasure. Let me show you around the room."

"Oh, I don't think that is really necessary, I mean, well, you know..." Basil tried to play off the overly friendly cheetah more out of a defensive reflex than anything else. The cat was so cute, and when rebuffed but on the most adorable and hard to resist face. Through the wide eye-holes in the domino mask, Samuel's black muzzle markings were almost like tears. ".....well, what I mean is... sure. If you want." Perhaps it was the drink already hitting him, or the way the cat's face lit up, but Basil could feel warmth springing from inside him.

He barely had time to enjoy the sensation of making the cute cat happy before his elbow was tugged. Samuel all but dragged him right into the midst of the threesome first, the long spotted tail slipping teasingly across his clopping hooves. An elegant paw gestured to the ferret, zebra, and bear in turn. "Basil, these are some of our other dinner guests. This lovely gentle-weasel is Jackson Von Sheer of Tunnelburg."

When introduced, the slender ferret inclined his streamlined muzzle in the ram's direction and offered a black-furred paw to shake. His grip was powerful and deft, blunt claws highly glossed. "A please to meet you, Basil. Very glad to have you for dinner. Call me Jack if you would."

"Howard Xavier Morningson! Wonderful to make your acquaintance. I see you've been to the farrier. Tres chic." The fey zebra clasped Basil's hoof-fingers delicately, lifting the ram's knuckles up for a lipping. The intimate and rather forward gesture would have unbalanced Basil if he hadn't already been in a tizzy. He barely had time to recover before his paw was swallowed by the grizzly's.

"Well well my boy! Baxter Aldrich-Haley, art collector and gourmand." The slightly graying muzzle of the grizzly turned upward in a smirk, the motion causing his monocle to flash in the light. "As I'm sure you can tell!" The ursine's other paw patted his portly middle, constrained by a crimson cummerbund. "We've quite a treat for you. Food cooked right on the table! Dinner and a show!"

"Well yes, everything seems like its going to be a fine time. Everyone has been very pleasant." With a tug, Basil extracted his paw from the powerful bear's grip. He took another sip of his drink, already beginning to feel the flushing buzz of alcohol rushing through his veins. "I'm just not sure why I was invited. I'm just kind of an everyday Joe ram and everything seems a bit...above my level."

From behind came a deep chuckle in response. Basil nearly spilled his drink spinning around in surprise, finding himself nose to chest with the tiger that had previously been chatting on the other side of the room. The rich, predatory musk of the huge feline filled Basil's nose, triggering a restrained but instinctual panic.

"I think that you are one Grade-A slab of prime ram-roast." The tiger all but purred, silkily rumbling from deep in his chest. "Charles. Just call me Charlie if you like. My canid companion is Maxwell." Chad gestured lightly in the direction of the malamute with one paw. Briefly, before putting it to rest right on Basil's chest. The sudden forwardness of the huge striped stud's advances was intimidating to the ram, who quivered down to his hooves in a preyish shaking that was both fearful and aroused.

Flush with booze, pent up from his rough sex with the malamute stud, and surrounded by attractive and overly friendly furs, Basil felt totally overwhelmed. Blood rushed to his head, his bruised lips throbbing, his horn bases tingling - even his ears roared with the sound of his own heart thudding. Tongue thick and heavy, he struggled to find something, anything to say as his head swam with drunken heat. Then his vision tilted, and before Basil knew it his balance was gone and he was falling, the empty glass tumbling from his paw to shatter with a muffled sound against the carpet.

Paws came from all sides, the group of other dinner guests preventing him from falling. They gripped his arms, his side, even his legs as every limb betrayed the ram.

"Don't overbalance!" "Support the head....." "Where is the knife and straps?"

A muzzle, white mask on a black mask on a cocoa-colored head, swam into view. Jack, the ferret, and with a shining knife clasped in one black socked paw. The blade descended, and Basil felt it kiss his fur but not cut his flesh. His tuxedo split open easily though, letting cooler air caress him.

"Just get him into position!" "Will you just back off and make room?"

Despite the vocal bickering, the tight knot of furs rapidly stripped Basil to the fur. He felt his limbs being pressed against an unyeilding X-frame of some cold metal. Wire and straps circling him. It happened so fast, he was barely aware of how badly he was bound until his moment of weakness passed. When strength began returning to his limbs, he found them unable to move from the firm shackles that bound them. With his vision swimming back in to focus, he perceived the other dinner guests lifting him frame and all. With a loud BANGand a painful impact he landed on the table muzzle-up, spreadeagled, Completely vulnerable, and immobilized.

Basil's eyes rolled back in his head, and even his mellow attitude failed him completely. There is only so much a ram can take before the rush of adrenaline and fear overwhelms the rational mind completely. Like a feral ungulate, he let out a panicked and desperate bleat of alarm. He cried out in fear, a powerful sound that would have shook the rocks and bounced well off mountains. In the bowels of the Victorian mansion, the sound went nowhere - swallowed whole by tapestries and plush velvet curtains. It was ignored by the furs who coldly assembled around the table, setting down drinks and pulling out chairs.

Jackson approached from one side, visible from the corner of Basil's eyes as they rolled and darted, searching for safety. The smirking ferret came pushing a serving cart covered with a cloth, calm as ice. The cool demeanor did nothing to assuage the ram's anxiety. He opened his muzzle to let out another wordless bleat, found the sound murdered by the arrival of a small apple. Courteously wedged into his jaw by Charlie, who even deigned to wave cheerily with just his fingers.

"Now you just relax, meat. That lovely little body of yours is going nowhere and its going there fast. Hmm, you're a fine cut too. Have you reallly checked out little...Barry, was it?" The tiger curled his lips back into a toothy grin as he let his paw trail down to pat and squeeze at Basil's chest. As if following the tiger's cue, the other dinner guests joined in. Paws caressed the curves of the ram's lean muscle, pinched at the fatty curves of his rump, tweaked his tits.**

"Oh that is a fine piece, prime for sure."

"Good beefy bone structure. I bet the marbling is marvelous."

"Oh my word. Maxwell you must heft these nuts. So very dense!"

"This one is good and young. Very tender. Good selection, Jackson!"

**In the mirrored ceiling, Basil could see it all. The many paws exploring him, feeling him, grading him like livestock at the slaughterhouse. The situation was so alien that he had trouble recognizing himself, muzzle wet with tears, jaw forced agape by the bright red apple, body trussed down like a Christmas goose. The detachment of watching himself in a mirror being groped was almost voyeuristic, and his body betrayed him. To the delight of the sophisticates, his ram-cock slid out from his fat fuzzy sheath. Nearly a foot of pink throbbing stiffness that was immediately mobbed by paws that gripped and stroked almost painfully.

"Lets get him prepped. Gentlemales, I'd like to commence with dinner, now that we've had our drinks." Jackson's voice was authoritative, and to emphasize his words he stripped the cover from his cart, revealing a gleaming array of cooking utensils, ingredients, and appliances. "I believe its Baxter's turn to do appetizers. I have just about anything you'd like, big bear. Take it away."

It was probably the sheer overwhelming weight of his anxiety, of the trauma and unrest that had surrounding Basil for the last few days that finally got to him. His ears buzzed, and in the mirrors he watched as the older bear talked, gestured, and set out a miniature gas stove and iron skillet. His brain was afire with the uncomfortable truth. These mask-wearing furs were about to cook and eat him right there on the table. He would see it himself if he lived that long.

The muzzles of the assembled sophisticates lolled open, their laughter drowned out by the roaring in the ram's ears. The table shook with a pounding paw as a joke was repeated, and the muffled reflexive whimpers ignored. To them Basil was nothing but a slab of meat, and the ram could feel a mental transformation rippling through his perception. Was he really the ram on the table, brown-furred and pink-cocked? Or was he watching from above - a neutral observer in an upstairs lounge?

A plank of wood and cleaver were brought out, and Basil saw the sacrificial ram's wrist wrapped and bound tourniquet before being laid out on the plank. Helpfully, the beefy malamute raised the chromed cleaver into the air, and down it fell. The sudden spike of pain that rocketed up Basil's arm to explode at the base of his brain knocked every last inch of detachment from him. His blunt teeth dug deep into the apple, and the straps bit at his body as every muscle tensed in an attempt at leaping away from the pain. The cut was firm and clean, the razor-edged cleaver having shorn through bone and connective tissue like warm butter. The cauterizing iron was not so kind or clean, its sizzling surface searing a new highway of agony into Basil's cortex.

The red splatter of his raw flesh turned to black as Basil blissfully passed out, unable to take the second blow of the cleaver to his other wrist. By the time he had returned to a semblance of consciousness, his paws and hooves had been cut off at the wrist. Floating in a sea of endorphins, his first thought was about all the gloves he'd never have to buy. Everything had a slow, dreamlike quality to it. There was an IV needle plugged into his chest, the tube clear. Was he drugged? No, that couldn't be him.

That wasn't his elegant hoof-fingers and hoof-meat being dragged through herbed butter and being blackened on that hot skillet. Not his flesh that the tiger and bear and ferret snacked on. That they sipped wine with. He wasn't meat, not a trophy, not dinner. Or was he? It was his cock that dripped and throbbed a pool of ram juices into that taut navel. The symbol on the ram's chest- that was his birthmark. The smell, the dozens of herbs and spices and charring meat, it was too delicious to be his own flesh. He could not be a tasty dinner meal, could he?

Up to his eyeballs in neurotransmitters and time going slow Basil had an opportunity to reflect. What had he done with his life? What was he going to accomplish? What greater purpose did he strive for at the end of his day? He might have been distracted by the spectacle and sensation of fine butcher knives and scalpels cutting into his forearms and biceps. A testament to his shock response and total emotional shut-down, the ram felt almost nothing. A pressure, a pulling, but faint and far away.

The cheetah cut slowly, and with care on the sacrificial ram. Butterflying the bicep and filleting thin cuts right off the bone, his handsome and noble muzzle twisted up in concentration. Behind him, the helpful tiger user a cauterizing rod to seal and clean the wound behind. From his dreamy vantage point, Basil carefully filed away the searing scent to reflect on later. What did they have in mind for his meat? What purpose would he fill?

When the harvest fats was rapidly liquefied and the thin cuts breaded with beer and spices, Basil moaned weakly into the apple. So beautiful and complete, to use every bit of him in the cooking. His own fat frying the delicate cuts of thigh and bicep. A bit of sauteed onion and a base of quinoa completed the entree. Basil marveled at the power of a knife and pan to transform what he thought of as limbs into a meal. His eyes rolled, and for a moment he lost sight of the mirror, he lost track of everything but his own metamorphosis from consumer to provider.

"I think he is coming back around. Meat, are you awake?"

Like a siren, a smooth and authoritative voice called Basil away from the self consuming glory of his new awareness as meat. Reluctantly, he turned ears and eyes toward the source of the sound, seeing double as his eyes failed to focus singularly. Probably not the best sign, but as a cognizant deli selection Basil found his apathy to the matter overwhelming. At the same time, he saw a striped face in a mask, and also the back of the tiger's head. Distorted, but still powerful came the voice. The clinking of glasses and the hush of plates being cleared came as the background. Good sounds, ones that made the ram feel useful and purposeful.

"Yes, you're much calmer now. It won't be long until we're at the desert course. You don't want to miss it. Candied sweetmeats. A nice finger-food to enjoy with the last party favor. I just wanted to be sure you would be aware. To know how much it means to feed us all, and how much we appreciate it."

The ram would have moaned in approval, he would have leaned his head up in acknowledgment - but all his strength was gone. When the massive paw patted between the curving horns, the ram's only reaction was to feel satisfaction. When Charles put those paws to fine butchery, the ram could feel only pride in how fine a cut he was. The mirrored ceiling seemed bent, distorting and amplifying the view.

A set of extremely heavy and hefty ovis testes were lifted, cradled gently in a huge tiger-paw from the resting place between two leg-stumps Each as large as a kiwi, they radiated a potential for life, or at least for sustenance. Stretched down to the base of the lightly furred sac, they bulged outwards, the veins and fine marbled connective cords showing through the downy pelt like a map to manna. A tiny razor knife, a scalpel really, opened that sac right down the center line like a seam. Instead of pain, bliss and pride flowed.

With a squeeze, twin pink and gray orbs tumbled out of the well split sac. With a mild splash, they fell into a tiny pot of deglazed broth left over from an earlier plate. Samuel, the cheetah, had helpfully preheated the broth to a near boil and held the pot steady. The scalpel moved again, this time to the cords that still linked the dinner-ram, severing them neatly. Between the two cats, it took less than a minute to get both massive balls to poaching.

The meat's ability to focus in a cognizant way began to fade and slowly slip away as the dinner guests enjoyed poached nuts and delicately flayed cock tartar. The sensation of pain, or loss - these were alien to the meat. It felt instead as if it were about to sink into a dense fog of accomplishment as it's vitality faded. The meat's heart began to slow. Through padded cotton, it heard the guests finish. Unfocused eyes saw the cleaver come back out, shining in the light.

Like a rising sun, the cleaver brought hope to the meat. What new cut would come? What new and perfect purpose could the meat be destined to know? A strawberry splotched paw brought the thick blade down. It sang as it cut through the air, the short flight ending in a hollow thud. Once more, the cleaver sailed - almost without pause. The meat could see, but not precisely feel the severing of its horns. The shallow disks cut out of its skull, the throbbing vibrant pinkness of its tender brain exposed to the cool air of the dining room.

A final time the cleaver rose.

A final time the cleaver fell.

The meat could not hear the crunch of the spinal column shearing in twain. Nor the delicate hissing sound of tendon, muscle, and artery severing with ease. The meat had moved beyond sound, unable to hear anything. The meat could not smell anything either, it had passed beyond that. The meat could not taste its own blood either, even as it bubbled up between its teeth. All the meat could experience was the visceral touch, and sight. It saw its own blood, a grayish brown mass of flesh it had once been attached to as the head was lifted off the table.

Through unfocused and dimming eyes, the meat saw its own blood. The flashing glints of belts coming undone. The red throbbing colors of cocks, big, thick - all alive and filled with life. Life the meat had provided, through the sustenance of its flesh. Awareness faded, and only partially could the meat feel the thick knotted dog-cock slide up its dripping neck hole. The slender barbed cheetah-dick that slithered between its swollen lips, to meet the dog-cock somewhere in the still bruised throat. The meat never felt the two thick cocks slide through its horn holes and into the soft, inviting warmth of its brain. It was oblivious to the thick, virile nuts bouncing on its pelt.

The meat could only feel a single sensation: Purpose.

Then nothing.

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Epilogue:

In the workshop, the smell of sawdust and polish dominated. Unfinished wood blanks lay neatly stacked, and unadorned brass plates occupied shelves. At the workbench, under bright lights, sat a rather aristocratic looking ferret. Even in plain workfur's clothes he looked dapper, perhaps because of the black mask of fur around his eyes. He hummed a jaunty little tune as he polished a glass eye, studying it critically for any flaws. Satisfied, Jackson used a delicate tool to carefully seat the eye into its proper place. With a smile on his lips and a satisfied churring in his chest, Jackson polished the simple brass plaque that was inscribed with a certain ram's name. He admired the mounted head, the reattached horns, the lacquered nose, and placed a note next to the trophy with directions for it to be hung.

"It was very nice to have you for dinner, Basil. I wish you could come again."

On his way out, Jackson turned off the lights.**