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For Christine, it was a work night like any other. In the chilly air, she stood out front of the Fagnasty - which rhymed with dynasty - and she worked as a bouncer. Most people had day jobs, but Christine had a night job. She rose with the moon and slept while the sun reigned, but considering she was a hyena, it seemed like a perfectly natural sleep schedule. Christine enjoyed her job, and she was damned good at it; perfectly suited to it, too. She wasn't the tallest girl, coming up to about six feet at the crown of her skull, taller at the peaks of her ears, and even taller still at the bristling, purple-dyed points of her mohawk, but she had other attributes; namely, a muscular physique. The hyena had thick, toned legs, garbed in cargo pants in a matte black shade; her feet were in heavy work boots, of course, because that was what complimented such a punky look. Further up her body, she had on a purple-accented sports bra keeping her plump, all-too-obvious breasts in place, worn for comfort, not style nor sexuality. Beyond being tall for a girl - a slight misnomer - and being toned, Christine had other assets that made her a superb bouncer. Most notably, a mouth full of bone-crushing teeth, and an attitude just irate enough for her to use them under the right circumstances, not that she ever had.

You got a stamp? Twenty bucks if not. That was the mantra, again and again; occasionally she got to mix it up with get the fuck out of here or, so much more rare that she almost never said it, you're all right - you get a stamp for free, and maybe my number later. Incessantly, she took assorted bills, and she stuffed them into her hip pocket; she didn't do anything slutty like shove them down into her cleavage, though one person attempted to do just that for her, and what he got was a nearly sprained wrist. Aside from that brief altercation, her night was smooth for a time, and the convenient thing about being an outdoor bouncer was that trouble usually telegraphed itself well in advance. A rowdy drunk working his way up the line could be detected a mile away, and if they attempted to cut, the others in line oftentimes enforced vigilante justice, usually reprimanding the loser themselves, but sometimes going a step too far, and in those instances, Christine had to play referee. She saw trouble saw down near the foot of the line, not queuing, but loitering, yet neither drunk nor belligerent; in fact, he was downright nerdy, a lanky creature who looked better suited to an office than the entryway to an alarmingly homosexual club. He had something clutched to his chest like a dear possession, a book or a bundle of papers, but Christine only took a particular interest in him when she caught sight of him handing off one of the papers he held. A flyer. No solicitors was something she recalled from her sparse employee training. "Sec," she grunted to the next queer in line, stepping to the double doors of the entrance. As she peered in, she caught sight of her relief, and her backup if things became especially hairy; he was a tall creature, ursine in species, a literal wall of flesh both toned with muscle and blubbery with fat. "Gotta go crack a skull," she said to the bear, shooting him a toothy smile, earning one in return. As she stepped back out, the bear followed; he took her place and duty at the door, and she walked down the line. When the nerdy creature with the flyers caught sight of Christine, he started to visibly shake.

Within a few feet of the flyer-wielding runt, Christine started to grin. It was almost involuntary, a symptom of her species as a hyena, and though it was really more of a stressed grimace, the lanky creature she was bearing down on only saw those menacing teeth, and he fidgeted. "Can't pass them flyers out here, little boy," she growled, her Australian tones coming across in a vaguely Americanized slur. "Go on, now. You need to shoo. No solicitors," Christine said sharply, planting a heavy, fingerless-gloved, black paw on the hapless nerd's shoulder. Like a stern parent, she physically turned him - with a better look, she saw he was some kind of a mutt-dog, German Shepherd in the face, but lacking the distinctive colors - and made to shove him on his way, physical assault charges be damned. "Ah, wait, I can explain!" he said with a literal squeak, bracing his sneakered feet against the pavement so that Christine's shove nearly pushed him flat on his face. He recovered in a stumble, clutching the flyers to his chest like an infant, and he turned to look her in the eye, something he regretted. She was incredibly pretty, that was no lie, but she had that uniquely hyena capacity to look mean without even trying; she was no longer grinning, but she still showed her teeth, and her eyebrows were crumpled close together above domineering, slitted eyes that weren't simply running low on patience - they never had any at all. "Gimme one reason not to snatch you by the tail an' the scruff so I can toss your lanky ass out of here," Christine commanded, and in that dominance, her grin returned, though the annoyance stood its' ground, lingering on her brow like an irate ghost.

"Because, um," he squeaked, doing very little to impress Christine, "I'm prepared to offer you a substantial amount of cash to--," said the mutt-dog, interrupted and startled into utterly fidgeting submission by a sudden wild-dog cackle. "Bribe me? You're gonna bribe me so you can stick up some flyers for your faggy little garage band or something?" she said, every syllable forged out of raw derision. "Lemme see one," the hyena snapped, just as quickly reaching out, grabbing and creasing one of the flyers; she expected monochromatic paper, but no, what she grabbed was glossy, and in vivid color. Right away, she knew she wasn't touching something spawned by somebody's copy, fax, and printing machine. When she trained her eyes on the face of the flyer, she knew why.

KAHNSO AND THE DEEP INCHES, LIVE AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN!

Just that first word - the name - had her rapt attention; everybody listened to Kahnso, or was at least aware of him, and even people who hated his music liked his body; Christine happened to like both his music and his figure. She was guilty of listening to him while she exercised, of humming his music in the shower, and of projecting him onto her roommate - the sissy fox who maintained her apartment - when he was employing his tongue on certain parts of her body as she rubbed one out. At the most basic level, Christine liked Kahnso, and though the scrawny dog was chattering about something, she wasn't paying attention. The sight of Kahnso's largely nude body in vivid color and high-resolution, his sheath bulging lewdly through the enviable leather of his loincloth, was enough to arouse the sleeping serpent of her cock. Witnessing this silenced the dog in mid-sentence - and attracted a few glances - but nobody dared remark on it. "So, uh," she finally said, still staring at the flyer, "get lost. I got shit to do." The concert was in a week; according to the flyer, thousands of tickets were available, but she wasn't interested in those. In smaller print, the legend along the bottom, near Kahnso's foot, read Security staff needed - INEXPERIENCED NEED NOT APPLY. That was her ticket to meeting Kahnso.

Ordinarily, Christine's routine when she got home from work was to flop back in her recliner while her roommate - who could have been considered a slave in the eyes of some - served her dinner and then worshiped her feet, sometimes with his paws, sometimes with his tongue, and sometimes both, but always in that order. However, she neglected him that night; as soon as she got home, she got on the computer, and she brought up the site listed on the flyer; it was a temporary domain, kahnsoatmsg, intended for that concert only, and after a little bit of hunting, she found the staff link. While she perused the page, her roommate tried to pester her, asking if she wanted dinner, but she brushed him away, almost literally, and went back to work. "No time for your faggot ass," she dismissively grunted, hunching herself over her laptop like an ogre, "go tongue-wash my socks or something." With her roommate dealt with, Christine went back to her computer screen; she was elated to learn that a staggering number of security roles still needed filling. She punctuated this with a happy shriek that may or may not have been an obscenity mangled by her accent and a fist-pump. The position she applied for was backstage security; the prerequisite to the position was a minimum of at least three years in one of the listed professions, and among them was establishment entryway security/bouncer. "This fuckin' gig is mine," the hyena cackled as she finally clicked submit, sending her application off to the venue staff. The pay was pretty good, but she couldn't have cared any less about that. She held up the poster again - something she intended to keep as a souvenir - and she dragged her tongue across Kahnso's glossy, not-to-scale chest.

Christine counted the days until the weekend; Kahnso and his band would be playing two shows, the first on Saturday, the second and last on Sunday; she was scheduled as security for Saturday's show. In her bedroom, she dressed in her best work clothes; the jet-black cargo pants with nothing underneath them, socks and boots, fingerless gloves, and then a wife beater - also black - with a few rips and tears on it. Just as she was slipping that last article on, her roommate appeared in the threshold of the door; she could see the interest in his eyes as she adjusted the plump mounds of her breasts, but out of simple respect - or obedience, as she preferred to look at it - he didn't remark on it. "Kahnso and The Deep Inches, huh?" he asked, his face bearing a coy smile. Christine smirked in return, flashing her teeth. "Yeah, I dig their music, and the extra money's nice," she answered, her voice containing no special malice, but still bearing some even at an idle. "C'mere and help with me with my 'hawk," she growled, rising from the edge of the bed, trudging over to the mirror. A year ago, she remarked to herself, she couldn't hear the sound of her own footsteps in the bedroom for all the filthy laundry caked to the floor like a second carpet. Ever since she'd brought that foxcoon in, her apartment was cleaner than the day she moved in, and she reflected on this thought as she sat down at her vanity. The coonfox stepped up behind Christine, and he looked over the purple-tipped hair that would be her mohawk once he was done with it; Christine had been able to dress her hair up before, but since realizing the sissy fox could do hair, too, she just let him handle it. He usually got it done quickly, too. That occasion was no exception.

"You're hot for that guy, aren't you?" he asked, spiking her hair neatly with liberal amounts of gel, a kind that dried hard and translucent, but became brittle when exposed to water, designed for easy removal. Christine swore by that gel; her roommate never failed to remark - only to himself - how much it looked like her hair was full of jizz before the goop dried. "Yer hot for my taint, what the fuck's it to you, faggot?" Christine growled back, glaring the foxcoon down in the mirror. He blushed and grinned, but didn't concede. In the first few months, he was remarkably submissive and compliant; Christine supposed he still was, but he had since developed into something of a sparring partner if they were both in the right mood. "Just saying, if you're hoping to get close to someone like Kocaine Kahnso," he chuckled, demonstrating more knowledge than the casual listener right there, "you're going to be so disappointed." Christine paused, and in idle concentration, she watched the fox's skilled paws dress her hair; he really was good at it, she had to admit that. He was like every gay stereotype she could imagine in one person, but it made him useful around the apartment. "I wasn't hopin' for shit," Christine lied, failing miserably at it, annoyed and flustered by the foxcoon's antagonistic behavior. "Good!" he grinned, slathering gel on the last section of the hyena's mohawk, combing it up with his fingers alone. "I heard he only likes faggot boys, like me," he gushed, leaning over Christine's shoulder, bumping cheek-to-cheek with her, but looking into her eyes through the mirror. The mohawk was complete, and, content in re-instating her dominion, Christine planted a heavy paw on his face and shoved him back. "You wish, assfag," she growled, her voice morose, not teasing. She stood up and glanced back at the fox, who was interlacing his fingers like a cartoon villain, only compounded by his devious grin, but entirely undermined by the very semen-like appearance of the excess hair gel. Jeez, is that what that crap looks like when it's wet? Christine thought, the idea forcing a crude laugh out of her; it startled the fox and made him flinch out of his grin. Not how I planned to do it, she thought, smacking a paw down on his head before walking out the door, but it works. "Clean up while I'm gone, boy," she called back, even though that was a given. She didn't wait for him to answer; he never did. He just obeyed. Christine grabbed her wallet, and she left.

Christine liked the atmosphere of the arena; it was like the Fagnasty, only a thousand times more populous and rowdy. People whooped and hollered in drunken bliss as the opening band, Unnecessary Malice, thrashed through their short set. Before she even made it to the door labeled SECURITY ONLY, where she had been instructed to head for her badge and walkie-talkie, she broke up a fight in a lobby, just rescuing some drunken, obviously underage college boy - who strongly reminded her of her roommate, with his silky, blonde hair and girly stature - from getting his teeth knocked down his throat by an irate big cat of some sort. She was actually pretty proud of that; she caught the feline's fist out of the air, pushed him back, and then snatched the girly-boy up before he could make a fatal, drunken lunge. Who am I? I'm fuckin' security, now you boys play nice, she'd told them as she handed them off to the security guards in the lobby there. By the time she got her badge - she requested it read CHRIS HEATH - and her walkie-talkie which incessantly belched bursts of static and police-scanner-inspired dialogue garble, her adrenaline rush had worn thin, and her rational thought had returned in full force. Yeah, working is great, she told herself, heading for her assigned spot, the backstage corridor, but rockstar dick would be better.

Were she not excited at the notion of perhaps bumping into Kahnso, Christine thought she might fall asleep from boredom. From behind the stage, Unnecessary Malice was a series of droning, muffled thuds, and the rasp of the audience was a passable white noise to assist in putting her to sleep. She thought the job was pretty easy money, too, but that didn't help the boredom; she stood at the entrance to the backstage hall - one of several, the others guarded by more individuals like herself - and she checked badges for validity. Nobody even bothered to try sneaking or bullshitting their way in, something that both surprised and disappointed her. Another fight, even a small one would have done wonders for her mood, to give her a raw jolt of adrenaline - but no. She started to realize that being a security guard was actually incredibly dull; at least at the Fagnasty, she interacted with eye-candy. All she felt like was a living door, letting in people who had the right keys. She started to succumb to that utter boredom, and she yawned; Unnecessary Malice was still thrashing away, and she began to wonder if they'd ever stop. Just seeing Kahnso leave his dressing room - she wasn't even fifty feet from it, and the idea that he was so close was agonizing - would have revitalized her, but no luck. The opening band continued to thrash on brainlessly; Christine leaned against the threshold to the backstage hall, the points of her mohawk nearly touching it. She sighed in disappointment and exasperation. This was a stupid idea anyway. How many chicks here wanna fuck Kahnso just like you do? Besides - most of them don't have dicks. "That's true," Christine said to herself in response, but she chuckled dryly. In only a few more minutes, an answer to her troubles appeared.

Christine had, for all her hard-ass antics, never done drugs or been involved in any kind of a drug deal. In retrospect, it was obvious that the cute wolf she spoke to was carrying cocaine, but at the time, she had no idea. She had dealt with drug addicts, of course; policing the Fagnasty's entrance, she turned away - and called the police on - any number of tweaking dirtbags, and she'd learned to spot all of it. Dull pot, intense cocaine, violent and crazy PCP, spaced-out meth - Christine had seen it all at some point, but that wolf didn't tweak or twitch or look over his shoulder in paranoia. He was just a cute little charmer, and he politely asked if he could pop backstage to see Kahnso. Christine wasn't comfortable telling him to fuck off because there was something sweet about him, some kind of charisma that, upon later examination of the situation, she couldn't define. She simply liked him for some reason. "I can't do that, babe, you're missin' one of these," she said, flicking the badge clipped between her breasts; CHRIS HEATH, and beneath, SECURITY - BACKSTAGE ACCESS was the legend with a grinning mugshot close by, and he understood that. He didn't argue or complain; he just smiled and unzipped his backpack, from which he produced a zip-lock baggie full of a dubious white powder. Christine stared at it in dumb fascination. That cocaine rumor wasn't a rumor, some part of her conscience deadpanned, and she took the bag as it was offered to her. The substance inside clotted like snow as she turned it, but it just as easily dissolved into a sugary, ultra-fine powder. This seriously can't be happening. You fell asleep or something. This is fucked up. The wolf, seeming to recognize the apprehension, smiled reassuringly at her and re-zipped his pack. "Listen," a pause and a squint at her badge, "Chris?" Again, he smiled and trained his eyes on hers. "Can you make sure Kahnso gets that?" Christine nodded slowly, dumbly. "Great. I'm gonna see if I can't catch the show. Truth be told," he leaned close for a confidential whisper, delivering it with a grin, "I like Unnecessary Malice more than Kahnso. He's just a little too showy for me." And with that, the wolf was gone. Christine palmed the bag of cocaine, and then she let pure rationality take over. She lifted her walkie-talkie to her lips and depressed the transmit button. "Heath stepping away from backstage checkpoint three, request temp," and she walked smoothly to Kahnso's dressing room door. She lifted a paw, curled it into a fist, and rapped her exposed knuckles on it.

"Yeah, hold on," Christine heard from the other side; she recognized that voice, those masculine, yet dulcet tones, that bad-boy gruffness with a layer of crooning romanticism over top of it. It was Kahnso. And she heard the doorknob unlock. Over the course of a century, it twisted, and then the door swung back, revealing him oh god it's him fuck the unmistakable Kahnso. Christine gripped the bag so hard, it was a miracle she didn't burst it or sink her claws into it. She looked him over, and everything was right. None of it was a stage show that she could see. The loincloth, the blue fur, the red eyes, and those fangs. She grinned and licked her teeth. I want this man, she told herself, and that only widened her predatory grin, her teeth showing in such completeness that Kahnso pursed his lips and blinked uneasily. "Uh," he uttered, leaning on the door, its' frame creaking, "you have something for me there?" Christine first thought to hand him the bag, but then she didn't. It was better as a bargaining chip. "Yeah," she said, accompanying her reply with a smart nod, "mind if I come in?" Kahnso shook his head and stepped to the side; Christine practically floated in.

Kahnso shut and locked the door behind Christine. Absently, she knew it was because of the drugs, but she was excited to think it had something to do with her, too. She clutched the bag of cocaine to her bosom like a teddy bear, and she took in the sight of the dressing room. It was dull, average, boring; not befitting of rock royalty, she thought. There was a plus-sized bed - plus-sized even for a man of Kahnso's size - and that was a mark in the room's favor, anyway. "Cigarette?" Kahnso asked rather politely, taking a seat in a normal desk chair, next to a normal desk. She saw no razor on the desk, but he did have his credit card there, and a bill - she imagined, just because he was Kahnso, that it was a hundred - rolled up into a tight, straw-sized tube. "Nah," Christine said, surprised her voice didn't come out as a squeak. He leaned back in his chair, unconsciously presenting his ultra-masculine form. The chiseled muscles were something Christine would have gladly sunken her teeth into, at least in the proverbial sense; that indescribably thick crotch bulge behind the loincloth was another story. With his thick black mane of hair and long muzzle, Kahnso was effortlessly handsome, and this wasn't lost on Christine. "You've got something of mine, there," Kahnso said calmly, gazing over at Christine with bedroom eyes and a coy smile, "mind handing it over?" Finally, Christine gave the bag of cocaine up, and the fox looked it over with a grin which manifested the moment he touched the bag. Even as sexy as he was, Christine couldn't ignore that that was the face of a drug addict, though her conscience didn't bother her for too long. "So, um, my name's Christine, but you can me Chris, or Chrissie, or whatever you want," she said with a slowly widening grin, her eyes glazed with what looked to be pleasure. Her cargo pants hid it well, but she was getting an erection.

"Chris_tine, huh," Kahnso said wistfully, laying the bag on the desk, where it slumped over tiredly. _I find sex accompanies blow nicely, she imagined him saying next - oh, she would have used any old excuse to get naked with that rockstar. "Yeah," Christine said, but it was not in reply - she was fantasizing about Kahnso. "I like that name," said the rockstar, taking a cigarette out of a pack nearby; she didn't recognize the brand because they were imported from Germany. Asked why on the subject, Kahnso would have answered because they're the most expensive cigarette in the world. "I really like that name, Christine," he said, lighting the cigarette with a gold lighter. "I'm happy to have a woman like you on security detail. Another person might not have brought me this," he smirked, nodding at the bag of snow-white blow on the desk. "They might have panicked and called the cops, and that would just be a mess." He reached out; Christine was out of arm's reach, but she eagerly rectified this. He put his paw on her hip, and he squeezed; Christine moaned like a common whore. Her cock throbbed, but Kahnso didn't notice it. "I like hyenas," he grinned, afterward taking a long, gratifying drag off of his cigarette. "They're noisy as fuck in bed and they like to bite. You like to bite when you're getting laid, Christine?" She answered without thinking. Blatant honesty was all she could conceive of. "Sometimes I bite. When I'm getting fucked in the ass, yeah, sometimes," she said with an unintentional growl, but it only made Kahnso grin, showing teeth, nearly biting his cigarette in half at the filter. "Sexy name, sexy look, species I like, and kinky - I think you're an all right bitch, Christine." And I wanna have sex with you, Christine imagined, letting a dreamy sigh pass her lips. She expected to wake up, but she didn't; Kahnso fiddled with the waistband of her cargo pants, and she felt his actual paw on her actual, naked hip, coaxing a blissful whimper from the hyena. Such a noise was uncharacteristic of her, and she acknowledged this with some irony, but she really was in no position to care. If she whimpered for her roommate, that was humiliation. For Kahnso, it was acceptable.

"You know, I've got another hour or so before that shitty cover band is done abusing their instruments," Kahnso said quietly around the cigarette, menacing Christine's libido with his dull-red eyes and coy smile. Christine didn't smile back; she showed the fox a full-blown grin, and her short tail swished eagerly. That unnatural cock of hers left such a striking bulge, even in the baggy material of her cargo pants, yet Kahnso did not speak a word about it. Maybe there were things she didn't know about him, but one way or the other, she didn't care. "Yeah?" Christine asked, gazing at the rockstar with eyes half-closed, her paws clasped behind her back. "Oh, yeah," Kahnso rumbled, his meaty paw sliding around to the hyena's backside and under the waistband of her cargo pants. He clutched a fistful of toned ass cheek, and Christine quaked at his possessive, lewd touch. "Nice ass I'm feeling, here," said Kahnso, drawing his tongue over his lips. "I think I'll take it." He slid his paw free of her pants, and he turned her with suggestion, not force; Christine was compliant in a way her roommate would have never let her forget had he been witnessing it. "Yeah, this is all right," Kahnso said, twisting to sit side-saddle on his chair. He paused to knock the cherry off of his cigarette, and then, with that fag hanging off of his lip, he returned to Christine's hindquarters with his full attention. Through the slack material, he palmed and squeezed great, greedy handfuls of those ass cheeks. Christine shuddered and growled; she was leaving an incredible stain of pre on the crotch of her pants, and she didn't care at all. "I want a bite of that ass," Kahnso grinned. With his left paw still rubbing, he snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray with the other. Then, with both paws and his muzzle unobstructed, he clutched the waistband of those cargo pants, and he slowly tugged them downward.

Christine shivered in exhilaration as her taut behind was exposed. Kahnso lowered her pants no further than the first quarter of her thighs, pressed together tightly, which pinned and held the pants. The waistband snagged on her erection, but the fox didn't seem to notice as the material caught and then sprung downward. The walkie-talkie started to hiss with static, and then came the irate voice of the dispatcher. "Heath. Chris Heath, where the fuck are you? Back to your post!" Christine reached for the button to shut it off, but Kahnso beat her to it; it made the hyena snicker. Licking his fangs in a gesture so incredibly lewd and kinky, the tall fox clutched the exposed flesh of the hyena's behind, and there he kneaded and palmed. His paws, though lacking pads, were soft and muscular, their touch lewd but oddly respectful. He squeezed possessive handfuls of that flesh, and all the while, being such an ass-oriented creature, Christine was at no shortage for heated moans and gruff exhalations. "I like havin' my ass handled like that," she said in a voice that was nearly a confidential whisper, delivered with a grin. "Sounds like it," the coke-addled fox said, smoothly parting those ass cheeks to expose the pink entrance within, a delicate and inviting asshole - the opposite to her personality. He didn't ask nor drop the slightest hint as to what came next; he leaned in, and he slurped across her tail hole. It was without affection, purely the antics of a horny, spoiled man, and Christine wouldn't have wanted anything else from that rockstar. Shuddering, moaning, she pushed her behind back into the sabertoothed tod's tongue. Kahnso dragged over her quivering pucker over and over, depositing hot, sticky saliva on and around it. "Oh, gawd, stick it in," Christine groaned under her breath, her short, tufted tail lashing over Kahnso's face unintentionally, but enticingly nevertheless. "She's a very kinky girl," Kahnso sneered, enjoying a moment of pause to grind his nose into the hyena's taint, though this didn't last.

Kahnso pressed the wide, pliable bulk of his tongue to Christine's asshole, and she shuddered just from that; when the colossal fox started to wiggle and push with it, however, that made her moan, and as it finally gained purchase and started to sink inside, defying hot anal walls that so rarely got fucked, the hyena bitch tossed her head back and erupted with a pleasurable cry. Her meat squirted a wad of pre, the slime landing in the gaudy shag carpeting of the room noiselessly. "Oh, gawd, you got a nice tongue, baby," she said through snatches of breath, her pink pucker clenching down hard on the rockstar's tongue, making his job difficult, but he seemed to like the opposition, to have to work for what he wanted. While squeezing the punk bitch's ass cheeks as hard as he pleased and keeping them spread wide, Kahnso bullied his tongue deeper into that taboo passage, its' slobbery girth coaxing increasingly pleased moans and even little whimpers and whines from the hyena. She reached back, setting a paw on the tod's head, gripping his hair without realizing it; Kahnso spent thousands of dollars having his hair teased and dyed and groomed just right by hairdressers he sometimes flew in from other countries, but he couldn't have cared any less about that, for he enjoyed it when ladies got a little rough with him; if that lovely Christine wanted to jerk his hair or claw bloody gouges out of his chest, he welcomed it. As it was, he rewarded the hyena's dominant grip on his hair with deeper laps that slathered every inch of tender anal flesh in wet saliva. In his indiscriminate tongue-lashing, he even stimulated the hyena's prostate; he was oblivious to the true nature of the dickbitch's moans and cries when he happened to do that, but he liked the sound of them all the same.

The tip of the fox's tongue explored flesh Christine wasn't even aware she had; her roommate had an unusually long tongue, but Kahnso, by virtue of his sheer size, had an even longer one. It was like a new experience to her, and it was one that made her thick erection throb harder and harder, oozing with more pre by the second, shooting it instead when those oozes coincided with the throbs just perfectly. The slime ran down the length of her imposing dark meat and smeared into the black-furred flesh of her scrotum, where it left that fur matted and cow-licked, but Kahnso was ever oblivious to the hyena's true gender. As hard as he was licking her, Christine forgot that he was oblivious, too; that was why, when the beautiful stud pulled back, smacked his lips, and told her to turn around, she didn't hesitate. Whatever Kahnso expected, he didn't get; Christine smoothly and quickly turned, and her member collided with the tod's cheek in a wet smack! that didn't hurt him, but startled him enough to make his eyelids flutter. Christine, for a rare moment in her life, wasn't grinning; she looked down at Kahnso with a rather dumb expression of her own, as if surprised to remember that she happened to be packing. Kahnso eased back, his eyes focused on the glans of the thick penis before him; it was every bit of eleven inches, and truthfully - aside from his own - it was the largest he had ever seen in person. Christine started to feel stupid and dejected, even in light of the rimming she'd just received. "Um," she grunted, "you want me to go?" Kahnso eased back in his chair, and he dragged his tongue over his fangs, then his lips. "No," he answered simply, and a full second afterward he clapped a paw down on the hyena's hip, which he used to turn and pull in the pretty creature. She grunted, but did as the fox suggested with his touch, and this led to her being seated in his lap.

Christine was not too familiar with leather, but she liked the feel of it, especially against her taut, well-licked behind. It was doubly exciting because she could feel that menacing, dormant sheath beneath it, throbbing, pulsing, so very much alive, yet asleep. She consciously wiggled into it, blushing and grinning from the feeling; Kahnso shuddered, and Christine, who was leaning back into the large vulpine's chest, could feel it when he rumbled with a growl. "I'll admit, you're a little bit better-hung than most of the ladies I spend time with," Kahnso said in deadpan, wrapping his right paw around the hyena's member without an ounce of trepidation, "but I can still dig it." Something else struck Christine; my roommate wasn't joking. He's actually touching my dick. The thought wasn't repulsive, however; it was arousing as hell, maybe surprising, but not at all off-putting. The big, blue fox started to stroke the pretty punk off, his soft-furred paw gliding up and down the length of that black cock, making great use of the high volume of musky pre to please that cut shaft without an ounce of friction. In time, as his fur became matted down, the handjob took on the sounds of lewd squishes and squirts as it progressed; the wet noises were a turn-on for both the giver and the receiver, but they were soft compared to Christine's hot moans and shuddering, feral rumbles. Kahnso was more reserved, the reasons obvious, yet he drew pleasure from Christine's own enjoyment and her body. Making her moan was a treat. Her thick member was arousing in its' own gay way, but he soon took a more heterosexual pleasure from her; he tugged her beater up, exposing her full breasts, and he clutched one. A well-endowed, well-to-do man, Kahnso had felt a great many tits in his life; he knew loving, warm flesh from a fake bag of silicone fluid, and Christine's breasts were most definitely the former. To learn that she wasn't really a man who simply bought fake breasts and hormone therapy only added to the bitch's sex appeal; Kahnso definitely liked Christine.

"Hey, you gonna blow a load for me, Christine?" Kahnso said, rumbling into a perked ear but earning no immediate verbal response, for the hyena was whimpering and huffing, alternately biting her lip and gritting her teeth. "Yeah, oh, gawd yeah!" she at last grunted, her toned body tensing and twisting in rhythmic snatches, her shaft doing similar exercises in the rockstar's paw. "Good, that's real good," Kahnso lewdly purred into that very same ear, which he afterward saw fit to nip and tug upon. Christine gasped, but whether it was from that aggressive affection or the rockstar's meaty, hot paw on her cock would remain forever unknown. A more blatantly obvious sound came when Kahnso released Christine's spasming, slick member and she whined; intently, she rubbed the muscular curve of her ass into Kahnso's bulging sheath, grinding through the thick leather of the loincloth, yet to no avail, for the fox seemed to have no desire to get her off completely. Just finishing up for herself didn't occur to her; it had to be his paw, nothing else would do at that point. "Christine," he said softly, patting a naked hip, "get up. I'm gonna show you something you'll never forget."

When Christine rose and turned, she looked expectantly at the rockstar's crotch, where the outline of his knotted penis was unmistakable through the loincloth. He flicked the edge of the article with a toe, the ripple of motion causing Christine to visibly tense her jaw, her jowls twisted into an involuntary grin. Her tail lashed in arousal and frustration, feelings which were spread throughout her body in even, equally combative amounts. Unconsciously, she stepped out of the cargo pants pooled at her ankles and gently kicked them away with a booted foot. Kahnso stood, and as he did, he grabbed the bag of cocaine; he nodded to the bed, and Christine first looked, then walked. Inside, Kahnso remarked on just how natural and confident Christine seemed; even aroused to the edge of a climax, naked from the waist down, her beater pulled up to expose only the most indecent and pubescently fascinating parts of her breasts, she had a very sexy strut. Must be the boots, the rockstar thought, walking up close behind the hyena bitch, his long, luxuriant tail wagging in delight. Love those boots.

Christine stopped at the edge of the bed; in what could have been an accident yet seemed like anything but, Kahnso bumped cock-first into the hyena, his obscured meat flexing between Christine's rear and the small of her back. She growled without malice, only sexuality, and she pressed back into him. Kahnso dismissively and casually tossed the bag on the bed, and then he wrapped his arms around Christine. It began with the fond possessiveness of a lover's embrace, the long, thick fingers of one paw fanning out on the hyena's toned stomach, the other fondly clutching a full, pliable breast, but he bent his knees, he pressed the leather-clad bulge of his cock into that fine punk behind, and he started to dry-hump for all he was worth. Christine panted and groaned in rare, total submission, her meat oozing its' pre on the satin bedding beneath.

"You a good dickgirl, Christine?" growled Kahnso, peppering an ear with nips and kisses in alternating affections that kept the untamed beauty on her toes. "For you, baby, yeah," she hissed, grinding her ass back into that ruthless humping. "That's what I figured," the rockstar grinned, his paws leaving her body; first the one on her stomach, then the one on her breast, that one moving away with much obvious reluctance. He drew his tongue across his fangs and his lips, and then he pushed the bitch down over the bed; her knees hit the padded edge, and she fell face-first into the satin top sheet, catching herself with her paws, emitting a grunt fraught with indignity. Kahnso bent over, and he smacked his paws down on the hyena's rump cheeks, the resounding, fleshy slap! sound sharp and arousing to both sets of ears; Christine shuddered, but Kahnso growled and groped. When that novelty wore thin, the fox's surprisingly nimble fingers drifted away from the supple flesh of those toned buttocks, and he took hold of the bag of cocaine once again.

He turned back to face Christine as he slid down the plastic mechanism of the zipper, intending to gaze upon her behind some more, but she had since rolled over upon her back. There, she lay facing the ceiling, but looking at the handsome fox out of the corner of her eye, a smirk on her lips, her shaft erect, throbbing, and curving upwards enough that its' pre drooled onto her stomach. Kahnso had a little game in mind, just something he enjoyed doing with the ladies. Hold still, he'd tell them as he arranged an immaculate line on the pliable flesh of a breast - bonus points if it went across the nipple. An ass cheek could work well, too, especially on ones as fine as Christine's, but his eyes were drawn to the forbidden, black flesh of her penis; Kahnso was not one to experience the allure of cock, but Christine's seemed perfectly acceptable to him. He grabbed the bill he'd rolled into a tube, and he knelt by her side.

Truthfully, Christine was uneasy about the idea of having drugs on her body; she was a cold bitch, and she never once doubted that, but something about having a man snort cocaine off of her cock was morally dubious - and yet, as she watched Kahnso delicately arrange a king-sized line from her balls to just beneath her tip, all the while shooting her naughty looks and impish grins, she felt oddly complacent. The bizarre depravity and unease rendered her flaccid, but that made things easier for Kahnso. "You can snort a line off of mine afterward, if you want," Kahnso said amiably, grabbing the folded tube of the bill. Christine was still grinning, but with an all-too-obvious vacancy; she said nothing, for she could fathom nothing, and Kahnso took that as a no. More for me was his last thought as he started to sniff; he steadily vacuumed that fine powder up the makeshift tube, its' incredibly fine texture not clotting in the least; it was among the finest cocaine available, fit for a king among men like Kahnso. Halfway through that gigantic line, he switched nostrils. Christine thought - hoped - that Kahnso was inhaling her scent, too; it was a far-off thought, one that inspired a firm pulse in her member, but nothing more. A more pressing thought occurred to her as she realized just how long the line was; she was a well-hung girl, even when flaccid - she lost only a little bit of girth, no length - and Kahnso had dressed the entire length of her shaft. She started to wonder how much was too much, but this thought wasn't given time to linger; Kahnso finished his line, pulled up, and drew the tube away from his nose like a cigarette from his lips. He stayed upon his knees by the edge of the bed, and for just a moment, he went still; Christine looked down her body at the fox in morbid fascination until he snorted, then coughed, and quaked. The sight of it made her shiver, the moment surreal and exhilarating Kahnso turned his eyes upon her, the pupils shrunken to pinpoints, his nose flecked with powder. He licked his lips, then his nose, and in one long, glorious slurp, he dragged his tongue against the underside of her meat, licking up the cocaine that had congealed like wet flower in the sticky mess of her pre. It left a numb stripe on his tongue, and it coaxed a wavering moan from Christine.

As Kahnso climbed over the prone hyena, he felt his heart begin to pound, gaining not just simple tempo, but also power. Every beat resonated in his body, and when he pressed his chest loosely to Christine's own, she felt it too. Christine wasn't a stranger to feeling a man's pulse through his hands or his cock, but to actually feel it by such tenuous contact through his chest was frightening - and enthralling. Kahnso forced a kiss on her, but she took it without question. With the fox so close, rumbling and snarling and lapping over every inch of her mouth, she felt safe in actually touching him back, for he was no longer exalted royalty; he was attainable, as flawed and as tainted as she was. With her half-gloved paws, she stroked down the flexing plane of his back several times, and then she clutched the muscular cheeks of his ass, the flesh as hard as iron, left bare by the backless loincloth. In the kiss, Kahnso snarled and rumbled with lewd intentions as he ground his full, yet obscured erection into the hyena's own genitals; Christine was already hard again, and she rubbed back against the beautiful rocker with no apology in regard to her desperation. Kahnso did not rest flush against the hyena, instead holding himself up with a forearm braced against the bed; with this meager slack, he squeezed and palmed a naked breast with his free paw, savoring the sensation of the swollen nipple as it ground most lewdly into his soft fur. Christine panted into Kahnso's sucking, overbearing maw, her desires laid bare and obvious for the mighty fox. She wrapped her legs around his hips, and her boots clopped together near his lashing tail, nearly pinching it, just avoiding what could have been a serious incident with his head so full of cocaine.

Kahnso's lapping was persistent and utterly rude; he explored Christine's maw with no mercy, no shame, claiming everything within as his own. The hyena tried to kiss back, but she had no luck, not against such a wide, ruthless tongue belonging to such an aggressive man. As well as ever, she resigned herself to this fate, but she was not one to be entirely passive. She squeezed and palmed the muscular curves of his ass cheeks, her fingertips pressing against, yet not entering, the warm, furred crack between; she had no desire to press her luck, to dominate him or even give him a friendly finger. She didn't know how he would react, and she didn't want to find out the hard way. Even a bold girl like Christine knew not to blow something so incredibly one-in-a-lifetime. He responded in a manner almost feline as she continued to grind back into him and molest his ass, for he arched his spine, and he rumbled lewdly into her open maw; both her cheeks and his own were wet with sloppily discarded slobber, but neither cared. Maybe it added to the sex appeal, maybe not; they both shared that thought, but neither cared to explore it further. Finally, Kahnso broke off the kiss; it was abrupt and startling, and he followed it by pushing up and off of the punk bitch so fast that Christine thought something was wrong.

As it turned out, there was; he reached around, and she heard a quartet of metal buttons unfasten. Just like that, the loincloth's ties were undone, and he removed it like an apron, afterward tossing it away with clear contempt for any and all forms of bodily censorship. It tumbled and crumpled into a heap, but the fox nor the hyena weren't watching it. Kahnso gazed down with his intense pinprick eyes at Christine, first at her awestruck face, then at her breasts, and then her face again. Christine was so stunned because of the sight of Kahnso's member; it had to have been fourteen, fifteen, maybe sixteen or seventeen inches, as thick as her wrist and as huge as a balled fist down at the great, swollen gland of the knot. It was too big; not just for her, but for anybody. Wild horses would have been terrified of a cock that size, she thought, and she knew it would be hell getting that buried in her, but she didn't care all that much. The hyena pulled her beater up and off, and similarly to Kahnso's own overhand throw, she tossed it across the floor. The soft fabric and the laminated badge landed silently all the same in the thick pile of the carpeting. Christine then eased back into the bed once again, her breasts exposed, her cock hard and dribbling, her face plastered with a wickedly naughty grin but punctuated with stealthily nervous eyes. "How do you want my ass, baby?" she rumbled to the handsome, coked-up stud, who had since begun to drip blood from his nostrils; like a little kid, he wiped his nose on the back of his wrist, and then he grinned. "Just like that, Christine," said the rockstar, his tones no longer dulcet and romantic, but strained, bursting with an undefinable energy that was, Christine knew, the cocaine. The fox knelt between the hyena's splayed legs - with the boots still on, he loved the boots - and he took hold of his long member. His other paw grasped Christine's black-furred scrotum; he first groped it, and the hyena cooed softly, but his intention was not to please her. The rockstar lifted it, exposing the hyena bitch's taint, a run of black, intimate flesh where fur grew thin, and just beneath was her puckered asshole. The fox grinned, and he pressed his pointed tip to that snug entrance.

Christine was still wet from the tod's licking and lapping, and besides that, that big, red rockstar rocket ship leaked preseminal slime incessantly. That moisture made the penetration easier, but not entirely without discomfort; after the forgiving and pointed tip came the true girth of the shaft, and it made Christine wince and whine. She tried to breathe in deeply, but she simply couldn't; Kahnso was too large for her to have even a hope of relaxing. Harder than ever, she felt the colossal fox's pulse, this time through the tender walls of her ass; she was more familiar with feeling it that way, or in the grip of a paw, but she found it hard to believe just how labored his heart must have been, thudding away as though the fox were at a full run. Dangerous shit, she thought, the impulse lonesome and casually analytical, lost in a sea of oh, fuck, that hurts! and deeper, ooh gawd, yeah! sluttiness that reminded her of how much she was enjoying that unreal entry. Kahnso was half-buried in the pretty dickgirl before long; his shaft shot wads of pre deep into her body, some of them - as she remarked to herself - as big as an orgasm from her sissy roommate, not that she ever let that little fox bitch under her tail. That was reserved for real men, and she had one over top of her, huffing and growling, his body tense enough to shatter bricks against, his heart labored enough to explode, the thrill electrifying, the sex promising to be incredible.

"You're a really tight bitch, Christine," Kahnso growled, earning no points for originality, but the hyena could forgive that for honesty and sexuality. "Thanks," she gasped, looking down at the black serpent of her own cock, throbbing and spitting its' pre in huge squirts. At long last, the moment that had taken what felt like years to come; Kahnso's knot pressed against the well-stretched pucker of Christine's asshole, its' throbbing, wet girth impossibly oversized for such a tender orifice, but the hyena knew it would wind up inside of her. For a few seconds, during which Christine caught her breath, Kahnso simply rumbled in lewd pleasure, his paws resting on the punk bitch's knees, holding them splayed. Christine looked down at the fox, her mouth open wide as she panted, her tongue lolled in a cute manner. "You ready, babe?" the fox rumbled, his tail giving a lash. Christine wanted to tell him no, I'm not, let's stop, this hurts, you can fuck my tits instead or something, but an impulse silenced that apprehension. It was that confident, sassy, bitchy side of her, the side that abused her roommate because it was fun, and the side that ran the queue line of the Fagnasty with such efficiency. It was that side that knew she would never have another opportunity to fuck with a rockstar, let alone Kocaine Kahnso. "Yeah, baby," she said, pulling her jowls up into a toothy grin, "fuck the shit outta me."

Kahnso started just that; he was no slouch in bed, even less so with his nose full of blow. Blood dripped from his nostrils all over again as he started to rock his hips, slowly at first, faster as time went on with little in the way of a gradual scale. He simply went from gentle to ruthless like shifting gears in a car, and Christine squealed accordingly. Over and over, Kahnso's knot punched against the quaking pucker of Christine's asshole like a big, red, angry fist, one that wouldn't be denied under any circumstances. The hyena bitch yowled and squealed and thrashed, she tried to kick Kahnso with her booted feet, and a couple of times, she did; the fox took the abuse with what seemed like a masochistic tendency, but after a point, he hunkered down over her in such a way that her boots could not kick him. She squeezed his biceps with all her strength, feeling as though she might burst the tensed muscle fibers within, her meaty fingers leaving indentations. "Oh, gawd, baby, gawddamn!" she screamed with absolutely no articulation, every punishing thrust threatening to wedge that almighty knot into her ass, always just denying the rockstar fox that gratification and sparing Christine the inevitable gouging, but it was only delaying the inevitable. Her full breasts jiggled in a manner most enticing, presenting themselves as so very lickable, suckable, ready to be squeezed by unloving and unfamiliar hands, but they were not Kahnso's goal or interest. He huffed in sharp snatches across the hyena bitch's face, against her grimacing, bared teeth and into her squinted eyes. The mighty, bossy, and ironic cunt that was Christine Heathershaw couldn't find her dominance anymore. She couldn't even look Kahnso in the eye. She was his, like a sacrifice to a god, and that was a fine existence for her. She acknowledged it and loved it.

As Kahnso finally wedged his meaty knot inside, Christine became aware of a dozen sensations, her brain cataloging them in no coherent fashion, letting nightmarish pain sit right beside orgasmic bliss, telling her only the rough shapes of those feelings, leaving the finer points and the dark truths blurry. She felt his knot spreading her wide like a fist, something she had never experienced one way or the other - though she had seen videos online - but she could only imagine how her tight little asshole must have looked as she stretched to gaping proportions to admit Kahnso's gland. His hot breath washed over her features in greater huffs, and his voice came to her in a long and wavering groan, a whimper rather than a bang to accompany that knotting. Hot blood from his nostrils dripped on her neck; it could have been drool, but she knew it was blood, for unconsciously, she recognized its' scent. Not two seconds into that knotting, he started to cum; rope after rope of vulpine semen flooded her behind, splattering over tender flesh, sticking like wet glue and delivering its' fertile warmth. The ambivalent pain and pleasure of it all sent Christine literally screaming into a hands-free climax of her own; she dug her claws into his biceps as her meat erupted, splattering great, thick wads of jizz all over her stomach, but Kahnso would later find one errant rope encrusting upon his stomach, where it would render the white fur yellow. "Oh, gawd, oh...! Nnngh...!" It wasn't poetry, but it summed up Christine's thoughts. She panted and shuddered, and she fell slack to the bed.

A few minutes of lazy afterglow came and went; Kahnso's heart still pounded, never relaxing, and Christine correctly guessed it wouldn't until he came down. The fox was just beginning to kiss and nibble upon her chin and jawline when a strong hand banged on the door. "Hey, Kahnso!" an irate voice said, following it up with a few more bangs. "Showtime in like five motherfuckin' minutes! Let's go!" Kahnso grimaced in distaste, and then he plucked his knot free from Christine's ass; the hyena gasped, but afterward, she sighed, missing that great, painful fullness. The fox pecked her with a surprisingly fond kiss, and then he scooted back and stepped off the bed. As he fastened his loincloth, Christine moved to sit at the edge of the bed - spurring her to a pained hiss - and then she stood. By the time she had re-dressed, Kahnso had dragged a comb through his hair, and he met her by the door before she could go. He squeezed her close and kissed her on the lips, then grinned wide. She grinned back, yet she also blushed. No further words were spoken between the rock god and the dickbitch hyena; she opened the door and left the dressing room, making tracks for her post, her limp quite subtle, but still there. Moments later, Kahnso erupted from the dressing room, and he headed off towards the big, ominous door labeled STAGE ENTRANCE, outside which another guard stood; Christine watched him strut for that threshold with a naughty grin.

"Where the fuck were you, Heath?" came the scolding, directly from the security dispatcher, the very person who had given Christine her badge and walkie-talkie - which she just remembered was still off, something she didn't bother to change. "Blow it out your ass," she snickered, walking right up to the dispatcher and the muscular bonehead who had been brought in as her relief. They both stepped back and allowed her to take her place in the backstage door's threshold, where she folded her arms an leaned against the frame of the door. "Well, where were you, huh?" he persisted, and then the bonehead - a big dog, roughly as large as Christine, but not nearly as mean looking - joined in like a parrot. "Yeah, where, huh?" Christine furrowed her brow in annoyance, and then she straightened herself out. She first pointed a finger at the dog. "You need to shut the fuck up 'fore you gotta go home and tell mommy a girl kicked your ass." With the dog stunned, she turned her eyes on the dispatcher, who was a scrawny skunk, laughably ill-suited to security detail - it was no wonder he was a desk jockey who bossed the muscle around. "And it's none of your fuckin' business, so like I already said - blow it out your ass." His nose began to wrinkle with the beginning of a snarl, but Christine nipped that in the bud with a great showing of her bone-breaking teeth. The skunk flinched and then he wisely backed away. "Sorry," Christine heard him squeak before he turned and ran. She glanced at the dog, her teeth still bared, and he slowly backed away before disappearing down a hall. Christine evened her expression out into a smile, and then she stepped around the corner to look into the stage, where she saw Kahnso strutting, thrusting his pelvis, and presenting himself like a common whore as he sang. With a dreamy sigh, she leaned against the wall, and she watched.