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Desmond was very happy to be away from his usual day-to-day stresses; a vacation in Maui was exactly what he needed. Dressed in just swim trunks - not that he intended to swim - the handsome, silk-haired foxcoon walked down the warm, golden beach, and he took a beach chair; one not discarded, but simply paid forward by the last person who used it. With a drink in his hand - a slightly alcoholic, heavily fruity beverage with an umbrella in it - he reclined on that beach chair, and he willfully exposed his slender, fluffy body to the late-morning glow of the sun. After a few straw-suckling sips of his drink, he shoved the glass's bottom down into the sand, where it stayed upright, and he relaxed into the chair, closing his eyes behind his shades. To the average set of roaming eyes, it looked as though a very pretty and very flat-chested vixen had taken to sunbathing, but to somebody who knew what they were looking at and specifically knew what they liked, it was abundantly clear that he was simply a good-looking sissy who was enjoying his time on vacation.

One such person with an eye for those details was a ways away, far out in the ocean, getting impatient as he lay on his surfboard. The orange-haired otter Pan could understand a surfer being picky about which wave to catch, especially so on a leisurely vacation, but the fox heading the lineup of surfers had let a dozen waves pass by without so much as budging from his spot. As the minutes ticked by, that river-dweller's patience steadily ran down until not a single ounce of sympathy remained. Throwing etiquette to the wind, he laid out on his longboard and started paddling for the very next wave, building up speed before the fast-approaching wave. As the otter sped off, the fox realized his wave was being stolen right before his eyes - not that Pan expected him to go after that one, either - and he gave chase, so obviously trying to catch that wave and retain a little bit of dignity. You snooze, you lose, Pan thought as he smoothly stood up on his board just as the rushing wave caught it, spurring him to a grin at the sheer speed he picked up.

There, in that moment, with his hind claws digging into the waxed surface of his board, rocketing down a nearly vertical wall of water while the wind whipped his hair into an unruly mop, he was in his element. To him, everything seemed to slow down, and he turned the board to his right, cutting a diagonal slash across the face of the wave as it curled over his head, enveloping him in an a tube of water. Pan spared a cocky look behind, just in time to see the indignant face of the fox who had tried to take back his wave crash through the top of the tube with a shriek. He had started his paddling far too too late to catch the wave, but had unwittingly chosen the right moment to wipe out spectacularly from on top of it instead. With his eyes forward once more, Pan grinned and hunkered down on his board, gaining momentum and shooting out of the tube as it crashed in upon itself in a terrific explosion of water and foam. The otter coasted across the water's surface as the wave roiled and frothed behind him, and as he dropped back to his stomach to paddle the rest of the way to shore, the wave finally died and receded from the beach. The otter smoothly paddled his way to the shore, stepped up, and then hopped off of his board, planting his paws in the wet sand in triumph.

As he walked up the beach with his board under his arm, the defeated fox was just dragging his own board clear of the shallows, glaring daggers through his wet-mop hair at the otter for stealing his wave. Pan shot a grin back his way, tipping an imaginary fedora in mock salute of the fox's failed attempt retain a little bit of dignity; his triumph over the vulpine was such a distraction that he almost stumbled over the sunbathing beauty nearby. Though he managed to catch himself, he stumbled, and he kicked a clump of sand into this new, more handsome tod's drink, something that immediately made him wince. Way to go, stupid. Slowly, but with a very calm air, Desmond sat up, and he set his shaded, deadpan eyes on the otter. Without looking away, he reached down and lifted his drink, which had become a disgusting, sandy slush. "Oh, sorry dude," Pan offered, shooting the fox a cheeky, bashful smile. Though he felt impish and naughty, it wasn't for the fact that he'd ruined the foxcoon's drink; no, he was simply infatuated with that beautiful male form, the subtle lines and the long hair that contributed heavily to an arousing and androgynous appearance. It certainly didn't help that he was dressed in only swim trunks which left the brunt of his form exposed to prying eyes. "I'll bet," Desmond said with a tone that scolded the otter, though he followed it with a sigh. "Beat it. You're blocking my sun." Pan winced, but he also grinned. Kinda feisty, I like that. I can take a hint, though... Without even a nod, the otter trotted off, already chalking the mishap up as a lost opportunity.

Truthfully, Pan hadn't been the only one doing some admiring; Desmond had always liked otters, particularly wet ones - and boys with pudgy bellies were, at least to him, the ideal partners. It almost pained him to shoo away the surfer, but how else could he respond to something so insulting? The swish tod all but assured himself that that otter had kicked sand in his drink on purpose - it was possible he was simply foolish, but either way, Desmond didn't appreciate it one bit. With a long sigh and slow, tired motions, the vulpine twink rose from the beach chair, the sandy slush held tight in his paw. Calmly, he walked up to the outdoor bar, the little wooden deck which kept that sector of the beach tipsy and happy; as he walked, a horde of soaked, angry surfers passed by, their species' ranging anywhere from dogs, to cats, to everything in between - at least there was some variety. As they passed by, he heard some of them complaining about that cheating otter, going so far as to insist that it's like all they do, dude, nobody can surf like an otter! Desmond cracked a little grin, but only to himself; so it seemed the best surfer on the beach decided to bully him. That certainly explained a lot. Once Desmond replaced his ruined drink, he went back out to his beach chair, and he sat for much of the day; shortly, he fell asleep for a long, comforting nap that did his nerves and temper a world of good.

Desmond finally awoke of his own accord just as the sun had begun to set, and for a moment, he admired the sight of that orange glare glistening on the cool waters. He also spotted a number of surfers catching just a few more waves before the night set in - and he was certain he could see that pudgy, orange-haired otter from before. Without much to do, the fox returned to his hotel room, where he slipped into a very tacky tropical-themed shirt, one he couldn't even be bothered to button, and then he headed back down to the bar along the beach. At night, it was a little bit more active; people talked and laughed, a little dancing to inoffensive music was going on, and there was drinking and eating. Desmond himself enjoyed another alcoholic glass of tea with a well-charred hot dog, fresh off the grill. Though very much an extrovert otherwise, Desmond was content to keep to himself and enjoy the clean air off of the sea on his vacation - though for a handsome enough man, he would have certainly accepted some companionship.

Pan walked up the beach, his surfing over for the day; all he wanted to do was have a little fun, get a bite to eat, and unwind. He wedged his board into the sand - near rows and rows of others, all undisturbed purely as surfer's courtesy - and he padded up the steps to the porch of the bar. The smell of freshly-grilled burgers, hot dogs, and ribs drew him in by the nose, but the sight of a familiar and lonesome figure at the bar proper compelled him to stick around. It was the foxcoon from before, that handsome, silk-haired sissy of a fox whose drink he'd turned into a sandy milkshake. Though friendly and sociable, the otter momentarily wondered how he might break the ice with somebody he'd so expertly bungled things with. Yet, as he neared the fox, the perfect opening line rolled across his consciousness; thinking of it made him grin. If it didn't make the fox laugh, he was a cold bitch, and Pan didn't want anything to do with him in that case. The pudgy otter stepped up behind the fox, making no effort to sneak, but succeeding at just that. He leaned over the foxcoon, and he spoke directly into one of those pert, purple ears that sat neatly atop his skull. "You need some sand in that drink, dude?" The foxcoon whipped around, his face a scowl of annoyance, his eyes narrowed to slits. Just slightly, Pan could see the glint of his teeth, and he briefly wondered if he was about to be punched. "What is it with you douchey surfer types," Desmond began, at once attracting about a dozen different sets of eyes, "always feeling like you have to pick on guys like me? What's the deal, huh? Is it the hair? The fact that I've never been on a surfboard?" His tone escalated steadily, and already, Pan knew they were on their way to a full-blown scene - and that wasn't any good. Suddenly, without invitation or warning, he kissed Desmond, a full-on, tongues-included French kiss, and the foxcoon melted into it. Pan held it for only a moment, during which he lapped across the tod's palate and gums, but when he finally broke it off, he grinned. After a moment to gaze into the vulpine's shallow, pretty eyes, he grinned in full force. "Sorry, buddy, but you were getting pretty bitchy. I wanted to tell you it was an accident, not gloat about it." Desmond bit his lip in a moment of pause, and then he shrugged; beyond his blush, it was impossible to tell he'd just been kissed so suddenly and so well. "Oh. Well, um, you should have said so." Pan thought to say I tried, but that was water under the bridge. He simply smiled, and he took a seat beside the foxcoon.

"So, hey," Pan said, still grinning, "tell me your story, foxy." Desmond gave the otter those deadpan eyes, the very ones from their encounter on the beach, but he obliged. "Okay, sure, yeah," he sneered, giving the otter a shove on his toned chest - a place he paused to stroke and rub, his padded fingers admiring the subtle creases of the river-dweller's muscles. "My name's Desmond, and--," Pan immediately stopped listening. Desmond, sexy name, nice, he thought, allowing his eyes to drift down, glazing over inoffensive lines, downy fur, and slender legs largely uncovered by the swim trunks. "...computer programming, and-- Hey! You're not even listening, you're checking me out!" Pan snapped his eyes up, but he had not an ounce of shame in his expression; he just grinned and chuckled. "I can't help it, sorry, jeez. You're hot, give me a break, okay?" Though the twink of a foxcoon rolled his eyes, he was ever a sucker for compliments, and Pan was certainly on the right track to getting him in bed, even though he playing the aloof bitch quite well. "My name is Desmond," he said, pausing to make sure Pan's eyes stayed fixed on his, "and I do computer programming and IT, which sounds interesting, except I usually wind up putting new paper in Xerox machines and wiping butt-prints off the glass." The absurdity was so unexpected that Pan barely stifled his laugh, forced to do so with a paw over his mouth. "Yeah, I know," Desmond sighed, yet he was grinning coyly. "So anyway - I'm on vacation. My doctor told me, as stressed out as I am, I could have an aneurysm or some crap. I don't know. It's better than home," the foxcoon said, ending with a shrug. Pan nodded slowly, having since wrangled his urge to laugh and grin. "Where you from, Desmond?" the otter asked sweetly, pressing close to the fox without an ounce of subtlety; with one arm, he squeezed the tod, but with the other paw, he stroked beneath the handsome twink's shirt, rubbing over velvet fur and smooth flesh. "Kentucky," Desmond purred, exaggerating the southern half of his adorably southern-swish accent. "Born and raised." Pan grinned cutely, letting his fingers brush over a stiffened, pink nipple; Desmond shivered. "Southern sissy - cool. As for me, my name's Pan, and I'm going to college in So-Cal," he said, puffing his chest out proudly. "Born and raised, loyal to Los Angeles!"

"So you're an Ange_loser_," Desmond sneered, the playfulness difficult to detect; foxes were primarily creatures of sex and seduction, but malice and cunning followed those traits closely. Pan didn't want to begin to think how evil he could be with raccoon genes in him, too, but he correctly guessed the fox was only playing. As much as playful derision warranted return fire, Pan couldn't find it in himself, and besides that, he did owe the fox for a drink. "Okay, yeah, sure," Pan huffed, giving one of Desmond's nipples a gentle pinch - he hoped it might make the fox gasp, but he only shivered as he had with the rub. Must be kinda kinky - cool! Pan thought, instinctively pressing closer. He didn't feel any shame about cuddling the fox like so, for they were hardly the only amorous couple at the bar; they weren't even the only gay couple there. It was with that when in Rome justification that Pan let his soft lips brush the erect cartilage of Desmond's ear, the one unmodified with glistening rainbow rings, yet the fur was curiously purple, a contrast to what seemed like average vulpine colors. As much of a ponderous fact as that was, Pan didn't linger on it; he gently bit down on that ear, the beginnings of a fond gnaw between horny, gay acquaintances. In what Pan was fast coming to acknowledge as Desmond's de facto gesture of pleasure, the vulpine shivered, but more noticeably than before. Emboldened by the tod's pleasure and utter lack of resistance, Pan reaffirmed his grip on the handsome sissy and brushed over his nipple again; before that shiver wore off, he dipped his tongue into the well-groomed, downy fluff of Desmond's ear cup, but none too far; that affection was answered with a shaking moan, and a whispered reassurance to the otter. "Oh, that feels good, stud..."

"Tell me something, Pan," Desmond said, his voice no longer that confidential whisper, but soft-spoken and tender nonetheless, "do you just like really like twinks, do you just really like foxes, or do you just really like me?" Pan paused thoughtfully, and in that moment, all Desmond could feel and hear was the otter's warm, steady breath down in his ear. "My answer is D, all of the above." Desmond snickered, and in that moment, Pan felt comfortable in chuckling. He squeezed the fox close, making use of both arms, and then he pulled his lips out of that tender ear; beyond that, he planted a fond smooch on the tod's cheek, and simply fell idle against his fluffy, cuddly warmth. All at once, he simply knew he was going to wind up having sex with that fox, and, content in that strangely instinctive knowledge, he didn't feel anxious about impressing him. He was just about to suggest showing Desmond his hotel room - a cute, if not blunt pickup - when the speakers mounted around the roofed porch, which once had loose-stringed guitar music humming out of them in audible cliches - suddenly informed anybody and everybody that the deejay had arrived. Neither Desmond nor Pan realized they were expecting one, but when the very clearly native, pudgy disc jockey - an otter, but a far sight heavier than Pan - took his place at the table with the stereo, a laptop under his arm, they expected the worst. Yet when he started to play his music, they - and presumably the rest of the leery crowd - was surprised to hear not steel drums, but actual dance music. A throbbing bass line, pounding drum machines, and plenty of oohn-tss! to get everybody moving, the foxcoon and the surfing otter included. "C'mon, Desmond," Pan urged, giving the fox's arm a tug, "let's dance!"

Pan was surprised to see that the Xerox-servicing foxcoon with the contradictory southern-queer accent could expertly move his slender body to the tune; similarly, Desmond was quite impressed with Pan's steps and gestures. Quite harmlessly, among the other vacationers, they bumped into one another with rumps and pelvises, and just for fun, they even added a little classical ballroom dancing to their routine, however playfully corrupted it was to suit the energy of the occasion. For a pair of creatures who loved to just move and dance, Desmond and Pan were quite refreshed by one another, and for what wouldn't be the last time that evening, for sure, Desmond was happy Pan was actually quite nice. In time, and as an amorous fox and a horny otter were apt to do, Pan and Desmond started to dirty-dance; they freely rubbed against one another, their baggy swim trunks partially obscuring erections, their soft, padded paws groping here and there. In the bridge of one of the deejay's slower compositions, they wound up in one another's arms, trading little smooches, but always moving to the tune at hand. An hour and a half passed before the deejay actually took a break - incidentally, that was when the foxcoon and the otter took a break, too. Up until then, they'd been steadily moving their bodies with boundless energy; everybody else had at least sat down for a five-minute break at some point, but not those two. They finally plopped down at an empty table, panting and laughing in good nature, exchanging little paw-gropes and hair-ruffles, even though Pan's hair was in a permanent state of endearing ruffle. "You're a great dancer, Desmond," Pan gushed, squeezing both of the coonfox's paws, gazing across the table fondly; beneath, the two of them still sported erections, and the simple truth of the matter was that sex weighed heavily on both their minds. "You too," Desmond replied. "But call me Dez." And then, he added a wink. Pan smiled cutely, and he reaffirmed his grip on Desmond's paws. "You got any plans after this, Dez?" he said, his words still friendly, but his eyes were far ahead of him, off in very dirty territory. "None whatsoever," Desmond said, squeezing back, returning that lewd gaze in spades. "I'm on vacation."

Pan led Desmond to the threshold of his hotel room with abundant giddiness, so much so that his lust was less than apparent. To anybody they passed, they simply looked like a pair of giggling best friends scampering off to smoke some pot, raid the minibar fridge, and then play some video games, but no - they only looked so benign. When Pan pulled Desmond into his rented room, he slipped a do not disturb sign over the doorknob, shoved the door shut, and then he set the deadbolt. Nobody would be interrupting them. Desmond only grinned at Pan's thorough behavior; he said nothing, and even if he was going to, Pan would never know. Much like his second introduction to the fox, he forced himself on the handsome, silk-haired vulpine in a hungry, heated kiss, pressing his slender back against the wall close to the door, just beside a framed, colossal aerial shot of the resort. Pan may have been outmatched in regard to tongues - Desmond's was beyond nine inches, very broad, very flexible, and outfitted with a barbell - but he made up for that inadequacy with sheer tenacity and lust. He slurped deep and hard into the fox's maw, over needle-pointed enamel and soft gums, lapping across that ribbed palate and the velvet, sinfully soft muscle of his tongue. The fox melted and moaned; though a true switch, he was comfy as hell under Pan's thumb. He put his slender, pink-padded paws on the otter's shoulder, squeezing and kneading, getting back such affection in dividends; with his own mitts, Pan first yanked off the tacky tropical shirt that obscured that divine twink form - a serious crime, and one he thought he might punish the fox for - and tossed it away with contempt. With nothing between his paws and that slender, fluff-furred body, Pan worshiped as he kissed. He stroked over the creases and lines of barely-toned flesh, around arousal-stiffened pink nipples, beneath tender, smooth armpits that smelled only lightly of musk, not off-putting body odor. For an individual who greatly appreciated the feminine form of the common sissy male, Pan was delighted with Desmond. He broke off the kiss, and he planted smooches that spoke of heated lust, outspoken arousal, and admiration all around the tod's neck, succeeding in making the vulpine shiver, but then Pan got ahead of himself, and he bit down. Desmond first yelped, and momentarily, Pan recoiled. "Oh, Dez, I'm sorry," he said, already feeling like a bastard, but Desmond shook his head. "You don't understand," he shuddered, stroking through the burnished-orange fluff of the otter's hair, "you can bite me as much as you want." Pan grinned in both disbelief and arousal; Desmond was definitely his kind of guy.

The otter graced Desmond neck and shoulders with a few more love-bites and playful gnaws, but the fact that the fox was so receptive to rough lovings made him want that silk-haired sissy in worse ways. He stepped back from the fox, pulling out of his tender grip; Desmond stayed against the wall, his eyes glazed, his face plastered with an incredulous, lewd grin. The otter turned and stepped towards the bed, and then he pounced upon its' surface, screwing up the freshly-arranged blankets. Desmond couldn't help but laugh at the otter's playful antics, breaking him out of that naughty trance, but the lust was still apparent on his features. Smiling fondly, sporting an erection that greatly tented his swim trunks, the fox pushed off of the wall and walked closer, just as Pan rolled over on his back. Lying prostrate like so, his belly was almost impossible to notice, but it made his similarly swollen and swim trunk-clad erection all the more glaring; Desmond unabashedly fixed his eyes upon it, ignoring Pan's cheeky, cute smile. The fox knelt upon the wide bed, and he scooted up close to the otter; with one paw, its' actions dripping with lust and reverence, he clutched the river-dweller's obscured meat. Pan groaned, and he made to praise the fox, but these tender words were cut short by a kiss of the fox's own doing. It was shallow and tender, a meeting of lips, not tongues, but it made the otter shiver and grin nevertheless. "I'm having a great vacation," Desmond said, mirroring the otter's grin - and inversely, Pan widened his own, at the same resting a paw in the downy fluff adorning Desmond's chest. "You and me both, foxy," Pan cooed, stroking through the foxcoon's fur. Desmond loved that touch; in fact, he enjoyed being worshiped and pampered in general, and the way Pan lusted after his feminine form was most definitely a plus - not to mention grounds for a reward. Turning his shallow, emerald eyes away from Pan's gaze, Desmond instead looked upon the otter's bulge, the very one he palmed; with an impish grin, he pulled down on the waistband of the surfer's swim trunks until that pink, blunt-tipped cock literally sprang free. With only that shaft exposed, leaving the balls yet hidden, Desmond leaned down, and he slowly engulfed that meat, suckling with his maw, squeezing with his lips and tongue; Pan shuddered and groaned, oh so subtly grinding his hips upwards into the vulpine's maw. "Ooh, yeah," he cooed, closing his eyes, grinning dully, "that's it, Dez..."

Pan thought about at least stroking the fox off, but he decided against it; for the time being, as the vulpine so tenderly sucked and bobbed, using what the otter somehow knew was only a fraction of his skills, the otter was content to only rub and caress more benign areas of the twink. Despite - or perhaps because - Pan was ignoring the throbbing, leaking, knotted length of his shaft, Desmond treated the handsome otter to a little bit more of his talents; like a corkscrew, he wrapped the length of his slutty, slobbery tongue around that blunt and throbbing cock, and from there, he twisted, squeezed, and tugged upon its' tender, engorged flesh. All the while, he sucked harder and more steadily, drawing out vast wads of pre which he swallowed eagerly. It was the otter's musk in a liquid form, and that was something Desmond always appreciated from any man - the ability to not only smell, but taste their masculinity well before their climax. It made him shiver and moan, more so than Pan himself, and that certainly said a lot for the fox. It also spurred Pan to be a little bit more generous with the fox, but he saw fit not to catch up, for he wanted to surpass the pleasure Desmond was giving him; he wanted to make the fox feel really good. "Hey, Dez," he said softly, tugging at the waistband of the tod's swim trunks - ineffectually, for with him kneeling as he was, there was no way to get them off, though that little prod was all it took. With flexibility and the skill to multitask that Pan would've expected from a fox and an IT nerd, respectively, Desmond shifted and squirmed, lowering and lifting his legs out of the boxers until they hung pitifully off of one ankle, and then he kicked them away, off the bed. Pan momentarily admired his view of the tod's hip and his bulging, knotted penis, but what interested him most was what he couldn't see; Desmond's ass. He was about to fix that problem.

Pan wasn't a terribly strong creature - perhaps only a little bit more so than somebody like Desmond - but it was the power of suggestion that got him results. He pulled on Desmond's leg and urged him closer, and the vulpine creature complied shortly. Unfortunately for Pan, he did cease his muzzle-lovings for the time being, but that was perfectly all right; he threw one of his fine legs over the otter's prone head and chest, and he got down upon his paws and knees; the end result of the position left Desmond with, once more, a mouth full of otter cock. Pan's snout was comfortably buried in the cuddly fluff of Desmond's balls, a place he spent a moment kissing and nibbling, but not for long. With his soft mitts, he clutched the foxcoon's ass cheeks - toned and taut, just as divine as the rest of his feminine body - and kneaded them. He squeezed them, tickled them, and groped them some more before doing what he'd wanted to all along; he gently parted them, exposing the very tight, pink pucker of the foxcoon's asshole. Grinning lewdly, and in one smooth slurp, Pan licked along the back of the handsome sissy's balls, up his taint, and across his tail hole. The sensation of it made Desmond tense and shudder; Pan could feel it, but most noticeably, the fox ceased his sucking and bobbing for just a moment. In that pleasurable respite, Pan moved his lips higher, and he teased the tender underside of the vulpine's tail base with nibbles and gnaws. He soon had that long, bushy tail twitching instead of swaying and wagging, and he had its' owner moaning and shuddering almost incessantly. That's cute, Pan thought, delivering a kiss to the tod's tail base, but let's see how much you like this. The river-dweller returned to Desmond's tail hole in full force, delivering swirling licks, raunchy smooches, and firm nuzzles to that tender orifice. Desmond's cocksucking became noticeably more labored, but Pan didn't mind if the fox's performance suffered a little bit - not when he had such a beautiful twink behind to do what he pleased with.

The harder Pan licked and teased around that very snug pucker, the more aware he became of the fox's throbbing, leaking need, oozing its' slippery, liquid musk all over his chest. Pan let go of those toned ass cheeks - notably content with the way their soft fur felt on his snout - and he clutched that knotted cock in both paws. He stroked it slowly, but hard with one paw, and he worked that big, pink knot with the other, groping it in milking squeezes that saw the tod let loose with greater wads of pre. Desmond was momentarily stunned by the pleasure, rendered almost useless with groaning and shuddering, but he regained his composure, and he returned the otter's pleasure in spades. No longer relying on the alarmingly flexible properties of his tongue, he instead bobbed and sucked hard and fast, his ministrations becoming all the more fervent, but never lessening in skill or competence. It was so good that Pan huffed his hot breath all over the foxcoon's clenched, quivering pucker, a vicious cycle that made the tod shudder and work yet harder. Pan wasn't too sure about the fox himself, but he knew for a fact that he, himself, wouldn't be able to handle that divine maw for much longer. With one last slurp to the vulpine bitch's pucker, Pan took hold of the fox's thighs, and he encouraged him to relax and straighten out, which he did; decompressing his bunched-up body like so saw his shaft bump into the otter's muzzle, and that was perfect; with a lewd, but very content grin, Pan engulfed that vulpine cock all the way up to the knot, which he literally kissed his lips up to. Though nowhere near as naturally skilled as a fox, Pan had picked up a few things here and there, and he demonstrated that to the foxcoon.

Not unlike what Desmond did, Pan bobbed and sucked, haphazardly assaulting the vulpine's cock with his warm tongue. Every time he descended - or ascended, considering his spot beneath the fox - he bumped his lips and his nose firmly into that swollen, throbbing knot, and each time that happened, Desmond's body seemed to twitch. Pan knew, of course, what a pleasure center that knot was for the fox, and it was for that reason that he again wrapped a paw around it - with the other, he stroked the taut curve of the twink's ass, only occasionally dipping his fingers into the crack to prod and tease that pucker. In a move that Pan enjoyed, Desmond slipped his own paw under the breathable fabric of the otter's swim trunks, whereupon he clutched those throbbing balls. Not unlike the way Pan squeezed the foxcoon's knot, Desmond seemed to milk those balls, and that, in conjunction with his gulping, sucking maw, was fast proving too much for Pan to take. Clenching his eyes shut in a subtle grimace, Pan stopped his sucking and bobbing on the spot, though his rubbing and groping paws idly continued. He uttered some profanity around Desmond's cock, but it was entirely unintelligible, lost in muffled moans and groans. With a mighty twitch of his cock, Pan came, filling Desmond's hungry yap with his seed, feeding that sexy twink a load that was not necessarily pent-up, but heavy all the same. In this moment of respite, he only idly suckled and molested the fox, and he was treated to similarly reserved pleasure well into his afterglow; Desmond was no longer intense, nor was he terribly cock-hungry, he was simply helping the otter to come down from the high of his climax.

For as much as Pan appreciated the pleasure and as dozy as such a hard-hitting orgasm made him feel, he knew he wasn't ready to rest, not with Desmond's own climax so close. Pan started to bob and suck again, but harder and more fervently than before; similarly, his soft paws groped with great ferocity on that knot, squeezing it for all it was worth in rhythmic, milking pumps that made the fox, no longer muffled by a cock in his mouth, cry out with sweet, sexy nothings and encouraging moans. Pan was only half-aware of the vulpine's words, much too focused on that swollen meat to pay attention to the sissy's inarticulate praise. With his paw on the foxcoon's behind, he ceased his rubbing and groping, and he instead sank two fingers knuckle-deep into that well-licked asshole, coaxing a deep, gratified moan from the tod, not to mention a clench and an arch of his spine. The otter grinned, but it was somehow involuntarily, like an entirely natural reaction to the fox's pleasure. With only one goal in mind, he sucked and slurped and groped and fingered the foxcoon, using and abusing all of the right spots; within only a few moments of this pleasurable battery, Desmond slumped over the otter, his normally energetic form rendered tired and heaving for breath by the onset of such an orgasm. With a long, low cry that certainly disrupted the adjacent rooms, Desmond came with astonishing force, shooting his vulpine cream into the otter's maw in great, juicy ropes; Pan gulped it down as quickly as it - and as Desmond - came, and not unlike the way the fox had lovingly escorted him into his afterglow, Pan was similarly affectionate, sucking and kissing even after that blistering climax. Only when Desmond was entirely satiated did Pan free that cock from his maw, and his fingers from the fox's rump. "Ah, hey, Dez?" Pan asked, nuzzling fondly into the foxcoon's spent, saliva-covered cock. "Yeah, Pan?" the fox answered, his voice quiet and tired.

"Next time you go on vacation," Pan said, "come to LA, why don't you?"