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This seems like a bad idea, but...

Desmond was only twenty dollars short. A twenty dollar bill was all that stood between him and the opiate bliss he sought and needed. Heroin - it was a rotten little habit, one an ex-girlfriend had gotten him into. He stuck his head out from his safe little nest at college, smelled pussy for the very first time, and chased it. It was a chase that stole the entirety of his student loan, his sobriety, his morals, and his virginity as a consolation prize. When his money ran dry, the pussy ran out, and Desmond was left with an insurmountable debt that he never intended to pay back. The bill collectors were a hassle, at least until he pawned his cellphone for more drug money. They sent threatening letters out to his parents, his last legal address, but they had put no effort into tracking him down. At least, that was what Desmond told himself; the truth of the matter was that they desperately wanted to know where their beloved little foxcoon had gone off to, but he didn't care. He only had one love. Not money, not family, and not even the nastiest, smelliest, lickable, most easy pussy in the world mattered next to it.

Just gotta get twenty dollars, Desmond reassured himself, clenching his jaws. He peered out of the alley with his sunken eyes, yet they were still pretty - some vibrance remained in his youthful form, but it was in dire need of detox and redemption. He's huge. This is stupid. You're going to get your ass kicked. Desmond nearly heeded his conscience; he looked upon the tall, imposing creature that he intended to roll. In the face and along his body, he looked like a dragon, sans wings or horns, but there were features of some kind of canine - considering what virile creatures dragons could be when they bred, and that hybrid DNA theory was Desmond's major before he lost all his worth, Desmond was not surprised by the dragon's appearance. What he was surprised by was the intensely idiotic thing he was about to do. The dragon-mix was the only creature around on a late night; he lingered near the alleyway, his alert eyes looking for trouble, any trouble at all, but not so he could prevent it. He was eager for a fight, a reason to pummel something bloody, and Desmond could see it. You're fucking stupid. And you're going to be fucking dead, fox.

"Turn out your pockets, gimme your wallet, and this can go smoothly." Desmond couldn't bring himself to speak without quaking; between coming down and the justified, intense fear of the hybrid creature he was threatening - with no weapon whatsoever, not even a sharpened piece of plastic - he was impossible to take seriously. Very slowly, the dragon turned, and he loomed over Desmond - his height was nearly a foot in excess of the tod's own. "You've got to be fucking joking," the draconian creature deadpanned, looking down his snout at the fidgeting, filthy, silk-haired twink of a fox. "Oh, god," Desmond squeaked, made aware of his mortality and the foolishness of his decision far too late to help. "You want my money - my valuables. Huh?" The dragon's tone was calm, nearly pleasant, yet it subtly escalated with the last few syllables. He repeated himself verbatim, his voice growing more intense with each passing second, as if his temper were fast running out, but that was only half of it - he was getting excited. He could smell fear. With the huh?, he clutched the vulpine's shoulders, and then shoved him back with dangerous force against the nearest dumpster; as Desmond slammed into it, the lid flopped shut in a deafening slap of metal-on-metal, stunning the twink into a flinch, but the impact itself was quite painful, too. "Oh, god, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Desmond started to sob, but his words degraded into hapless babbling. The dragon was not merciful to the foxcoon's pleas; any creature who tried to mug someone so much larger than themselves - unarmed, no less! - was incredibly brave, or incredibly stupid. Either way, that dragon didn't care for hubris or idiots. He captured the fox as he rose from his flinch, taking hold of that nearly feminine snout in one paw and a clump of soiled, blonde locks in the other. He squeezed with such force on the fox's muzzle that he felt the wince-inducing grinding and crunching of brittle, unwashed enamel, and he tugged so hard on that filthy mane of hair that, when he loosened his grip on it, his fingers would be laced with strands. Though the twink clawed at his wrists and met all of this pain with an ear-splitting squeal of agony and defiance, the dragon was just getting started.

Stupid. So, so stupid, and now you're going to-- Desmond's skull smashed into the sheet metal of the dumpster, leaving a dent not unlike a sledgehammer's kiss in the steel - and it left Desmond dazed and very confused, but not concussed. --die. "Fuck," he whined unnecessarily, doing all that he could to scoot away from the dragon - though his vision was blurred and his head felt like it might explode, he instinctively knew to get away, not that his instincts would help him. The dragon, an athletic creature, weighed nearly twice that of the scrawny, drug-addled fox. He planted one of his hind paws in the small of the foxcoon's back, and then he pressed down with much of his weight, letting a naughty grin overtake his muzzle. He felt vertebrae shifting underfoot, and he knew, with just a little bit more force, that this sissy fox would walk no more. But where's the fun in that? I don't want a wounded mouse - I'm no pussy. The drake stepped off of Desmond's back, but just to reassure his prey that the game was not over, he delivered a ruthless kick to the sniveling creature's ribs, bruising but not breaking those bones, knocking the wind from his lungs in one glorious, sudden gasp. "You know how everyone always says they're some bad motherfucker, and if you fuck with them, they'll rip your eyes out and pour sand in the sockets?" the dragon asked, his voice calm - much too calm. Desmond had only just begun to breathe again, and with every instinct screaming at him to get away, he did not acknowledge his attacker - that was a mistake. "Answer me!" the dragon boomed, laying into the vulpine's already bruised ribs with another kick that flopped the fox over on his bruised back. There, he lay wheezing and twitching, curling in upon himself, ignoring the outrageously painful bruises - all he wanted was that fetal position and the comfort that came with it. "You just don't fucking learn, do you?" said the drake, his tone haughty with exasperation; the third kick to the fox's battered ribs was not nearly as spectacular as the first two, but it got the point across. "Aaaugh! I get it, I f-fucking get it!" Desmond squealed, at once letting loose with his tears. The dragon smiled toothily.

"Everyone thinks they're a bad motherfucker, that they'll do the sick shit if someone gets up their ass. Well, fox," the dragon said, squatting, then leaning down, glaring into the twink's eyes with an intense, slitted glare, "I'm that sick motherfucker they want to be. I'm gonna cut your fucking head off and fuck you in the back of the throat so you can burp the taste of my cock while your empty brain is shutting down. How's that sound?" The way the fox started to break down told the dragon everything he needed to know; Desmond's terror was palpable, and it made him as hard as a rock. He intended to make good on that threat, too - after beating the fox a little bit longer, he would devise some creative way to decapitate him with the dumpster - but something the fox said clicked an idea on in his head. "Oh, god, please," he said, beginning quite poorly, as far as the dragon was concerned, "I just wanted a fucking fix, that's all, that's all I wanted..." His voice trailed off to a sobbing whisper, and the sentiment seemed to make the dragon recoil in reconsideration - but the fox's tears and pleas were pretty boring, as far as he was concerned. "You want a fix, huh? Drug whore, is that it?" he asked flatly, thudding his thick, spiked tail against the pavement. "I'm not a whore," Desmond quaked, managing to latch on to a shred of dignity, which he used to cease his tears and look the dragon in the eyes - a sight he regretted. "Well, there's your problem," the dragon grinned, showing his rows and rows of teeth to the sissy fox. "Some drug addicts can pull off the thug lifestyle. I've seen it work for plenty of guys. You, on the other hand, your kind usually winds up as a whore. Suckin' dicks and getting fucked in the ass for money." Desmond bristled at the notion, baring his own teeth, but it was in more of a grimace. "I'm not a fucking faggot!" he blurted out, earning a righteously painful slap across the face from the dragon, one in which claws were not a factor; he simply suffered the stinging pain of fleshy hide against his thinly-furred skin, and it jerked a yelp and a flinch from him - one which agitated the terrible, soon-to-be colorful bruises on his ribs. "Raise your voice again at me one more time. I fucking dare you," the dragon rumbled, menacing Desmond flush to the pavement. With a quick whiff, he realized he smelled urine - the fox had pissed his pants.

"That's all it took to make you wet yourself?" he asked with a snort of contempt, a very natural sound coming from such a draconian creature. "I don't think you'd cut it as a whore, then. Men would walk all over you. You'd probably never get paid. I think you might be better off just letting me kill you." Desmond emitted a very long, shrill whine, a beaten puppy sort of noise, but one the dragon subtly savored. "Please don't kill me," he uttered, closing his eyes, resting his head against the pavement. Looking over the twink fox, the dragon truly thought that, all things considered, he was ready to die - and had he not seen dollar signs on the foxcoon's mouth and behind, he probably would have played executioner. "If you're gonna walk the streets, you need a pimp," he said, his grin returning in full force, his pearly white teeth glistening in the streetlamp light. "I'm not a...!" Desmond started, yet he found his muzzle held shut by the drake's paw. "If you want your shit bad enough," the dragon said, pulling a crisp twenty dollar bill from his hip pocket, "you'll go queer. You want this twenty, fox? Huh? That's enough to get a nice hit, I know how much all these two-bit drug and porn peddlers charge for their shit." He pushed the bill down the front of the vulpine's pants, letting it crumple as he did; he deposited the half-wadded money in the freshly-sullied groin pouch of the tod's briefs. He lifted his paw from those unwashed depths, not caring how filthy it was, and then he slid down the zipper of his own jeans. "Suck on my cock," he whispered, fishing out his mighty erection, the knot already swollen with arousal - he was definitely part canine. Desmond looked upon the turgid, black flesh with uneasy eyes and a whine to match. If he had been more sure of himself, he probably could have run for his life and ripped off the money - but with his ribs so sore, the dragon would catch him for sure, and then... You're gonna die, foxy.

Desmond leaned closer and closer, wincing from the screaming pain of his beaten ribs. As he neared that throbbing cock, his lips parted, but his eyes closed. Very soon, he felt the swollen flesh enter his muzzle, its' musky flavor delivering a taste far different to pussy as it rubbed along his tongue. It repulsed him; his fox genes were seemingly dormant. He wanted nothing to do with the idea of having another man's penis in his mouth, but he wanted his heroin. "There you go," the dragon cooed, his voice laced with dominant sexuality, his lips no longer split with a toothy grin - he simply smiled down at the fox. "Suck on it. C'mon. Suck. Your mouth feels really nice. Guys will pay you for this shit all day." Desmond flattened his ears against his skull, and he began to suckle gingerly on the dragon's knotted cock. The bitter-salty pre came in great spurts, but he made no efforts to swallow it; it dribbled down the length of the drake's penis as freely as it entered the twink's maw. All he wanted was to get him off, that's what you want, isn't it? it over with so that he could go and buy his heroin. With the pain in his ribs reaching a fever pitch, he sucked harder and tighter, forming such a seal that the pre could no longer drip free - and so he swallowed it. It brought him no pleasure, but really, no shame, either; shame was long-dead to him. "Mmh, yeah, gonna cum real soon. Congrats, foxy - you're good at sucking dick."

With a grip that exuded dominance but enforced little, the drake held Desmond's head precisely where it was; the twink wasn't going to bob on his own, not as inexperienced and straight as he still was, and so his sucking, his only pleasure to offer, would be unhindered by that touch. The draconian hybrid was neither jaded to sex, nor was he a slut - but no matter what he was, he enjoyed dominion and rape the most. Had he met this young fox at a party and things were different, he would have gladly had consenting sex with him - but back-alley rape was preferable any day, and he was unabashedly glad for the twink tod's ill-thought-out attempt at mugging. "Rrr, yeah, c'mon," he grinned, once more showing a hint of his menacing, meat-eating teeth, "you're gonna get your first load pumped down your throat real soon. A little tip, you don't wanna swallow for most guys - last thing I need is you catching AIDS or something. But with me, you're gonna fuckin' swallow it." Desmond was stricken by the dragon's matter-of-fact, almost helpful tone - spitting had not occurred to him, not in any case, yet that was sound advice to hold on to. Sucking harder and harder, stifling revulsion with reminders of his need, the tod thought a dangerous thought; as long as he's not beating me, as long as he's keeping me safe, maybe this won't be that bad. He shuddered subtly at the thought; he didn't like that thought, not at all, and so he reassured himself - or rather, his fidgeting, opiate-hungry brain did. You're doing this for the drugs.

"Mmm, yeah, good job there," the dragon growled, pulling Desmond in, bumping the twink tod's lips and nose into the swollen, black bulk of his knot. "Shit," he said with a pleasurable rumble, at once squeezing down on the back of young Desmond's skull. His claws, not at all groomed in the traditional sense - he actually filed them down to points, rather than blunt edges - sank into the tod's scalp, drawing blood from the immensely tender flesh there. Desmond squealed around the drake's length and fidgeted, yet he largely stayed put - though that had more to do with the dragon's squeezing paw and dug-in claws. The drake shot a mighty load into the back of his mouth, a salty, gooey mess that Desmond nearly retched to taste and rushed to swallow. He voided his maw just as quickly as he could, but it wasn't until a few moments later that the dragon relinquished his head. Desmond pulled back briskly and flopped upon his back, rendered wheezing and panting, but not from the act he'd just performed - his ribs hurt him so much that he thought he might pass out. "God," he whimpered, his voice very small. The dragon rose to his feet and stowed away his waning erection and plump, furry scrotum, hiding his indecency behind the fabric of his boxers, and the fastening zipper and button of his jeans. "You sucked good dick for your first time, fox," he complimented, his tone unbiased, his face anything but. "Come on, bitch. Let's go blow that money - then you're coming home with me."

Desmond walked close to the dragon's side, ever in reach, limping for his bruised ribs. To escape such an athletic and ruthless creature with his injuries was impossible, and so he resigned himself to his submission - things were simply easier that way. He tried to head to his usual dealer, yet the dragon took him to a different one - one that he knew personally, so it seemed. They entered the dealer's den - a crackhouse, the very first Desmond had been in - and they sat upon a sofa with no cushions; those were strewn on the floor in some semblance of a soiled bed. Desmond quaked and quivered for any number of reasons, but the need for his junk was the highest on the list; the dragon was calm, nearly stoic, but the looks he offered Desmond seemed to contain reassurance - and worst of all, Desmond liked that look. Like waiting on a doctor appointment, they sat in silence, until finally, the dealer emerged. A purebred red fox, he seemed to have Desmond's lithe build, but it was clear to see that he had once been much larger, perhaps an athlete - instead of toned muscles, he had gaunt flesh clinging to his bones as though he'd spent a year in Auschwitz. "Dis yer new piece, Zenny?" he asked the dragon, his accent almost indecipherably Brooklyn - Desmond would've found it funny had he not been terrified and depressed. "Dis isn't my piece. Dis is my bitch. His ass is gonna be making me money. His mouth, too." Leaning back on the sofa, the dragon - Desmond was certain "Zenny" was a nickname - shoved the twink up from the couch. "Tell the man what you want, fox. Give him the money. I ain't buying your shit for you."

"I need heroin," Desmond said with quiet urgency - the dragon grinned at that word, need. That need was precisely what would keep him in line. "Smack, huh? I goddat," the fox said, reaching into the hip pocket of his sullied, smelly, knee-lacking jeans. He took out a ball of foil, its' size that of a shooter marble - Desmond knew there could've been anything in that foil from baby powder to excrement, but he almost drooled. He fished the formerly crisp, clean twenty from his crotch, and he shoved that soiled bill into the tod's paw with all due haste. Like a child snatching up a cookie, he grabbed the foil, and he held it tightly, unnecessarily cupping it in both paws as though the secret of life were in his grasp. "Grabby little fuckin' bitch, ain't it?" the Brooklyn tod huffed, uncrumpling the twenty, giving it only a cursory glance - and an equally brisk sniff - before shoving it down into his pocket. "Yeah, he's got an attitude," the drake murmured, standing up straight. "He's gonna learn." Though he spoke with the tone of a slightly disappointed parent, the dragon was grinning a lewd, sadistic grin; Desmond whimpered at the sight of it. "Come on, now, fox," he said quietly, pulling Desmond along by his forearm, "I've got spoons, clean syringes, cotton - all the shit we need to get your head in the clouds." Desmond momentarily resisted, yet the dragon shot him a warning glare - and Desmond promptly walked with him.

Home was a surprisingly pleasant and clean place - whatever he did, the dragon lived well, far from the ghettos that Desmond haunted. The tod was not interested in his new dwelling, however - he wanted to shoot up. "Where's the stuff?" he asked urgently, not a footfall past the threshold of the door. His eyes were wide, and they would have been pretty if not for the stressful veins that marred them. "Relax," the dragon said in a warning tone, taking a seat at his kitchen table. "Sit across from me," he urged, gesturing to a chair close by. "Fuck sitting down! I sucked your dick for this shit, I've been waiting two days for this, now tell me where the fucking stuff is!" The rational, self-preserving part of Desmond's brain that told him when he was making a mistake was mysteriously absent, dead and buried by the need for heroin. "You know when I said you were gonna learn?" the dragon asked quietly, glaring at Desmond through pinpointed eyes that shook the twink, even in his agitated state. "Here comes lesson numero uno, you twat." When he stood, he didn't lunge, nor did he run at the fox - he just walked, but his steps were calm and deliberate. Desmond whimpered, and he flattened his ears against his skull. "Oh, god, I'm sorry, please, I didn't mean to act like that!"

"I bet you didn't," the dragon rumbled, afterward knocking the fox to the floor with pitiful ease. What came first was simple and crude - he punted Desmond in the ribs again, aggravating rotten fruit-hued bruises and fractured bones, drawing a gruesome noise from the tod's lips that spoke of supreme discomfort. "You ungrateful fucking fox!" he roared, stepping over the fox to walk down the hall. Desmond stayed where he was - the door was too far, and the night was too cold to endure; maybe with the smack in his system, but not hurting like he was, and in more ways than one. Seeking the fetal position, and not for the first time that night, Desmond curled in upon himself and ignored the banshee scream of grinding bone and throbbing flesh in his flank. He soon heard the draconian hybrid trudging back his way - he knew the dragon was holding something to cause him harm, and in that sense, he was glad to be facing away, since it gave him just a few more seconds of ignorant bliss. "Get up," he warned. "Get the fuck up, and take off your fucking clothes." Desmond stayed put - he closed his eyes and sniffled with the onset of sobbing and weeping. "Listen up, fucking fox," the dragon growled, threatening to detonate at a moment's notice, "do what you're told, take off your clothes and take your fucking medicine, or I'll flush your drugs right down the toilet." That was the motivator that pain and the threat of death couldn't be, because Desmond knew he would make good on such a threat - this dragon was not somebody to push, yet that was precisely what the fox had been doing. And you just learned, didn't you? "Oh, god," Desmond whispered, rising to his wobbly feet with no grace. He shed his clothing without incident, but lifting his shirt over his head was painful in a way no loving god would have allowed.

Standing nude, Desmond looked terrible; though slender and fit, a twink-lover's dream, his coat was filthy and lacked any and all vibrance - his hair was similarly dirtied. He looked at the dragon with utterly defeated eyes; it was a gaze that accepted what was to come, acknowledging the futility of resistance. "I'm sorry," he mouthed to the drake, expecting and earning no sympathy. The dragon was momentarily stricken by the almost female beauty of the twink fox, but that wouldn't save him. Nothing would. "You are," he said flatly, stepping closer, waving around the makeshift weapon he held - a belt, one made of fine, thick leather, doubled over and ready to blister Desmond's flesh. "You were sorry when I first saw you, and you're getting sorrier by the second, fox." The strike he lashed out with caught the quaking, nude creature on the hip, winging tender flesh that was pulled tight around a slender pelvis. Desmond squealed and flinched to his side; it lit a fresh fire under the pain of his ribs, but that was to be the least of his worries. The dragon paused to wind up, and then he brought the belt crashing down upon top of the tod's shoulder - though not a terribly sensitive place, it brought the twink fox sharp pain, pain which sent him to his knees in tears. "Stop!" he squealed, his agonized demand answered with another vicious leather kiss, this one between his shoulderblades. That particular strike saw the fox arch and gasp, a gesture and noise fit for pleasure, but far from it - at the apex of this contortion, the dragon beat the belt against the tod's stomach in a smack that stung, but also winded him like a punch, and Desmond doubled-over face-first into the carpeted floor of the living room, his features screwed into a weeping, tight grimace, his ears flat to match it. The drake knelt, and with his free paw, he clutched and raised the tod's filthy tail, leaving exposed the virgin behind that the ghetto streets would soon know intimately. "In my house, bitch," he rumbled, bringing the belt down once, twice, and finally a third time on those ass cheeks, blistering them, leaving the flesh lit with red soreness, "you do what you're told, when you're told to." He rolled the fox over, and then he loomed over the weeping, beaten creature, pressing himself nose-to-nose with the unwilling faggot. "That's your first lesson. I don't think you want another. Sit at the fucking table."

Desmond was sluggish with only the cracked ribs, but with so many stinging welts and bruises marking his quaking form, he was slower than ever. The tod didn't consciously realize it, but the dragon had beaten him in such a strategic way that every motion would cause discomfort; the welts upon his shoulders and back made even the simple act of pulling out the chair difficult, and the bruise that was fast discoloring his stomach saw his shaky attempt to bend and sit accompanied by a protracted hiss, but it was the trio of venomous smacks to his behind that were most painful, and for reasons obvious. The kitchen table chairs were made of solid wood, and their beauty was brought out with a fine, dark stain - but more importantly for Desmond, they had no padding at all, and the contact of hard wood on blistering, soon-to-be peeling flesh was a lesson in suffering. Watching the tod sit with such trepidation and difficulty made the dragon smile, but there was no mistaking it for friendliness; it was curt and wicked, even without showing teeth. His eyes, ever intelligent and intense, made it abundantly clear how fascinating he found the vulpine's aches. When the fox had at last settled into his chair, the dragon also sat, doing so with breezy ease, just to remind the fox of how hobbled he was. As an unspoken warning, he laid the belt out on the surface of the table - the twink fox fixed his damp eyes upon it, and there was no doubt in his mind that the dragon wouldn't hesitate to brandish it again. "Tell me your name, fox," said the drake, distracting the foxcoon from his intent study of the belt. He answered honestly and quietly - there was no reason to lie or resist, and the petulance had already been beaten out of him. "My name's Desmond," he said, taking what he thought was an opportunity to continue. "I was going to college, studying the properties of hybrid DNA, when--," was the farthest he got before the dragon waved dismissively for him to stop. "Did I ask for your life story, fox? You were going to college - yeah, I bet. Your college educated brains told you sticking a needle in your arm was a good idea, right?" He grinned at the tod, waiting for some resistance, any fight the fox might still have, but Desmond showed none - he simply hung his head. "Heh, I bet you can't even spell DNA. Doesn't matter. Only thing you gotta know how to say now is you a cop? Handjob, blowjob, or anal? Would you like dirty talk with that? There's a special on pissing in my butt tonight." Again, he looked for the frustration and anger, but there was none - could he have really broken the little bitch so quickly?

Zenark gave up his attempts to antagonize the fox - truthfully, he thought about beating the tod just for being so compliant to his verbal abuse, but he couldn't go and lose his head for such petty reasons; Desmond was worth more without _bruises and broken bones. "So, Desmond, my name's Zenark. A lot of people call me Zen." Slowly, the fox looked up at him, and he could see the curiosity in the vulpine's haggard face and tired eyes - he was being studied. It was as if being acknowledged by name changed his mood and brought the foxcoon out of his shell. In the back of his mind, Zenark wondered the last time Desmond had introduced himself to somebody, or been referred to as something besides _fox or boy. "I've never heard a name like that before," Desmond said with begrudging respect, ever mistrusting of Zenark and wary of his wrath. "I get that a lot," the dragon answered, shooting Desmond a smile that was coy, but not malicious. "Let me make a few things clear, Desmond," Zenark began, his tone quite thoughtful, no longer turning every word into a deadly threat or dismissive insult, "you're my new, and only, ho - that's a simple fact." He rested his paws on the table, and then he interlaced his fingers, unconsciously displaying the deadly points of his claws to the fox. "I'll take good care of you if you take good care of me. Every night, you and I are gonna go out hooking. You won't see me, nobody will, but I'll be watching. I'll keep you safe. As long as you bring in, say, a thousand bucks a week, I'll keep your head in the clouds, and you'll be warm and fed." Desmond absorbed all of this with surprising thoughtfulness, but the tweaking and fidgeting was there - he so obviously wanted his junk, but, with lesson numero uno fresh in his mind and on his body, he wisely chose to play the drake's game.

"I don't know if I can do that," Desmond admitted with a shaking tone, and afterward, he averted his gaze from the drake's own. Zenark's paw shot out in a blur, and with it, he clutched the feminine length of Desmond's snout, wrenching the tod's head up and straight, guaranteeing eye contact. "Desmond," he said quietly, his voice unnervingly free of any of that righteous anger, "that was a courtesy, not a true choice. If you're not gonna be my bitch, I'll kill you and fuck your corpse until it starts to rot." Slowly, his paw withdrew from Desmond's snout, which stayed rigid, and precisely where it had been moved to. His eyes glassy with acceptance and submission, the twink fox slowly nodded, and Zenark treated the fox to a grin full of teeth and malice. That grin shook Desmond as much as ever, and again, he let his gaze drift south. Ignoring his conscience as it told him to stay quiet, Desmond instead let that pressing need do the talking. "Z-Zen," he quaked, speaking not to the dragon, but to the belt on the table, "can I please have my heroin now?" With a calm demeanor that surprised Desmond, the dragon nodded slowly, but his approval was not without a caveat. "Take a bath first, Desmond. I'll have everything ready for you by then." He thought the fox would balk, but instead, he wisely accepted those terms. With considerably more ease than when he sat, Desmond rose from the chair and waited for the drake's next move. Standing up from his own chair, Zenark walked past the tod, then gestured for him to follow. They entered the bathroom together, and the drake began filling the tub with hot, fresh water. Close by were all the things the tod would need, among them wash cloths and shampoos made for fur and hair. On the back of the door, a rack held any number of fresh, fluffy towels, and near the sink, a few unopened toothbrushes and a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste waited. "I want you to clean up good," Zenark said sternly, helping the tod into the freshly-drawn bath by holding his paw. "Behind your ears, under your armpits, bottoms of your feet, under your tail - everything. Brush your teeth when you're done, too. You're getting looked over when you're done, and if you aren't spotless, I'll put you back in and scrub you myself - and you won't like that, trust me." Desmond initially felt like a little child getting an unwanted bath from an uncaring babysitter, but as he reclined in the tub and the steaming waters soaked into his tired, sore body, he felt good, even as much as he wanted his drugs. A hot bath would do him a world of good. "Take your time. Enjoy yourself." Desmond glanced up at the dragon, and then down at the water, already turning a shade of grimy gray for all the filth on his body. "Thanks," he said softly, earning a chuckle from the dragon. "Thanks. That's a word I like to hear. Behave and obey me, Desmond. I can be very pleasant if I'm respected. You already know I'm your worst fucking nightmare otherwise." With that, Zenark left the bathroom, and Desmond began washing up.

When Desmond at last emerged from the bathroom, he looked like an entirely different creature. His fur seemed ten shades more vibrant without all of the grime and filth of the life he'd been leading, its' burnished orange shining brilliantly in the light - even the black fur of his face and his paws, hind and fore, had a fine sheen. Most impressive was the vulpine's hair, once a sickly yellow not unlike stale urine. Clean, it was a gorgeous curtain of blonde silk, and it lent itself quite damningly to his new stature as a feminine faggot. Zenark was momentarily awestruck by the tod's transformation from a homeless, scuzzy rat to an unspeakable beauty; he was going to make so much money. The dragon stood from his armchair, and he stepped close to the fox. Desmond was nude, wearing not even a towel since he had blow-dried himself, and that rendered his coat especially fluffy - even as cruel and domineering as he could be, Zenark was compelled to pet the tod, and he did. Desmond whined and winced as the drake's paws roamed his form and brushed over his sore flesh, antagonizing tender skin that had turned shades of black and blue - except for his flanks, which were becoming even more grotesque shades like purple and even green. All of this was difficult, if not impossible to see for the renewed fluff of the vulpine's coat, but both the foxcoon and the drake knew them to be there. "You look beautiful," Zenark said with no bias, only truth - he almost sounded dreamy, and indeed, he was in love with the twink tod's appearance. "Thank you," Desmond said quietly and respectfully, enjoying Zenark's fond touch atop his head and in the few places he wasn't bruised. "Now, please," he said, his voice a whimper, but not from discomfort - just that need. "Mhm. Go ahead," Zenark said, nodding back towards the table. On its' surface was the belt from before, accompanied by the foil ball, a spoon, a lighter, a plastic bag of fresh cotton balls, and a new syringe which was in a sealed blister package.

Desmond quaked at the sight, and he hurriedly sat down at the table, wincing from the bruises and the blisters, though he didn't allow them to hinder him. Zenark stood close by, his arms folded across his chest; intently, he watched the fox prepare the heroin with skill. Zenark noted how clumsy the fox had been with anything and everything before, but to see him now was to see intense focus and care. He unwrapped the foil, put it in the spoon, cooked it with the lighter, and finally, after ripping the syringe out of the blister pack, he drew it in through a cotton ball. Without a second thought, he snatched up the belt, the very one Zenark had beaten him with, and he wrapped it around his left arm; though it was much too large to be fastened around something as small as his bicep, it didn't matter. He pulled it as tight as he could, and he made to hold it that way with his teeth - but Zenark stopped him. "That's my favorite belt, don't you even bite it," he warned, delivering a sudden pinch to Desmond's ear. The twink yelped, but before he could ask what he could do, the dragon pulled the leather taut, at once drawing the veins in the vulpine's arm to the surface. Desmond briefly winced, but said nothing, and with an amazingly steady paw, he sunk the needle into an already well-tracked vein, one that would collapse soon. The soon-to-be whore bit his lip, and he depressed the plunger slowly and steadily, shunting the sweet opiates into his bloodstream. With a content sigh, one better suited for sexual afterglow, the vulpine withdrew the needle, and he set the syringe on the table. Zenark released the belt and undid its' loop, and then he set it aside. Desmond reclined in the wooden chair, his eyes closed, his nude body no longer quaking; the heroin had not affected him yet, but the placebo effect of simply having it in his system in some form calmed his nerves. Zenark, ever surprising the tod, hugged him from behind and peppered his neck and muzzle with soft kisses - Desmond was not necessarily receptive to the affection, but he did nothing to resist Zenark. "Is that what you needed, Desmond?" the drake cooed, speaking directly into the flitting, purple triangle of Desmond's ear. "Yes," the tod whispered back, relaxing against Zenark. "Good. Remember, Desmond - respect me. Obey me. You'll never have to come down again if you just do as I say."

Zenark left the fox to himself for a short time, during which he ordered dinner for the two of them. The dragon could cook, but he was in no mood to; besides, Desmond's fine body would easily recoup a take-out dinner. He was really quite considerate with the vulpine, going so far as to ask what kind of food he liked - the answer he got was Italian, and so Zenark and the fox were to eat pasta and garlic bread that evening. By the time the delivery girl arrived, Desmond's high was in full force; the tod had become quite personable, even witty to some degree, but it was abundantly clear that he was attempting to cope with the sudden change in his life. "Food's here," Zenark announced to the tod, setting a stacked trio of styrofoam containers on the kitchen table, which the drake had since cleared of drug paraphernalia. Steam wafted from them, its' scent carrying the zest of tomato sauce and countless spices; for the first time since three days prior, Desmond felt hungry, and for the first time he could remember, he was going to eat real food. Though still nervous towards Zenark, Desmond thanked the drake - and Zenark responded with a gentle smile and a dip of his head. "See? Respect me, and I can make life pretty good for you, fox." Desmond returned the smile, but it was hollow - Zenark could see that easily. He'd just reminded the tod of his authority, and he'd killed what had the potential to be a sweet moment, but that was fine; he didn't want Desmond getting too comfortable, at least not yet. In silence, the two canine hybrids ate their meals, a lack of talking that ended only when Desmond took his last bite - thus cleaning out his container, leaving only a thin coating of sauce he couldn't gather up with his fork or the bread. "So," he said, his tones no longer pleasant and thankful, but morose, "what happens to me now?" Zenark finished chewing, and then he cleared his palate with a drink of water - he took his time in getting to the tod's query, and he enjoyed the tension that created. "Good question, Desmond," he said, looking at the foxcoon through intelligent, malevolent eyes. "I want your ass tonight. Anal sex. I partly wanna get your crying and begging out of the way - not a lot of johns like that shit. Mostly, though?" The drake paused in his rhetorical flair, cracking a grin. "I just want to bust a nut under your tail before you're totally ruined from hooking. I mean, seriously, Desmond - a cute fox bitch like you is gonna be a train wreck. Your farts are gonna sound like your asshole is sighing." With the heroin in his veins, Desmond was more than capable of offense, of clinging to some dignity - but he was also much more capable of self-preservation, and he knew it was a trap to make him walk into lesson number two. Swallowing his atrophied pride, the tod hung his head, and he sealed his fate for that night. "Alright, Zen."

How could this have happened? Why did I have to try to roll him? Now I wish he would have just killed me...

Desmond was more comfortable than he'd been in months; sleeping in alleyways and suffering through the rain with other homeless trash had become familiar to him, but he never grew comfortable with that. As he lay in Zenark's plush bed, its' surface large enough for the drake and his new vulpine bitch to rest without so much as bumping elbows, he reflected on the misfortunes of his day, but with a queer ambivalence. There, on his belly, his body naked, his veins full of smack, he quaked. He had every reason to quake - Zenark was off in the restroom, and in any moment, he'd come back in, and Desmond would be raped. The fox was about to forcibly lose his anal virginity, something unfathomably scarring and horrible. But then you can sleep in a soft bed. But... And you got your heroin. But... And you'll always have a soft bed, and you'll always have heroin, and you'll always be safe - if you respect him. If you do what he says. And right now, he says to give up your ass. Desmond sobbed; it was not plural, nor did it lead to tears. It almost sounded like a cough, and had Zenark been in the room and in earshot, he would've dismissed it as such - but no, it was a single weep. It was the only sound in the room, interrupting a deafening silence, making the fox all too aware of it after the fact. He looked up from the pillow, and he inspected the bedroom; tasteful, furnished with an oak dresser and a nightstand to match, with a small, cozy lamp on its' surface. It reminded him of home, the bedroom he'd kept neat and tidy for nearly twenty years under the care of his parents. Thinking of them and the life he'd left made him sob a second time, but this time, it degraded into weeping and tears. By no means was the tod bawling his eyes out, but his fears and regrets were easily laid bare - especially as Zenark emerged from the restroom, nude and erect, his draconian, knotted length standing at attention. He walked close to the bed, and he quietly knelt upon its' surface; he straddled the tod's legs, and he allowed his turgid meat to prod the crack in the taut curve of the tod's behind. "Why are you crying?" he asked, his words bearing the potential for care, but the tone lacked any and all such emotion. Desmond steeled himself - at least, to the extent that he could - and sniffed hard. "I miss my old life," he said, breaking down into more sobbing and weeping only in the final word. Zenark gently patted his shoulder, a gesture of comfort, but he shoved his hips forward, neatly hotdogging the velvet-furred cleft of the foxcoon's behind. "Don't we all," Zenark deadpanned, bearing only a subtle grin. "Whatever it was, foxy, forget it. Time only marches ahead. Enjoy what you have."

Beyond that little tease, Zenark didn't have another word for the fox - and Desmond, despite his occasional sniffles and whines, was similarly silent. With no delays and no mercy, the dragon-wolf set about exactly what he'd promised; he prodded his swollen, oozing cock to the virginal pink pucker of Desmond's asshole, and he pushed forward. Steadily, he ramped up the force behind his hips until he felt that tender ring give way; Desmond erupted with a shrill cry rendered muffled by the pillow, and Zenark pushed his mighty cock in to the hilt. Zenark was too large to be anybody's first - it was as simple as that. For him to give it to the foxcoon so hard, so fast, and so dry was cruel and sick, but it did have function behind it; the fox would know how to cope with rough sex, at least. "Tiiight," Zenark hissed through grinning, gritted teeth, taking hold of the tod's hips with both paws. With his knot pressed flush to the miraculously intact pucker of the silk-haired tod's tail hole, Zenark momentarily admired the writhing, androgynous form beneath his own; indeed, from behind, Desmond looked like a fine vixen, and once again, he saw dollar signs. I'm gonna make so much money off this bitch, he thought with a gleeful snicker, an impulse that sent a sadistic shiver up his spine. The time for playing was over; he wanted to get his rocks off so they could sleep. Tomorrow night, Desmond would go out hooking - they both needed their rest. "Take it, Desmond," Zenark rumbled, well aware of the fact that the foxcoon had no choice in the matter. He started to buck his hips hard and fast - there was no love, and if anything could have been mistaken for affection, it was certainly not the case. The best word for Zenark's technique was efficient, for he cared only about blowing a load. Desmond's well-being was far from important to him, for even if the fox was loose come tomorrow night, his female beauty and long, pretty muzzle would still have those horny men lining up. So much money, Zenark reminded himself, his grin growing just a little bit more toothy and broad.

Beneath, the drake heard hushed, whimpering words, but they were clear as day to his long, sharp ears. They were little snatches of pleas, inarticulate begs for mercy - Zenark loved it, but if Desmond was going to be a successful slice of ass for the street, he'd have to moan and fake it. Freeing one mighty paw from the tod's hip, the draconian lupine clutched a great handful of the twink's silky locks, and he tugged sharply. He lifted young Desmond's head from the pillows and wrenched a blood-curdling shriek of a squeal from his lips, but most importantly, he got the tod's attention with undue haste. "Moan, bitch! Moan like you fucking mean it!" Zenark shouted, ramping up his ruthless assfucking to match that intensity. Desmond quaked with fake moans and whimpering - they spoke of discomfort, not pleasure. "I said moan, Desmond," Zenark rumbled, letting go of the tod's hair. Beneath, the tod did all he could - he grunted and moaned, but the noises were contrived, interrupted by twinges of pain. The dragon needed to keep coaching the fox, but he couldn't; the sadism, the squealing, and the obvious pain of the rape was all too much, and he was about to cum. Whore-moans would come later; anal knotting was to be the vulpine's lesson for the night instead. With his clawed paws, Zenark pinned him by the shoulders, pushing his slender form as roughly into the mattress as he could. With the bed's springs squealing rhythmically beneath, Zenark pounded the unwilling fag of a fox harder and harder, faster and faster, exhibiting the most callous pleasure he could. Through gritted teeth, and over the whelping theatrics of the smack whore below, Zenark hissed and rumbled with outspoken pleasure. Spittle flew from his teeth and spattered on the the tod's back. With one mighty, final heave, Zenark threw his hips into the fox's ass with all his weight behind him, and with a sickening, lewd shhh-pop!, that big, black bulge tied one hell of a knot in the foxcoon's ass. It was like having a fist pounded past the threshold of his ass - Desmond didn't make a sound because he didn't have a reaction suitable for such discomfort. He just quaked beneath the drake, his body nearly vibrating. Zenark panted and huffed with gruff sexuality, and then he came mightily, pumping his virile load uselessly into the twink fox bitch's behind. "God_damn,_" Zenark grunted unnecessarily, the word coming out as a demonic snarl for his grimacing teeth, "what a lay."

Seconds passed slowly for Desmond, but the crescendo of pain that was Zenark's knot started to taper off; unfortunate for the fox, then, that the dragon-wolf promptly yanked it back out. With all the care and consideration he'd shown before - that is, to say, none at all - Zenark plucked his knotted cock free of the vulpine's ass, and then he promptly clutched both cheeks of the sniveling coonfox's rump. He parted them wide, exposing that wrecked asshole. No longer a pucker, not even close to one, it drooled with discarded semen. Zenark smiled with a coy flair, and he unhanded the tod's cheeks. Smoothly and easily, he scooted up beside the tod, turned off the light, and slept soundly. Desmond joined him much later, his sleep fueled by pure exhaustion. He had no thoughts of malice, or revenge, or even of escape; he was just tired.