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The rain didn't disrupt Roscoe's day all too much, as he seldom ventured beyond his garden regardless of the weather. The incessant pounding of water against his windows was enough to infect him with the seasonal sour mood of the socialites, nonetheless. It was July, and while rain wasn't uncommon in what was one of the coldest months of the Australian year, for it to last two days without end was almost unprecedented. At least, it was around these rural stretches of Victoria, anyway.

Roscoe did not know about the close connections his neighbors maintained through their telephones. Primarily, this was because he did not and almost certainly never would own one, nor a radio or television. What he did own was an immense library of forty or fifty year old books that spanned every conceivable subject matter of the time. Today was simply one of the many, many days he spent by his old stone fireplace, seated in the armchair he had made with his own two paws.

It was an incredible surprise to him when he heard something beating against his door. The noise thundered over the rain, causing the old fox to jump with fright. For a few moments, he waited, attempting to calm himself while mulling over whether he ought to fetch his rusty old gun. The thing probably wouldn't fire, after all these years. When he heard the series of sharp bumps again, he climbed to his feet, slow due to the soreness of his knees.

He made his way to the door, pondering what might await him on the other side. Perhaps it was a wild animal that had become lost in the rain outside. He would finally meet his fate in the maw of some dangerous beast, terrified beyond sense by the weather. Or it could be a branch blown against his door by the wind, which would make getting outside much more difficult. Worse than both possibilities, it could be a man from the government who caught him on not paying tax since moving into the seclusion of his little country home.

Despite his numerous budding worries, he opened his door. What he found was more startling, at least to him, but presented no less danger. His shoulders tensed immediately, and he found he had to fight the instinct to slam the door shut. Before him, dripping wet with matted-down fur and accompanied by the repugnant smell of drenched canine, was a dog. And it was already looking at him with the wide, pleading eyes only a dog could conjure up.

"Pardon me, sir, but my ute's broke down," the dog began. Roscoe didn't close the door in his face, so he took that as encouragement to continue. "I was wonderin' if you might have a phone I could use."

"I'm afraid that I don't own a phone," Roscoe answered, eliciting an incredulous look from the young dog. He must be new to the area, Roscoe surmised, as he was sure that his neighbors at least knew him as a hermit. After a moment's pause and his better judgment, Roscoe tentatively moved aside. "But I can't let you catch your death outside. You may wait here until the downpour stops."

The dog grinned, showering Roscoe with thanks and praise. He wiped his footpaws on the bristle mat at the door, before shuffling by Roscoe and into the fox's home. He dripped rain over the stone-and-concrete floor. "I think I might need a towel, if that's alright."

Roscoe scuttled off to retrieve one. While he went from his living room to his bathroom, he wondered about whether the young dog would rob him or even assault him. He did consider that maybe being completely alone over the last few years had made him paranoid, but that would hardly dissuade his building fear of the youth he'd invited inside. And why had he invited the boy inside, anyway? He did say he had a car, didn't he?

The fox returned to find the dog had, courteously enough, not moved from the spot he'd already dripped over. Roscoe offered him the two towels, being repaid with another incredibly appreciative "thank you, sir!" Then, once he was sufficiently dry, Roscoe invited him further into the house to sit while they waited for the storm to abate.

"My name's Mark, by the way. I was on my way to visit the grand-folks when the car carked it." The dog sat himself down on the couch opposite Roscoe's armchair. He hadn't stopped looking around yet, which worried the fox greatly. Not only was the dog much younger than he, but Mark also had muscle and size on his side. Roscoe was at least a foot shorter than he was.

But, such concerns weren't any reason to be impolite. After all, it might upset Mark. The fox did his best to smile, "mine is Roscoe. It's good of you to visit your grandparents. From what I've heard, not many take the time these days."

"Do you have grand-kids, mister Roscoe?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

"I don't think I ever will either, myself!" The dog laughed, and Roscoe found he was confused about why such a thing would be a reason for joy. According to his vague memories, children were all anybody wanted back in his day. The dog went on, evidently curious, "may I ask why, sir? Why you don't have grandchildren, I mean. If it's not intrudin', that is." Roscoe shifted some in his seat, finding it uncomfortable for the first time in more years than he could recall for the moment. "I'd much rather not say, if that's alright. It's a rather personal reason."

"Oh, it's alright, sir. Looks like you're a regular bookworm, huh?" The dog started to look over the various books cluttered over the couch. Roscoe would have minded, but he saw that the dog was handling them with a certain care and respect. He doubted very much that the dog would damage any of his property, despite his earlier worries. Then again, you couldn't have much use of what was destroyed, should he be some rare breed of book-thief. "'I'll Get There, It Better Be Worth It'? That sounds very philosophical."

"Ah, it's about a troubled boy, as a matter of fact." Roscoe enjoyed discussing literature. He always had. But he hadn't had anybody to discuss it with. Now, despite himself, he found he was keenly excited by the opportunity. "You see, his father is aloof and his mother an overbearing alcoholic. And so, when his grandmother dies and he sent to live with his mother, he winds up confronting her alcoholism, having a homosexual encounter and losing his dear pet."

To his credit, Mark actually listened attentively. He even followed Roscoe's synopsis with a question, "what do you think of it, if I may ask, sir?"

"To be quite honest, Mark, it isn't my favorite book. It's awfully cruel to the characters. I would have much preferred if he hadn't lost his pet just as he was finding his feet, and... If it hadn't concluded with the boy resolving not to do anything homosexual again. It seems to me, if that is the way he is, he shouldn't have to alter it, hm?"

Mark smiled at that, and looked relieved, though Roscoe thought perhaps he was simply imagining the tenseness of the dog's body. Maybe he thought the dog relaxed, as he found himself relaxing over their book-talk. "Oh, I had to read this other one in school. 'Lord of the Flies.' * * * * * * * * * * * * * * After hours of discussing books, the two found the rain had not dissipated at all. By now, Roscoe found he was comfortable enough to reluctantly offer Mark the guest room for the night. "Perhaps the weather will find a better disposition in the morning, hm?" Mark readily agreed, probably tired after driving all the way out from Melbourne. He followed Roscoe, not once complaining about the old fox's haggard gait, through the creaking hallway that ran the length of the old country home.

Mark found it odd that Roscoe had no paintings hanging from his walls. Then again, that was because he always associated old people with musty pictures in gold-painted frames. Again-again, Roscoe was a man who evidently lived alone out in the middle of nowhere, so maybe he just didn't feel a whole lot of need to decorate. At least he had enough sense to keep his home in good order. An old fox probably wouldn't fare too well in an old stone house when bushfire season came around...

They reached the room, and Mark found it sparsely decorated, as befit the rest of the house. Spanning from the far corners were numerous bookshelves, all full to the brim. Books were stacked neatly at their base. He couldn't recognize any pattern to their arrangement, with an Asimov beside what looked like an old-fashioned romance novel. Rather than ask about the books, though, he found his curiosity drawn by a singular photograph resting atop the beside table.

"Who's that a photo of, mister Roscoe?"

He saw the fox hesitate and tense again, as he'd been so aware of the old man doing time and again since his arrival. In that quiet, meek voice of his, Roscoe answered, "that would be my wife, Mark. Her name was Fiore. She isn't with us any more." Mark nodded a bit, crossing the room to the photograph. He lifted it gently, aware that Roscoe was watching him with a clear curiosity, but thankfully no visible suspicion.

He admired the old black and white picture. It had faded somewhat, and was no doubt decades old. He could make out a warm, smiling face. She was beautiful, with a matriarchal quality to her appearance, complimented by the thick fur she no doubt inherited from her collie parentage. To the side, he could see half of a fox that he wasn't sure could be Roscoe. The face, through the blur, appeared young and exuberant, smiling alongside his mate and full of joy. The timid, hobbling old fox he had met earlier in the day didn't seem like he could have had an energetic youth.

"She's beautiful, sir. You were very lucky." Mark wasn't just being courteous, he certainly meant what he said. He set the picture back down, exactly as he found it. He turned to find Roscoe in a battle to decide whether he wanted to smile or frown, as he appeared to be doing both, one each of the handful of moments they stood quietly. Finally, he settled on 'mournful.'

"We were only married a short while. She passed away a few years after the wedding. It was pneumonia, I believe... It sounds horrible, I know, but I'm not sure if I remember the illness correctly. It could very well have been something else. I feel sure it was pneumonia, though." Mark watched the fox's face fall slowly. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, and wrapped his arms around Roscoe in a gentle hug.

The fox was startled. He wasn't one to expect a hug from a stranger sheltering from rain. At first, his mind returned to thinking he might be attacked by the young dog. But that soon gave way, as he found he thought Mark had simply been far too nice to possibly beat an elderly man. The embrace was warm, and he felt the temptation to give into it, which he obeyed. Without further thought, he rested his head against the young dog's chest, surprised that he now considered the muscular body far less imposing than he had earlier.

They stood like that for a while. Neither was sure precisely how long. It was Mark who broke the embrace by pulling his arms away. He looked down at Roscoe, who now peered up at him with curious, but not frightened brown eyes. "I should get some sleep, mister Roscoe. You alright?"

"Yes, Mark. I believe I shall be. Thank you." Roscoe reached toward Mark's arm, before pausing with his hand in the air. He lowered it, and shuffled his way out of the bedroom.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * Roscoe lay awake for while. He was mulling over what happened, why Mark was being so nice to him when he was so certain that couldn't be a possibility in youth. It was as if Mark were more sensitive than he thought society would sculpt children out to be. And hugging another man? Adults hadn't done that in his day, for fear of being labeled by the community around them.

His ears perked as he thought he heard Mark in the hallway. Fabric was ruffling against fabric. He felt wary, at first, as he did at any falling leaf. He was sure that Mark would only be looking for food, if he was up at all. He was now that Mark wasn't the sort of young man who would vandalize or steal from the home of an old man, especially not one he now pitied. Did Mark pity him? He certainly believed so. After all, he had almost cried over what had happened forty years ago. Roscoe was not a young fox any more, and falling to pieces in front of strangers simply wasn't acceptable behavior, not that it would have been when he was a child regardless. He was acutely aware that the majority of men in his books were simply not delicate people. They were all strong, wise and withdrawn. Then again, most were confident enough to embrace a friend in need and think nothing of their own masculinity.

The sound of rubbing fabric had changed. It sounded like a vague... Slapping sound, now? The only thing he could think of that would make that sort of noise was "oh, goodness." Mark was touching himself in the other room, and Roscoe could hear it. Mark mustn't have had any idea how the stone that made up the walls and floor carried sound. The behavior made sense, he supposed, as Mark was a young dog and Roscoe was certainly no stranger to his own hand, by any stretch of the imagination.

What surprised Roscoe was, as he lay listening to his guest pleasure himself in the next room, he didn't feel disgusted in the slightest. He even felt a vague but familiar stirring at his crotch. The fox didn't attempt to keep the sound out of his mind, his thoughts even becoming so bold as to entertain what Mark might look like beneath the clothes he had worn to bed. And the rational realization that, as the dog had been in denim jeans, he likely didn't wear them to bed at all . * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Mark woke, it felt only natural to check whether Roscoe had gotten up or not. So he pulled on his pants and padded his way down the hall, careful to be as quiet as he could be so as to not disturb his elderly host. He found Roscoe's room was the one right next to his, as he poked his head in to see the fox lying on his back with his eyes closed and a small tenting in the blankets about his crotch.

Mark was surprised, as he assumed that old people just didn't have any form of sexuality at all. Now that he thought on it, that didn't make much sense. Did you reach an age where you suddenly stopped being attracted to people? No, of course not. And you shouldn't either, as far as he suddenly found he was concerned. It wasn't important, anyway.

He left the door partially open, so as to not wake Roscoe by shutting it. He would make breakfast for the kindly fox. That was a way to repay him for his hospitality. The dog made his way along the hall until he came to the living room, which connected to the kitchen. He hadn't noticed before, but he saw now that the entire place was lined by bookshelves literally overflowing with hundreds of dusty books. The only other thing in the room, aside of the armchair and couch, was an old rug, the fireplace and a coffee table.

Roscoe lived a very humble life, he supposed. Without any connection to the outside world that he could see. No radio, no TV. He found that neither thing in the kitchen either, with the only appliances being an old gas stove and a fridge well past its optimal working date. Even the tin kettle didn't have an electrical heater, and would have to be boiled on the stove.

The fridge was empty. The only food he could find was fresh fruits, lying neatly in a bowel atop the kitchen counter. That would have to do. He took and apple and a knife from the sink, and started cutting them into small chips. Not the breakfast of champions, as he would have preferred, but food was food! So he set the apple chips on two plates and made his way back to Roscoe's bedroom to see if the fox had woken in within the ten minutes since he last checked.

When he arrived, Roscoe was sitting upright and looking rather confused. "Good morning," Mark greeted him happily, to which Roscoe meekly responded in kind. Both were smiling, though Roscoe's was marred by the puzzled looks he kept adopting every so often. "I brought you something to eat."

"Oh. Thank you, Mark. Would you mind terribly if I ate it here?"

"Would you mind terribly if I joined you?"

Roscoe's smile built just a bit, and he shook his head. "Not at all. Please, have a seat." And the fox motioned to the vacant foot of his bed. It was a double bed, Mark noted. A double bed that Roscoe had most likely had all to himself for quite a while, considering his desolate surroundings. He wondered whether it had been that way since the death of Roscoe's wife.

"I'm afraid all I could find were apples and oranges." Mark offered Roscoe his plate as he sat. The fox simply nodded, as though such were to be expected. Which ought to have been obvious to the dog, as this was Roscoe's home, after all. The two ate quietly after that, Roscoe's smile fading to a somewhat pensive expression.

When Mark noticed, he asked, "something bothering you, mister Roscoe?"

The fox looked quite reluctant, which wasn't something Mark was unaccustomed to by now. Roscoe's voice was always rather quiet, and if Mark didn't have his keen hearing, he was sure that he'd never hear a word the fox said. Now Roscoe was even quieter, all but mumbling a few very timid words, "I may be mistaken, Mark, and I sincerely do apologize, but I believe I heard you last night."

Mark practically froze solid. Roscoe was quick to reach a hand out and rest it on the dog's arm. "If you were, Mark, it's quite alright. That's not what I'm concerned with, to be honest. But I... I suppose I must know, as odd as it sounds. Were you?" Mark's first thought was not a positive one. An isolated, elderly man had heard him masturbate, and now he was insisting he had to know about it? He thought that Roscoe would want to solicit something from him. But then he wondered if he would truly be opposed to that. The quiet little fox just seemed so vulnerable and lonely. So unlike the smiling photograph he had seen earlier...

Slowly, the dog nodded. Roscoe didn't appear relieved, excited or even worried by this. He dropped is big brown eyes and the hand resting on Mark's arm, fidgeting it alongside its counterpart against his stomach. "The reason I ask is, well... I suppose, I... Please don't take this the wrong way. You've been such wonderful company since you arrived, and I sometimes find my old mind is playing me for a fool. But last night, I believe I dreamed about you, Mark."

The two sat in silence. Roscoe was worried that now his luck with his young guest would run out, and the dog would be driven into a mad frenzy, perhaps even beating him to death in the process. Mark was worried that the old man was some sort of insane elderly rapist. Slowly, they each relaxed with what they had learned about one another. They had shared a conversation over old literature, and Mark had been attentive and curious. Roscoe had shared the life he had with his departed wife, and Mark had been comforting when he found it more overwhelming than he had thought.

Mark was the first to act, slowly reaching his paw out towards Roscoe's. He laid his hand over the fox's entwined two, leaning in nearer to him. Roscoe didn't pull his hands or his head away. The kiss that followed was curious and hesitant. Mark ran his tongue over Roscoe's lips, and the old fox slowly parted them to allow Mark's tongue inside. They explored one another's mouths, their eagerness gradually building as they did. With neither sure how much time had passed, Mark pulled away. Roscoe was smiling, and ran his black-furred paw over Mark's cheek, bringing an even bigger smile to the young dog's face. "That was lovely, though I'd doubt you'd like to do it again with somebody old enough to be your grandfather."

"Think again," the dog responded, and he sincerely meant it. To prove it, he even placed another soft kiss on Roscoe's lips. "I have something to ask you now, mister Roscoe. Would you like me to make that dream of yours a reality?"

"If I may be so bold as to say so, my dear friend, that sounds like the worst line of a horrible romance story. It would suit, then, that I must insist we go about things slowly. I'm not as spry as you are, nor have I ever done this with a man before." The fox smiled as he sat, now holding Mark's hand gently between his own, feeling over every detail of the young appendage.

In reply, Mark leaned in and kissed Roscoe again, this time with a bit more excitement to it. He wasn't rough, he wasn't forceful. He normally wasn't, but with Roscoe, he felt he needed to treat the fox with more delicacy than any of his former lovers. As they kissed, he placed a hand at the base of Roscoe's nightshirt, slipping it underneath to feel up and along the fox's slightly rounded stomach and chest.

Mark found one of Roscoe's nipples, knowing the discovery first by Roscoe's sudden pleased moan, and second by the sudden firmness of the little bud. He circled the nipple, moving his mouth down to Roscoe's neck as he shuffled nearer to straddle the fox's blanket-covered thighs.

Roscoe tilted his head to the side, exposing more of his neck to the dog. He unbuttoned the nightshirt, fumbling some with the buttons. The dog was proving to be quite distracting, nipping his neck with very gentle, affectionate bites. The brush of teeth was an exciting new sensation, a precursor to what was certain to be many previously unexplored feelings.

As the old fox's shirt fell open, Mark took a moment to appraise his lover. The fox could vaguely be considered plump, though he was far from what Mark would consider excessively fat. He found it surprisingly appealing. He ran his paws through the white fur of Roscoe's chest, causing the fox to gasp beneath him. Mark told him, "you're beautiful," before lowering his head to lap at one of the fox's nipples. He teased the other with a paw.

"You needn't be so polite, dear," Roscoe was starting to pant. He would moan softly with every other lick, Mark too preoccupied to respond in any way aside of nipping the bit of chest surrounding the nipple. He was, as Mark had been so far, a careful and tenderly-done act. The soft squeeze made Roscoe puff his chest out, as if to expose more of it to the dog's affections.

While Roscoe's paws stroked over Mark's shoulders, Mark's wandered down to Roscoe's hips. They were covered by the blankets bunched up between them, obscuring Mark's view. He could feel the fox had nothing covering them beneath the blankets, though, which was exciting enough to make Mark leave Roscoe's appreciative chest and shuffle back along the bed, tugging the blanket along with him.

While Roscoe appeared vaguely disappointed that the treatment being given to his chest had ended, his now-exposed member didn't seem to have any complaints about the way things were going. It stood fully emerged from the fox's snowy white sheathe, which Mark thought an impressive feat for a fox Roscoe's age. While it wasn't the biggest Mark had seen, it did excite him the most, and he wasted no time shuffling back to Roscoe and descending to take the as much of it into his mouth as he could.

The suddenness of the act made the old fox cry out with a "ah, Mark!" He was whimpering now, his hips squirming about as Roscoe attempted to restrain himself from thrusting up into the dog's loving mouth. Mark's tongue felt as though it were every were, running along every detail of Roscoe's member, exploring every one of the roughly six inches.

Roscoe gripped Mark's shoulders for support as he felt his member being burrowed in as deep as the dog's throat. Mark showed no signs of relenting, even as Roscoe started moaning cautions of his nearness through the whimpers. Only as the fox managed to gasp out, "I'm -- I'm done, ah!" did Mark pull back, keeping the head of the fox's shaft in his mouth to swallow the warm gushes awaiting him.

Roscoe sank down where he sat, once again caressing the fox's cheeks tenderly while Mark continued to explore the member in his muzzle. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mark. It has been so long since I've felt another in my bed. It means so much," and he went on for a time, until Mark straightened up and kissed him. Roscoe responded passionately, welcoming Mark's tongue as it slipped into his mouth, the more forceful of the two if not by much. When they parted, Roscoe asked him, "how might I pleasure you?"

Mark stroked and fondled Roscoe's aged member, though it did little to keep it from receding into its sheathe. It did make the fox gasp with delight, while Mark whispered to him, "I'd like to enter you. I have some things with me that will make it painless and easy for you. Of course, we don't have to, if you don't feel you'd like it."

"I'm curious enough to try it," Roscoe admitted, and Mark suddenly felt he could see him as that energetic young fox from the photograph very easily. He kissed Roscoe once again, then shuffled off of the bed and said he would be back in a moment. Then, he hurried off only to come back without his shirt and with a small bottle of something clear. Without the dog's shirt in the way, Roscoe could see that he was indeed muscular. It wasn't bulging muscle, but athletic and slim, clearly visible through the dog's thin fur. Roscoe opened his arms wide to welcome his lover back to the bed, and Mark hurried to rejoin him, coming to rest in those arms astride Roscoe's legs and inside of his mouth once more.

Roscoe's black paws roamed down to find the bulge at the front of Mark's jeans. From what he felt, what was inside was both formidable and tightly bound. While Mark groaned from the added pressure of Roscoe's now courageously inquisitive touch, he started to press his teeth to Roscoe's neck, perhaps with more firmness than he had before but with no less caution for the fox's pleasure and comfort. Roscoe worked the fly of Mark's jeans down, then slid them down his hips and to his knees.

The fox pushed away the dog's underwear next, releasing his member to the open air. Roscoe couldn't see it, as Mark was in he way, so he was left to exploring with his hands. What he felt was a formidable length and girth, as Mark was both longer and wider than he. He ran his thumb over the engorged head of the shaft, causing Mark's breath to catch and his hips to grind forward in Roscoe's hand.

"It seems you're ready," Roscoe observed.

"Not quite. Rub some lube on it. A lot of lube on it." Mark went back to biting the fox's neck as soon as he was done with his instructions. Roscoe assumed rightly that the bottle of clear liquid was the lube, and covered his paws with it. Then, as Mark steadied himself with a firm grip on the headboard of the bed, Roscoe caressed the dog's member and smeared the lubricant over every bit of it.

"You have soft hands," Mark mentioned, rolling his hips with forced restraint to meet the fox's inquisitive grasp. Roscoe didn't reply, instead dropping a hand down to fondle Mark's dangling balls, eliciting a deep moan from the gyrating dog. "I'm not going to last long enough if you keep this up. I think that's enough, mister Roscoe."

Deferring to the more experienced partner's judgment, Roscoe released Mark's member, allowing the dog to climb down and sit beside him. He appeared ponderous. "What are you thinking about, Mark?" The fox inquired, vaguely concerned that he may have done something wrong.

"How to do this. Come here and kneel above me, mister Roscoe." And the fox did as instructed, moving until his chest was near enough that Mark nuzzled against it and teased his nipples with teeth again. Mark covered his fingers with some of the lubricant while Roscoe held on to the bed's headboard, then positioned one finger at the opening of Roscoe's bottom.

Slowly, he rubbed circles around the pucker, until Roscoe was once again gasping with glee. Mark pressed his finger inside, never ceasing in his loving treatment of Roscoe's nipples. The old fox quivered, and with an "oh my!" his member started to sprout to life again. He lowered himself down on his knees just slightly to meet the invading finger. When Mark slid a second in to join the first, Roscoe cried out for a second time, "that feels so wonderful."

Mark slid his fingers back and forth, listening to Roscoe's delighted moans and coos. It was clear that the fox wasn't in any discomfort. Being on top like this, he could easily move away if he was. Truthfully, he would have been content to watch Roscoe like this for the rest of the day, but his member was throbbing demands for more. He slipped his fingers out of Roscoe, placing a hand on one of the fox's hips and using the other to steady his member.

"When you're ready, lower yourself down." Roscoe, excited from the sensation of fingers sliding through him, spent no time waiting. He lowered himself down, careful not to upset his old bones, by shuffling his knees forward and apart. When he felt Mark's impressive shaft pressing against his backside, he leaned back, allowing his weight to spread his anus around it. Being penetrated by this was more painful than Roscoe expected. He grit his teeth and clamped around the head of Mark's member, causing the dog to press upward reflexively, before he realized his lover's discomfort. "You need to relax," he advised, "it won't hurt as long as you relax." He made no move until he felt the elderly fox do so, some moments later. He pushed his hips up an inch further.

"Mm, gods! That's wonderful," the fox cooed, lowering himself until his bottom met with Mark's thighs. He looped his arms around the dog's neck and pulled him in for a kiss, this one being their most passionate yet without doubt. Mark was his most forceful with Roscoe, invading the fox's mouth in a fit of passion. The dog's paws squeezed and kneaded the spread cheeks of the fox's bottom, causing the fox to grip the member inside of him and whimper with delight.

Roscoe's member was without doubt hard again, and pressed tightly against Mark's abdomen. When their kiss broke and Roscoe rose on Mark's cock, the fox member rubbed against Mark's muscle, spreading a sleek line of precum as it went. When Roscoe climbed to have only Mark's head inside of him, the dog bit his neck again, this time just hard enough to elicit a sharp jolt of pain that sent a shiver through the old fox's spine, causing him to quiver on the dick inside of him.

Mark's hands came to rest on Roscoe's hips again, and they guided the fox down firmly without forcing him. The two set to a steady rhythm, with the old fox moving as quickly as he could while satisfying his much more virile lover. Mark began to thrust up to meet Roscoe, while gently pulling the fox down onto his firm shaft.

Before long, the dog's restraint started to wane, and he began to thrust into Roscoe with greater force. He lost timing with Roscoe's movements, and started to move much faster. The elderly fox could only shout in joy as each powerful lunge Mark made pressed the most pleasurable little crevices inside of him. Between his loud groans, whimpers and panting, Roscoe couldn't even mumble that he was near, instead bursting and coating Mark's chest and stomach with his cum.

The sudden clutching of Roscoe's bottom around his member was enough to drive Mark over the edge, and he filled the elderly fox, who exclaimed of how he loved it dearly. Even after their hips stopped moving, Mark and Roscoe sat, Mark buried inside of Roscoe, kissing and caressing one another.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Will you come back?" The fox asked, wide brown eyes set upon his younger lover. He had lost much of his shyness over the remainder of the day, but this question had come quietly and fearfully. He looked visibly relieved when the dog nodded. "I visit my grandparents once every month. I could spend a few nights here each time I go to stay with them. I'd stay here longer, but they're probably worried as it is."

"I'll hold you to that."

"You'd need a phone to hold me to anything! And here." Mark held a piece of paper out to Roscoe, on which he had scrawled his phone number. It took Roscoe a moment to recognize what it was. Once he did, he quietly conceded,

"I suppose I shall have to buy a phone, then. I'm sure I could have one of the neighbors help with that."