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There were things Desmond didn't get; discipline came to mind. A lot of phrases could describe him, too; a brat, a bad egg, or an evil little cocksucker as he'd been called on a few occasions. Though almost a year past the legal age to drink, he acted like a mischievous teenager, pulling pranks and lying on a whim, committing minor crimes running the gamut from petty theft to deceiving prospective sexual partners. It was a small miracle he had yet to be arrested or beaten senseless, or even worse, but he had no interest in this good fortune, only a desire to press his luck to the breaking point. Today was more of a tame afternoon, however, and Desmond didn't want to steal a car or shut down power to half the city. All he wanted to do was shoplift a bottle of Smirnoff from the grocery store and be the life of some party. Out of the sight of any security cameras or employees, the effeminate fox tucked a small, room-temperature bottle of booze deep down in the crotch of his pants, but if he thought he was the embodiment of super-spy stealth, what a fool he was. By chance alone, a sweeter-than-sugar motherly type caught sight of this shameless theft, but she had no interest in turning him in to the owners. Being the maternal creature that she was, the pretty dinosaur didn't so much see a thief as she did a young man in need of a little direction, some discipline, to be whipped into shape; perhaps literally. With a better look at the fox, she realized she'd seen him in there a dozen times before, always hastily scurrying out, keeping his face low, a joke considering what a distinctive creature he was. It didn't take a genius to piece together that he was a rotten little boy at heart.

Thorne shook her head and continued along the aisle, grabbing what she needed - sugar, flour, and cake mix on those particular shelves - while pondering what could drive such a handsome young man to steal and lie, and lord knew what else. That motherly side of her asked why? and how?, but far away, in a much darker place, she asked herself why isn't anyone punishing him? and how much will it take to break him? And by sheer luck, as she pushed her cart across the mouth of the next aisle - liquor and beer, nothing she wanted there - she unintentionally cut off the little thief. Just in time, he caught himself, but wound up bent over that cart for an amusing moment. "What the hell is the matter with you?" he grunted, less of a question and more of a threat, but Thorne had heard worse from much more capable people. Desmond expected her to flutter her eyelashes in shock, maybe recoil in disbelief, but she folded her arms just beneath her breasts, and her unamused expression was set in stone, punctuated with the piercing eyes of a disappointed mother, but undertoned with an intensely lewd gleam that Desmond didn't know what to think of. Her appearance drew him in, (a fine lady in her prime, wearing a pretty dress) but her face said discipline, and her eyes... He wasn't sure what they said, but he thought he liked it. "Uh... Sorry, lady."

"Hmph," Thorne huffed, clearly unsatisfied with Desmond's insincere apology. "What's your name, young man?" she asked, narrowing her eyes, nearly making slits out of them. It was a question Desmond would've blown off if he weren't inexplicably terrified. It was like a primal fear overtook him, and his ears flattened out against his skull; he looked like a child who had just been swiftly reprimanded. "Desmond," he squeaked, putting his head down, anything to escape that look. "Desmond," Thorne repeated, looking at the nervous fox thoughtfully. "That's a darling name." The foxcoon looked up, his face suddenly plastered with an utterly perplexed expression. "Wha?" he blurted out, too stunned to even make the tee sound. "I said it's a darling name. It's cute. And, looking at you..." She trailed off, first taking in the sight of his hair, which was well-groomed; clearly it knew the tender love of a brushing regime. Then she acknowledged the feminine features of his long muzzle and pretty, shallow eyes, framed by naturally beautiful eyelashes, and just above them, so slender as to be noticed only by the sharpest eyes at-a-glance, he had blonde eyebrows. "...Yes, I think you're definitely a darling little Desmond."

"Um... Thank you," Desmond said, starting to maneuver around the shopping cart. Thorne reached out with a swift hand, and in a surprisingly strong grip for such a pretty woman, she squeezed his shoulder. "Don't go just yet, dear," she cooed to him, pulling him back into easy reach. In the time she'd spent looking him over, she had come to a personal decision. She wanted to bring the rotten little thief back, to craft him into a fine young man, someone who would treat others with respect. He was so cute that she didn't want to see anything bad befall him, and in that brief time she'd frightened him into respect and submission, he showed promise. All that came next was getting the fox alone, and on her own turf; an offer of treats could accomplish that easily, if not sweet ones, then promises of flesh. "Do you have plans tonight, Desmond?" Thorne asked, absently brushing the locks of hair out of his eyes. The fox shrugged, and that simple motion put the hair right back into his vision. He didn't seem to notice it. "Duh? I always have something to do at night, I'm not a loser," he huffed, suddenly back to talking like a petulant teenager. "Oh, I see," said the raptor, folding her arms again, disarming the fox with a playful smile. "Then I don't suppose you'd want to spend the evening with me," she said in a smooth, even voice, not a hint of seduction or malice in it. Narrowing his eyes warily, Desmond asked: "Why would I?"

"I think a young man like you would enjoy... A treat, hm?" She still smiled, but she had since tilted her head to a slight angle. Desmond couldn't help but twist his lips into a grin, but that wary look dominated his eyes; he didn't trust Thorne, but he was intrigued. Finally, the fox asked the billion dollar question: "What kind of a treat are we talking about here, huh?" Thorne chuckled, brushing that hair from the tod's eyes again; as darling as it was, she hated to see his hair so unruly, dominating his face like that. "Cookies, cake, maybe a cherry pie, hm? What do you like, Desmond?" She genuinely expected to see his expression droop when she rattled off confections and sweets instead of positions, but it didn't; if anything, he seemed even more interested, as though the concept was completely alien, but very appealing. For all she knew, a troubled thing like him didn't know caring affection, and suddenly, she wondered if luring the fox in was the right thing to do, just waiting for him to make a mistake so she could... Instill proper moral values in him. Even if she was never given the opportunity, maybe just showing him care would be enough to change his ways, but she doubted it.

"Well, mmh, uh..." Desmond mumbled, rubbing his chin, looking down at the floor, and absently, at her feet. "You're being serious, no tricks?" asked the thief, not bothering to look up, greatly lessening the accusatory effect of the words; Thorne knew from his tone and mannerisms that he wanted it to be true. "Absolutely serious, dear. No tricks," she assured him, putting a hand on his head, gently stroking there, petting the fox. Desmond absently purred, leaning into the affection, and finally: "I've never had homemade chocolate-chip cookies." He said it in a voice that was almost dreamy, a tone that would've been more appropriate talking to or about the love of his life. Thorne chuckled in good nature then lifted his chin, looking him in the eyes. Gone was that malicious intent in her eyes, but it wasn't abandoned; just hidden. In one way, she adored the fox, but in another way...

Desmond was compliant and helpful as he left the store with her, carrying bags, even being careful with them. He's definitely got some potential, she thought, watching with a thoughtful smile as he bent over the trunk of her car to set the bags in. Her eyes were fixated on the tod's taut rear-end, and again, she had dual opinions about him. Aw, what a cute little butt he's got... I wonder if what they say about foxes is true. "Alright... There, I think that's it," Desmond said, pulling himself back, planting his feet on the asphalt of the parking lot. "Thank you, dear," Thorne said, smiling toothily for the fox, patting his head; Desmond winced at the sight of her teeth. Not because they were offensive or unclean, but because they were teeth made for ripping flesh off of hapless little fuzzy bags of meat like himself. "You're, uh, welcome, I think," replied Desmond with a mumbling, low voice, and in a move that seemed like hardcoded instinct, Thorne took hold of an ear, threatening to tweak the tender cartilage, maybe even break it and dog-ear him. "Speak clearly, Desmond," she said with a firm tone, but if that weren't imposing enough, her eyes could have scared the insolence out of anybody. "You're welcome!" the fox nearly yelped, but Thorne was happy. Again she smiled and gave his hair a brief stroke, then nodded towards the car. "Get in, sweetie, I need to get home and start on dinner. And then, if you keep being a good boy, there's going to be a treat for you."

Desmond was as stiff as a board once he was in the car. If Thorne was secretly a murderer, this was the part of the movie where she'd start to show her bloodthirsty side, then he'd try to get out of the car, and- "Hopefully you won't mind staying for a night or two," she suddenly said in an even, unbiased tone, carefully following the winding road. Desmond, jerked from the thoughts his quickening heart and racing mind cooked up, suddenly realized that they were far out of town, well away from the inner city streets he called home, away from the punks, lowlifes, addicts and hookers he reluctantly called family. Up and through the hills to the west, disconnected from the throbbing town to a place the fox could hardly believe was so close to the dump he loitered in. "What do you mean?" he asked, as if such a simple statement went over his head. He expected Thorne to sigh in exasperation, or at least give him a dirty, impatient are you serious, boy? look, but she didn't, choosing instead to explain carefully, as if speaking to a young child. "We live pretty far out of town. It's a long drive, Desmond, so you'll be staying with us for a few days, until I have business in town again." She glanced at the fox, but only took her eyes off the twisting road for a second. "Alright... I have some questions, though," he asked in that wary voice again, but Thorne was happy to oblige.

"I never got your name, and... What do you mean we? Your family? You have a husband or something?" His inflection went from cautious to accusing, as if he suddenly reminded himself that it was a possibility. "I don't think I like that tone," Thorne said, turning to give Desmond a withering glance on a briefly straight stretch of the road. Her face was somehow pleasant, a cheerful mom who thought her little foxy had a bit of an attitude problem, that's all, but those eyes! Involuntarily: "I'm sorry! Er... May I know your name, please? And who else do you live with?" She reached over, patting his head again; good boy. "My name is Thorne, sweetie. As for that other question..." She chuckled, slowing down for a turn that was almost hairpin. "You'll find out for yourself. I bet the girls will just love a cute thing like you," she cooed, catching sight of the tod's ears perking just out of the corner of her eye. The question on the tip of his tongue was girls?, but he kept it to himself, and the rest of the ride was spent in silence.

It seemed like an eternity, nearly an hour's drive on a twisting road that went on forever, but a building came into view. With the sun so far over the horizon, the adjacent mountains eclipsed much of it, and all the fox could see was that it was big. A limited observation, but it was the best he could do from a distance. Getting closer, even in the twilight, he could see more and more; it was a hotel, turn of the century, standing like a sentinel amidst the green mountains, some of which were snowcapped, and even closer, he could see it was in remarkable shape. Either time was kind to that building, or someone did one hell of a restoration job on it. And then, over the final small hump in the road, he saw a number of cars lined up outside, probably belonging to the girls Thorne mentioned. She pulled into a spot that seemed to be her own, but maybe they didn't have designated places; Desmond didn't care enough about that to ask. "Here we are, sweetie," Thorne chirped, "home sweet home."

"Nice place," Desmond grunted, betraying a certain awe he felt, a smallness as he leaned over the dashboard, looking up out of the windshield, positively dwarfed by the old hotel. Thorne smoothly got out, and Desmond joined her, wincing when he climbed out of the seat; that bottle of vodka had nearly made a nest for itself beneath his balls, and standing up disturbed the delicate habitat, causing him a sharp pain that said Hey! You're still a thief! Good luck getting those cookies now! Leaning against the car with that pain travelling up his gut and into his lungs, Desmond contemplated digging the bottle out and tossing it... Where, exactly? "Desmond, sweetie, help me get these things inside," Thorne sing-songed to him from behind the car, glancing around at him. For a split second, she saw the pain in his face - an expression she knew very well - and she had a good idea of just what had happened. She hadn't forgotten the little thief's crime, but then and there wasn't the time or place; it would come.

Again the model of a good boy, with an extra element of machine-like rigidity now that he remembered he still had the stolen liquor on him, Desmond carried two armfuls of groceries, following Thorne inside, past the heavy double doors, covered with designs etched lovingly into the ancient, mighty oak. As soon as he set foot in the foyer, Desmond felt smaller than the day he was conceived, for the room's ceiling stretched up to the entire height of the hotel. Looking up through and past the criss-crosses of wooden beams and supports (also covered in designs) gave the poor fox a feeling of vertigo. Before he could unintentionally make himself ill, Thorne called to him from just behind another grand set of doors adjacent to the front entrance, which seemed to tunnel beneath the walkway overhead, accessed by symmetrical, curving staircases on either side; the place was a woodworker's wet dream. Desmond followed along after her, and his eyes would've been on her hypnotically swaying hips if he wasn't so struck by the size of the hallway. It was somewhere around twelve feet high, but after being in the foyer and ogling its' high ceiling for so long, it made the thieving fox feel claustrophobic. The brief walk down the hallway took them into an expansive, spotlessly clean kitchen, and Thorne set the bag she held down on the island counter, so Desmond did the same. He took a long look around, and the lack of windows told him the kitchen was somewhere in the core of the hotel. There were entrances from the east, west, and south, the latter being the one they had just used. "Wow," Desmond muttered, an understatement, but Thorne grinned and moved behind the fox, one hand upon his shoulder, the other running through his hair, her claws affectionately raking along his scalp. "It's a big kitchen, but there's a lot of mouths to feed here; I think you're going to make a fine little assistant, Desmond," she cooed to him, kissing the top of his head with an audible, exaggerated smooch!

"Heh... You think so, Thorne?" Desmond asked, not turning to look her in the eyes, just letting his eyes wander around the kitchen. "Mhm, but there's... Just one little thing we need to talk about, first," she said, letting it hang in the air for a few long seconds. Come clean, stupid, she's giving you a chance! Desmond bit his lip and got ready to spill his guts, but he took too long; Thorne reached around the slender fox's body, down into the crotch of his jeans, sliding her hand in with a casual air; clearly, she wasn't uncomfortable, but Desmond certainly was. Under any other circumstances, it would've been delightful, but he thought it would lead to a vicious scolding; if only. Thorne clutched the neck of the plastic bottle, pulling it up and out of the warm confines of Desmond's loins. "What have we here? I didn't see you pay for this..." Her voice was rapidly slipping away from that sweet cheerfulness that made him inexplicably happy. "Ah... Yeah, I kinda forgot I had that in there," Desmond said, and it was the truth, to some degree. He had, indeed, forgotten he planned to steal the stuff, but it didn't excuse the fact that he intended to all along, and this wasn't lost on Thorne. In a way, she wanted to laugh at his excuse, to ask him if he realized just how ridiculous it was, but that would've broken the tension she was crafting.

"Desmond," she started, purring the word right into one of his ears, so close that she could've bitten it off if she were the type to do so. "You stole this. You planned to steal it all along, didn't you?" She didn't give the fox any room to butt in; though the buh sound passed his lips, he wasn't allowed to finish; she gave his ear the tweak it was threatened with before, and he winced. "No buts, young man," she said calmly, not escalating her tone at all, and that was far more terrifying than any screaming. Desmond didn't show fear, not yet; he didn't know just how far Thorne would go, and he certainly didn't expect what came next; holding the bottle in one hand, she raised the other and slid it beneath the foxcoon's shirt. First, a quick stroke up the smooth, silky fluff of his body, and then she pressed her thumb and forefinger together around one of his nipples, stiffened from the confrontation. As she began to pinch and twist, the fox almost giggled at the feeling, but it quickly turned into a pain that jerked a sudden, lonesome sob out of him before he regained his usual indignity, the attitude that would get him buried around that particular lady. "What the fuck are you doing!? Let go, that hurts!" the fox snarled, baring his teeth, foolishly trying to pull away.

Thorne's eyes narrowed, and with strong yet nimble fingers, she twisted that nipple around an agonizing four times; Desmond wasn't aware that was even possible, but there it was, and he was ashamed but not humbled that such a simple punishment saw him trying to drop to his knees. He was too dumbfounded to even try and grab her wrists, in so much pain that his paws shot out before him, the fingers splayed in involuntary, disbelieving jazz hands. "S-stop! Stop it! Aaaauuugh!" Thorne grinned at how quickly his attitude changed, but he was still so feisty, completely unbroken, the best kind of naughty boy. She let go of his nipple and slid her hand free of his shirt, and the petulant tod dropped to his knees, ineffectively stifling his hurt whimpers, clutching his chest like a heart attack victim, trying to soothe the nipple he was lucky to still have. "Good boys don't need trash like this," Thorne tutted, unscrewing the cap on the vodka, cracking the plastic seal, and then she poured every drop of the stolen booze down the sink, rinsing the bottle out before tossing it in the trash just for good measure. Desmond's ears flattened when he saw the empty bottle drop into the can; goodbye, beloved friend.

Thorne stood at the kitchen counter, humming a pleasant tune to herself as she did something Desmond didn't like at all. He was contemplating stealing a car just to run away, but he actually found himself wondering what she might punish him with for grand theft auto. Nevertheless, with morbid curiosity, he watched as she transformed before his eyes, sliding on a spiked collar and wrist cuffs to match, and though she was wearing the same pretty red dress he'd met her in, it suddenly looked to him like it was the color of blood, not roses. Desmond looked away, now absently rubbing his abused nipple. Suddenly, the air was cut by a loud crack!, and he flopped to his side as though it had been a gunshot. His eyes turned to Thorne, now facing him, brandishing a whip in one hand, a collar dangling from a leash in the other, and on her face was a malicious grin showing teeth, and of course narrow, intense eyes; he couldn't decide what scared him the most. As she walked close to him, her taloned feet _click_ing and _clack_ing against the tile floor, Desmond scooted back, whimpering like a helpless little pup, mouthing whatever expletives and prayers came to mind. At last, he cornered himself, and she closed in, kneeling, affixing the collar with practiced speed around his slim neck.

Sprawled against the floor, Desmond looked pitiful; pity was a concept Thorne knew, but rarely acknowledged. "Thorne... Thorne, please, I won't ever..." Desmond started to plead with her, forgetting what words to use, what he'd even done wrong, but Thorne put a finger to his lips; the rest of them held onto the leash's lead. "If I don't punish you, you'll keep stealing things, and you'll stay a potty-mouthed little liar, Desmond," she said, somehow seamlessly mixing that sweet mom nature in. "When I'm done with you, you'll be a good, respectful young man." She stood and tugged upon the leash, but when the fox stood, she lashed out with the whip; even in such a confined spot, she smacked the tough leather strand across his thigh, more than hard enough that it dropped him to his paws and knees, hissing in pain, but it didn't tear the fabric of his jeans. No longer was she showing teeth, but her full lips were still pulled into a domineering, curt smile. She tugged the leash again, and this time, Desmond came along on all-fours. He didn't taste the whip again.

As though he were a dog, Thorne walked him down the long hallway back to the foyer, no longer well-lit and breathtaking, but a dark, cavernous spire in the night that Desmond couldn't see the ceiling of, which made that earlier feeling of vertigo come back with a vengeance. He was somewhat thankful, then, that Thorne continued to walk him, but the stairs were an ordeal on his paws and knees, and by the time she led him up another three flights of them, and around what had to be thousands of feet of hallways, his pads were growing calloused, the black fur matted down, losing that well-groomed sheen. Finally, she led him into the room she called her own, dark for the time being; Desmond somehow knew that was a good thing. Behind him, as Thorne began to close the door, he heard an unfamiliar female voice: "Hey, Thorne? Any idea when dinner is?" She looked back, and so did Desmond, but as far past the doorway as he was, he couldn't see whoever was there. "Oh, soon, dear, but first, there's a naughty little fox who needs some straightening out." Whoever was there started to laugh, but it was... Jaded, as if they knew he was in for something extraordinarily unpleasant. "Well, a fox, huh? Is he cute?"

"I'd say so. If he shapes up, maybe you can see him for yourself, but right now, there's just so much that needs to be done, sweetie," and with that, she closed the door, flicking on the lights. With his eyes down, he saw lush, red carpet; clearly, red was Thorne's color. Hopefully she didn't like blood, too. Against his better judgment, he looked up; first, he saw a bed like any other, but above it was a... A harness, some kind of bondage device ripped out of hell itself. It was a dizzying spiderweb of tough leather straps with glistening steel loops, and many of the gaps in it were just large enough for limbs to slip through. From that alone, the fox could tell it was built for any number of interesting positions, and from where Desmond knelt, none of them seemed terribly pleasant. He finally looked elsewhere, but the rest of the room was decorated like an actual bedroom; a dresser, a nightstand, but nothing like a television or even a radio. Yeah, we all know what you do for fun, Desmond thought, but he wisely kept that to himself. He'd done and said enough naughty things to keep him in bondage for weeks. There was a bookshelf, but he was afraid to look at any of the spines, expecting to see titles like Fingernail Removal - Pliers Edition, Testicle Taxidermy 101, and How To: Dissolve Corpses in Lime.

Thorne pulled Desmond up to his feet and, as clinically as undressing a department store dummy, removed his clothes; first his shirt, arguably the only difficult piece, since she had to pull it along the leash. His pants and briefs hit the floor quickly, and just like that, Desmond was entirely naked in all his effeminate beauty. Pretty, like... Like a girl, even, Thorne thought, planning for the near future while taking in the shivering tod's body. A hotel largely full of cold-blooded dinosaurs was bound to be warm, and a fuzzy critter like Desmond had to be uncomfortably hot; he shook from fear, not temperature. "Well, Desmond, I have a house full of hungry people," Thorne started, her voice cheerful and chirpy; Desmond was starting to get the hang of her personality, but that didn't keep him from being terrified. And as much as he wanted to say so you're going to hang me up for a few hours in the dark?, he didn't want to give her any ideas. Besides, she was ahead of him on that. She walked to the bed and pulled him closer, this time allowing him to walk on his feet. She stepped up onto the bed in one smooth stride, and he followed, though with his shorter height, he had to actually clamber up with his paws. And then, with strength Desmond didn't expect - though he couldn't have weighed much more than 100, 110 pounds - she lifted him under the arms and set him into the snarl of harnesses. She more or less sat him down in one that he likened to a... Very kinky swingset, and then she slid his tender, digitigrade feet into smaller nets, tying them in tightly; she didn't cut off his circulation, but he wasn't going to slip free. Then, his fore paws were tied behind his back, the knot threaded into the harness that he sat in. If, by some chance, he was able to free himself from any one of the individual harnesses, the weight of his own scrawny body would take out what little slack remained in the others and put him in excruciating pain, thus automatically punishing him in Thorne's absence, if need be, but she had yet to have somebody escape.

He practically sat up in midair, and it wasn't terribly uncomfortable, all things considered. She knew it wasn't, and that was why she changed his position; with an unmarked pulley system that the tod hadn't noticed before, she could raise and lower the different harnesses and their individual supports in any way she liked. The one he sat in had four supports, total; two in front, two in back. With a thoughtful eye, and without even glancing at the ten or so ropes, she raised that main harness in front and lowered it in back until he was reclined, but gravity saw his unsupported torso drooping towards the bed, bending his back, his long hair hanging on the sheets beneath. Then, she raised his feet as high as those harnesses would go, almost pulling his body taut like a torture rack, but there was one more surprise; the last rope she adjusted moved those leg harnesses together and apart, and she used it to leave Desmond nearly spread-eagle. He looked at Thorne, upside down in his eyes, his expression pulled tight with anxiety and fear, his teeth bared in an involuntary grimace. He dared to squirm in the bonds, but it accomplished nothing; "Rrf... I guess this is time-out, isn't it?" he grunted, and Thorne nodded her head slowly, her smile widening; now he was learning. "You're much smarter than you act, Desmond; it's too bad you don't use those brains. Now, just one more thing; don't go away!" she chirped, brushing a finger across his cheek. He thought to say as if I could, you lunatic, but he imagined that wouldn't go over well... And she wasn't stupid; it had to be an intentional groaner.

Thorne stepped over to her closet and slid the door open; instead of rows of pretty dresses on hangers, Desmond saw racks and racks of perverted items. Dildos and other phallic toys, running the gamut from tame to ungodly, ass-splitting implements of pain; whips that went from the most simple bullwhips, like the one he already felt on his thigh, to a cat o'nine, and one which even looked like a rose's stalk, complete with thorns. There was any number of other things, too many to focus on in detail, but Desmond saw chains, clamps, gags, and even a few things he simply couldn't identify. The maternal mistress looked thoughtfully over her rack of fake dicks, trailing her fingers along one now and again. Over the sound of his heart, Desmond heard her sweet humming again, but finally, she selected one, sliding the door closed with her tail as she stepped away. Cradled in her arms was a canine-styled dildo, a handsome, tapering shaft, pocked with veins, and of course, it came to a bulbous knot that Desmond knew was going inside of him. He whined at just the sight of it, even as Thorne slathered it in thick, drippy lubricant, the industrial stuff that true professionals kept handy. With lube drooling off the neon-yellow toy, Thorne stepped up onto the bed, standing between the twink fox's parted legs. That knotted, translucent dildo was enormous; there was no other word for it. At the widest part of the shaft, it was as big around as the twink fox's calf; his thought processes refused to even acknowledge that knot. All he could think was there's no way that's going to fit; she's going to fucking kill you, you thief. No matter how much he berated himself, Desmond knew pleading would do no good; apologizing would make it worse. Maybe after the fact she'd acknowledge it, once he'd suffered and cried, but not before, and on that, Desmond was absolutely right.

Licking her lips thoughtfully, Thorne clutched the toy in one hand, reaching over with the other, spreading the tod's legs just a little bit more, pulling them so far apart that she had complete access to his cute vulpine rump. Then, with one hand just below the tip and the other between the knot and the enormously flared base, she poised the dildo against his quivering, clenched asshole. She paused, wondering if there was anything she could tell the fox to make the moment any better, but he knew he was in trouble, he knew what was coming; so she just started to push it forward, slowly working the sissy fox open. Her slow pace wasn't out of mercy, but necessity; ruthlessly ramming such a big toy into such a small orifice would seriously injure the little liar, and she didn't want that. Pain was best delivered slowly, like a drip-feed; most times, anyway. As he was spread open, as that broad, yellow toy slowly defied the snug ring of muscle, the foxcoon wasn't sure he even had a reaction appropriate for it. As her steady hands slowly guided the dildo in, that knot getting closer and closer to the tod's throbbing, pink bullseye, Desmond experienced the longest three minutes of his life. He hissed and winced, clenching his eyes shut, baring his teeth involuntarily. With the dildo sunken but a quarter of its' menacing length, Thorne relished the spectacle of Desmond's virgin tail hole yielding to the silicone dick and listened intently to the fox's subtle weeping. The quiet sniffling was nearly constant, but the stifled whimpers were more of a treat. Those came only with surprise twinges of pain, such as when one of the toy's veins put just a little bit of extra pressure on his stretched walls, or if it simply started to encounter friction, even with all of that lubricant along its' length.

Nineteen inches. Nineteen inches of bulging canine dick, faithfully recreated in silicone, were soon to be completely buried in the tod's behind. Nineteen inches and a quarter, to be most precise, but that measurement didn't even include the gruesome, fat knot, the very one Thorne soon pressed up against Desmond's tail hole. Already, it was stretched beyond all recognition, no longer a tight, pink pucker, a model for virgin buttholes, but gaping and sore, clutching a fat dildo so large and menacing that the fox couldn't even imagine the kind of man who would have a cock of that size. "Hm," muttered Thorne, keeping the knot pressed tight against his asshole, "perfect fit, don't you think, Desmond?" As though he could see it, she smirked, but the fox imagined it to be there anyway. "Would you like to have it out now, Desmond?" asked Thorne, idly drumming her clawed fingers on the base of the toy; such a simple action sent pain up his trembling spine. "Yes..." The tod sounded completely helpless as he bleated the word in between sobs, curling his toes and fingers in futility. "If that's what you want, Desmond," said Thorne in a voice that was nearly a sultry purr. The mistress slid the toy free of his behind slowly, for two reasons; first, it was much more painful that way, but arguably more important was the fact that simply yanking such a thick toy out, one so firmly clutched by the tod's insides, would probably... Well, not even Thorne wanted to inflict that kind of pain on anybody.

The raptor was surprised, but not disappointed with the fact that Desmond made not a single noise of pain or suffering as she slid the toy free. It was easy to tell from his tensed form, quickened breathing, and stifled sobs that he was in absolute agony, but the fact that he was trying to hide that implied he still held on to a shred of his dignity, and was still very much unbroken, however close to the edge of total submission he was. She grinned to herself at the idea of completely breaking the little sissy's body and will; afterwards, she would likely welcome the young thing with open arms and kisses, but only when she felt he was ready to be forgiven. Finally, the tip of the toy was free, and she looked upon the horror she'd inflicted on the tod's formerly virgin asshole; loose and no doubt burning with pain, but all things considered, he didn't look nearly as bad as she expected. I'll need to change that, she thought, idly trailing a claw around the rim of his abused tail hole, coaxing a sharp whelp from Desmond that would've sounded more appropriate from a beaten puppy. Thorne moved to his drooping torso, ducking underneath one of his splayed legs to get there, whereupon she knelt and kissed his cheek, stroking his upside-down face with a soothing touch. "I know what you must be thinking," Thorne said, running her cool claws along his chin. "Your cute little butt will be just fine," she reassured him, but never one to let her slaves feel too optimistic, "which is why I've got a little something else planned after dinner." Her tone was so sweet and disarming that Desmond's face didn't register absolute horror until a few seconds later. It was impossible for her not to smirk at his expression, but worst of all was the almost witch-like cackle that erupted past her menacing teeth. "See you in a couple of hours, Desmond," said the mistress with a wink and a kiss on his cheek, disappearing, leaving him alone in the dark.

Desmond thought he might be able to fall asleep where he hung, but the position was just too bizarre and uncomfortable for him to relax, and just when he really tried to clear his mind and shut his eyes, he remembered that she'd be back. Well, of course she'll be back, she won't just leave you here to die. The problem is that she's going to rape you, stupid, thought the thieving fox, and the very notion sent a shiver up his spine. That big, yellow doggy dick lay on the bed beneath him. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was still there; it wasn't a stretch to picture Thorne strapping the son of a bitch on and pretty much tearing him a new one. "Oh, god," he moaned to nobody in particular, starting to sob helplessly and uncontrollably. "I gotta get out of here... Shit... Shit," whimpered Desmond, tugging on the harnesses from every direction he could, but they were solid; Thorne's harnesses weren't some thrown-together amateur rig from the discount bondage shop. They were probably made to restrain creatures twice his size; another shiver crawled up his spine like a banana spider when he wondered how many other men (and probably women) got tangled up into her web. When he finally gave up struggling, he resigned himself to the worst torment of all; waiting and wondering. Thorne probably knew his own terrified little brain would scare him more than she ever could with all of her whips and chains. This is probably all part of the game, isn't it? Scare me by hanging me up in the dark, making me wait for you? ...It's working. I just wanna go home.

Desmond felt lower than a blood-sucking leech as he hung in his bonds, whimpering and sobbing, wishing the bitch would just come and get it over with. After the better part of two and a half hours, his eyes snapped over to the sound of the doorknob turning; low light was cast into the room, and he saw her outline. He was certain he saw the gleam of her teeth. "Still awake, Desmond?" asked Thorne softly, flicking the lights on. Desmond grunted and squinted his eyes against the blinding light, and in that time, Thorne had shut and locked the door, and she was already halfway across the room to her closet. "Wh-what are you gonna do to me?" Desmond bleated, listening for her, not that he could hear her walk on the carpet, especially over the cannonfire of his heartbeat. He was absolutely certain he did not want to know what the raptor had planned, but it was gnawing at him. It was the whole reason he hung in highly effective bondage, so she could keep him tied up and waiting for her. "Hmm... You're smarter than you act, Desmond. I have the feeling you know already. You're just sweating and praying you're wrong," she chuckled, sliding a harness around her nude body, one that fit around her hips and between her legs. It was leather, of course, and pretty much any dildo could be fastened securely to it; a modular strap-on system designed by the mistress herself. "Mrrf," Desmond grunted, pointlessly squirming in the bonds, "you're gonna rape me, aren't you? And probably kill me afterwards, and serve me as dinner or something for a bunch of other raptors." His voice was completely defeated, like he was ready for the fate he described. Thorne screwed her face into disbelief, then burst out with a sharp laugh, one that made the twink fox flinch. "Aha! Desmond, sweetie... You're absolutely right about the first part, but... The... What? Oh, do calm down, honey," she shushed him, stroking his chest and stomach with an affectionate touch. "That's completely silly... You're much too stringy to serve for dinner. I'll just bury you out back."

Desmond was so hysterical with fear that he stopped making noises altogether, simply shivering and shaking. Thorne was having a hard time keeping a straight face as she laced in the big, knotted dildo; kill him and eat him? What a silly boy... With the toy securely tied to her hips, she let him down from the harnesses, setting him down upon the bed with surprising delicacy. She removed him from all bondage, even the collar and leash, though she wasn't surprised that he laid still and refused to budge. Too scared to even run for the door; good. Very good. Clutching a fresh bottle of lubricant, Thorne generously slathered the dildo yet again, leaving the silicone flesh dripping with slippery ooze, and at long last, the main course... She pressed the pointed tip to his gaping, abused asshole, and she began sinking the toy, inch by inch, until the knot kissed up to the orifice again. It drew Desmond out of his almost catatonic fear with quite a start, and his shaking body started to lurch up, trying to scoot away from Thorne. With a face-splitting smirk, she pinned him tightly, clutching his forearms, sinking her claws into the flesh, but she opened no wounds. "You need to relax, Desmond," she hissed, leaning in low. She kissed here and there on his neck, drawing her tongue along the arteries before nipping upon them, leaving it as an unspoken warning just how easily she could kill him if she really felt like it. "I'm not going to murder you... I'm going to rape you and completely break you, but I'd never kill you..."

With that said, Thorne started to gyrate her hips with skill, proving herself to be better with a dick than most men; Desmond shuddered with curious twinges of pleasure, sensations he wasn't aware of and wasn't entirely sure he wanted, but in time, pain started to outweigh them, for such was rape. Thorne glared into his eyes as she started to actually buck her hips, letting the fat knot punch against his asshole, starting to form bruises on the tender, pink muscle. Every hilting thrust coaxed a sharp, pained whimper or whelp out of the tod; by that point, there was no hope of keeping up his tough-guy act, though hope, in general, was fast becoming a moot point. He freely sobbed and cried, and Thorne drew her tongue along his cheek, licking up tears in a symbolic gesture of cruelty. Who owns you, bitch? She forced the knot against his tail hole with special ferocity, and then a second time. A third time, and he howled with pain. A fourth, and the pink muscle, beginning to discolor with bruise from abuse, started to yield to the knot. A fifth punishing push, and his gaping asshole started to swallow that gigantic knot. With one more mighty thrust of her hips, Thorne sank the knot and tied with Desmond; if not for the soundproofing in her room, Thorne was fairly sure his squeal would've filled the entire hotel. Hissing venomously in victory over the twink, Thorne bit on his shoulder, not drawing blood, merely asserting herself yet further. I own you, bitch. That's who. Desmond trembled and sobbed, squirming against Thorne; with a few tugs of her hips, the knot popped back out of him; he passed out swiftly.

When Desmond woke up, he was aware of a few things. He was in no bondage whatsoever, and he was warm, comfortable, and cozy. With the light coming in through the window, he could tell it was probably the morning, and there he was, in Thorne's bed, comfy and warm and completely unattended. It was too pleasant, too safe; a shiver crawled up his spine. Casting off the blankets and climbing out of bed, he winced as he put pressure on his bare bottom, and when he stood up straight, he found it difficult to walk without an incriminating limp. More importantly, the street clothes he'd come in with were nowhere to be found. Instead, near the foot of the bed was a collection of feminine things which, when put together, made for a provocative number. On top, in beautiful cursive from Thorne's hand, was a note that sealed his fate. With resigned eyes, Desmond read it carefully: Good morning, sweetie. You were just so exhausted from the night before that I decided to let you sleep in. Don't worry, you won't get in trouble for it this time, but we'll work on your endurance. I put together a treat for you, which you've probably found already. Put it on, I think you'll look absolutely darling in it. Come see me in the kitchen when you wake up. --Thorne Punctuating the note was a lovely little heinie-shaped heart, but Desmond didn't feel happy or lightheaded.

After at last talking himself into dressing, Desmond took in his appearance in Thorne's personal bathroom. Starting from the top, he had on a skintight wife-beater in a shade of pink that seemed to match his paw pads and other flesh, and stretching from his paws up to his elbows were fishnet arm-warmers. Further down, in pitch black, he had on an alarmingly tight skirt, one that clutched his bottom and hips but terminated almost pointlessly high. Beneath it, of course, were vibrantly pink panties, and on his legs were stockings which, no matter how humbled he felt, he admitted looked beautiful on him. The vulpine brushed his hair smooth, and with all the confidence of a freshly-emasculated young thieving rape victim in a strange place, he left Thorne's room, hoping to a god that so far didn't seem to exist that he wouldn't bump into anyone. That god wasn't paying attention.

"A new girl, huh?" lewdly chuckled a voice from behind, but it was male, as far as Desmond could tell; the pitch seemed to reverberate, but the register was low. Without turning his back, Desmond absently tried to pull the skirt further down, his cheeks hot with a blush. "Hmm... Cute behind, I'd say, but you're... No offense, a little too modern for my taste. Still not bad to look at, though," he conceded, and then Desmond heard something being sipped. Now that he thought of it, he smelled hot coffee. Very slowly, he turned to see... A skeleton. With a little golden halo. His face went blank, his expression falling off like food off a plate, and then he smiled. It was completely peaceful; Desmond thought why not? and shrugged his shoulders. With all the other weird shit, sure. You're probably dehydrated and having a hallucination, but let's run with it. "Wrong era?" said the skanky fox with a surprisingly thoughtful tone, and the skeletal dinosaur nodded his agreement. "Yeah, pretty much. Glad you understand," he said with a friendly enough tone, sipping his coffee again; how he made the sipping noise without lips, and where the liquid actually went, those were questions Desmond just didn't think he wanted to ask. It would spoil the trip. "Wait a second," he mumbled, looking the fox over carefully. Then, "Oh. Oh! You're that... Hah, you're the thief Thorne brought home." He chuckled, but it was without any joy. "My sympathies. Wouldn't eat any spicy food for awhile, if I were you." And with that, he walked off, disappearing around a corner. Desmond started to hum Dust 'N Bones as he walked back down to the kitchen.

The inner city streets had conditioned Desmond well to find his way back to the kitchen, not that he was sure he wanted to head back there. As he stepped into the long, tall hallway off the foyer and to the kitchen, he heard dishes quietly clattering, water running and shutting off over and over, and humming. Once he stepped inside, he clearly saw that Thorne was washing the dishes, probably from breakfast that morning. Alone with the mistress again, Desmond padded close to her, then said, in a respectful, yet quiet voice: "Good morning, Thorne." She turned her head, and a sudden grin split her lips. "Cute!" she squealed, reaching down to dab suds on his nose. Absently, he licked it off, then stuck his tongue out with a wince. "Come over here, Desmond," she said politely, nodding beside herself; "I'll wash, and you can rinse." As the "vixen" rinsed and carefully set the never-ending stream of plates, bowls, coffee cups, utensils, and pans into the metal dish draining rack, Thorne asked him, quite pleasantly, "And how does your bottom feel this morning, dear?" Desmond blushed and thought about stumbling through the question; as if to remind him what a bad, bad idea that would be, his aching butthole throbbed with pain. "Sore. Extremely sore," he said clearly, but quietly. It took everything he had not to lace it with an accusing tone, but he pulled it off. "I see," said Thorne, dragging a scouring pad across the surface of a well-worn iron skillet, scraping fried egg off its' surface. "Let's hope you learned your lesson, then." Thorne didn't give him any time to absorb the statement before washing it down with a threat: "The next time you lie to me, you'll be lucky to just limp." And then the olive after the cocktail; her malicious, wicked grin, the one that said you know I'm serious; try me, boy. Desmond whimpered.

In silence, she washed and he rinsed; every few seconds, he'd stop to absently tug the panties back into place. Thorne caught sight of it, but said nothing; she didn't even smirk, though it occurred to her. Finally, the emasculated tod had a question: "Thorne, I think I saw a... Skeleton upstairs." She didn't stop what she was doing, and didn't even pause to think over her reply. "Oh, you're lucky, then. He doesn't show his face very much," said Thorne, handing a plate off to Desmond; reflexively, he rinsed it clean and set it on the rack. "He probably thought you were a girl." She paused, and her face took on an almost puzzled look; "All he does is draw girls, us specifically." She turned her eyes on Desmond, then gave him one of her trademark smirks. "He was probably going to ask if you'd model for him, until he figured it out." Desmond sucked absently on his lip, making an audible sound out of it to punctuate the awkward note; Thorne narrowed her eyes. "Don't make silly noises," she warned. "Sorry," Desmond automatically squeaked... And then he said the next thing that popped into his head, which would become the worst mistake of his life. "I... Probably would have modeled for him if he asked."

"Would you really?" Thorne asked, her tone becoming dangerously cheerful again; mom was planning a fun activity for her and her little fox. "No," Desmond suddenly said, his ears flattening against his skull, "I was joking. I swear." Thorne was just feeling around the bottom of the sink for any dishes she might have missed, and when she didn't find any, she pulled the plug, rinsed the suds off of her hands, and dried them off. The whole time, she talked to him: "Oh, so you're admitting that you just lied to me, hm..." She let it hang in the air, pausing to see if Desmond would dig his grave a few feet deeper, but he fell silent. "Well, Desmond," she said, offering him a look that was almost sympathetic, but not even an expert like Thorne could hide the giddy sadism in her eyes, "I was just going to see if I could arrange a little shoot for you, if you wanted to be a pretty girl, but since you lied to me," she paused, shaking her head slowly with closed eyes to convey her deep, deep disappointment, "you need to be punished." The way the word rolled off of her tongue, it was like she was eating a sweet candy, savoring it. "And since being tied up and having your rear worn out with a strap-on doesn't seem to improve your behavior, I'm going to have to get unorthodox. Thankfully for you, I'm such a progressive lady," she sneered. Desmond gulped.

In her room, Thorne took Desmond's look a step further. She transformed the fox from a convincing trap into a beautiful vixen; she teased his hair, dolled him up tastefully with a little blush and eyeliner, and of course padded his chest. As Desmond took in his new appearance for the first time, he genuinely squeaked. "Is that me?" asked the tod, absently clutching his throat in a damningly feminine way. Thorne grinned, resting her chin on top of his head. She carefully adjusted the fox's very convincing bosom then kissed him between the ears. "Yes, Desmond; that's you... See what a pretty girl you make? I think, before you can become a good boy, I should make a good girl out of you." Again, he gulped. "And to make you into a good girl, we're going to go meet some boys." For such a benign statement delivered in such a casual way, Desmond didn't think, at first, that it sounded all that bad, but then he remembered who he was dealing with, and his spirits sank again. "Boys where?" asked Desmond with a wary tone, looking into Thorne's eyes through the mirror. "The usual places you'd look to find the kind of boys I want to introduce you to. The kind of boys who would be delighted to get to meet a sweet little girl like you," she cooed, squeezing Desmond close. He felt the back of his head pressing against her swollen breasts, and he closed his eyes, enjoying a brief respite as Thorne gave him a fond squeeze. Enjoy this little moment, he told himself, because it's downhill from here, sissy-boy. "Now, come on, Desmond. Or should I say, hm... Desiree?" she offered, smiling. "Let's go for a little drive."

Desmond had forgotten just how long the drive into town was, and probably would have fallen asleep if he weren't so helplessly nervous about the raptor's plans. "So, Thorne... You, um, never did tell me exactly what kind of boys you'd be taking me to meet." The fox offered her a cautious look, one she disarmed with a gentle smile, followed by a completely horrifying response. "Men at the truck stop, most likely." Desmond didn't believe her; he refused to acknowledge that Thorne, lovely, wholesome (at least fifty percent of her) Thorne would even set foot in a truck stop. And, as if she could read his mind: "Mind you, I'm not going to escort you or anything like that. I'll drop you off and do a little shopping, and pick you up in an hour or two." The foxcoon's ears flattened, and his expression was a poster for terror. "But why?" he whined, tightening his jaw, his eyebrows nearly crashing together. "Why would you do that to me? I mean... Imagine if they find out!" Thorne chuckled, shaking her head. "They won't. Not if you're careful. You are a good liar, aren't you?" asked Thorne with biting, rhetorical sarcasm, flashing him a gleaming smirk to top it off. For the rest of the car ride, Desmond sat in silence, his jaws clenched like a vise, just waiting for her to thrust him into a writhing mass of unwashed, sexually aggressive and morally dubious truckers, but the moment never came. She pulled up in the parking lot of the grocery store, the very one she'd collected him from the evening before. She knew he was dying to ask what, precisely, she was up to, but he didn't. She could tell he didn't want to know, and it delighted her.

In the store, Thorne made not even a passing reference to her proposed punishment. She walked along with the fox, buying what she needed, and to anyone who looked their way, they were nothing more than a pair of attractive ladies shopping together. As they walked down one of the aisles, they passed by a tall and muscular stock boy; he was beautiful, some kind of a hyena, with an unruly but ultimately handsome mohawk and a very hyena smile, rivaling even Thorne's in sheer toothiness. Desmond was oblivious, but Thorne saw the very special way he eyed the pretty vixen, and so she cleared her throat, smiling at Desmond, then nodding towards the hyena, who was doing his best to look without looking, checking Desmond out with brief glances. "Looks like you have a little admirer," she whispered, widening her smile into the beginning of one of her smirks. "Go say hello to him." Desmond blushed, looking over at the hyena, and he made eye contact. Shit. "No, no, I can't, Thorne," he whispered back, but she shrugged and started to walk on. "Alright, then; I can just leave you at the truck stop overnight. Maybe some big, manly bear will let you sleep in his truck with him." And there it was, a full-fledged Thorne smirk (patent applied for) in all its' horrific glory. Desmond winced and walked back to the hyena; Thorne kept within earshot as she grabbed what she needed. She overheard all of it; he told Desmond he was pretty, while the fox laughed bashfully and expressed his gratitude. Though stiff and awkward, it worked to his advantage, making him seem like a shy and sweet girl. They talked about this and that, the both of them acting like love-struck teenagers; in the end, Desmond walked away with his phone number, and as he rendezvoused with Thorne, his cheeks were lit neon with pink blush. "Cute boy," she remarked, heading for the checkout. "You were a natural." And already, Thorne was looking forward to getting Desmond ready for a date, but that was for another day.

On the way home, Desmond's relief was as clear as day, and for good reason. The truth was, of course, that Thorne wouldn't have done something as irresponsible as dump him off in the laps of some truckers; however entertaining as it might have been for a time, it would have most certainly ended in Desmond getting beaten, or worse, and that was her job. "He was really nice," Desmond blurted out, resting against the seat, enjoying the view of the mountainous countryside on the drive back home. Thorne didn't smirk, but she smiled; "Is my little Desmond in love?" The fox bit his lip in thought, then shook his head, not that Thorne saw it. "Nah... I'm pretty sure I still like women," he said with confidence in his voice, "but, I think I make a pretty good vixen." Thorne laughed, then sighed. "Do you know what that means then, Desmond?" Respectfully: "No, Thorne. What?"

"I'll just have to find some new way to punish you."

In the hotel, Thorne let Desmond change back into his regular clothes - freshly washed and neatly folded, no less. It was with some endearing reluctance that he shed the panties and skirt, but Thorne noncommittally mentioned she'd set the outfit aside for him. The two spent the rest of the evening together; Desmond quite happily assisted her with chores, and aside from one or two incidents that a swift smack on the rump easily dealt with, he was a fair, well-behaved little fox. For his behavior, she allowed him to help her cook dinner; in the kitchen, at her side, she came to realize he genuinely enjoyed himself, and it made her happy.

Wiping his brow more for effect, given the fact that it was physically impossible for him to sweat, Desmond looked upon the trays and trays of food; salads, roasts, hams, stuffing, mashed potatoes, a menagerie of vegetables, and so on. "Thorne, why do we need all this food? How many people live here?" the fox asked, gazing up at the raptor. She grinned and rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezing with good-natured affection. "I keep forgetting! You still haven't met the girls, have you?" She tutted and took a tray, gesturing for Desmond to grab another. "Well, for being a good boy... And a good girl, that changes tonight," she said with a pleased tone, leading him through the door that went off to the kitchen's right, towards the dining hall. "I wouldn't go so far as to declare you off the hook," Thorne said warily, looking back at Desmond as they went down a seemingly never-ending hall, "but you've made progress." He smiled.

As they left the mouth of the hallway and stepped into the cavernous dining hall, Desmond felt tiny yet again, and more awkward than when he'd been paraded around the grocery store in drag. More eyes than he could count were on him, all of them belonging to creatures of prehistory - and all of them quite fine to look at, in one way or another. Following Thorne's lead, he set his tray down on the long table, meeting the gaze of one of the girls; a triceratops, if Desmond remembered history correctly. Her lips curled into a playful smile and she glanced at Thorne. "Ooh, is this the fox you told me about?" she asked, and Desmond realized hers was the voice he heard the night before. Taking her seat, Thorne nodded, and then gestured to the seat beside her own for the scrawny fox. "Mmhmm. His name is Desmond," Thorne said in a diplomatic way, speaking to every one of them, "and yes, since I'm sure Cherri told everybody, he is a thief." Nobody seemed terribly bothered by it except Desmond, who did his best to hide his face, but Thorne wasn't going to have that. "Sit up straight, Desmond. Don't slouch like that. Good, good boy," she cooed to him as he straightened out, giving his head the softest of pets. Glancing to one end of the table, Desmond saw the skeleton from earlier; he pretended not to recognize the foxcoon. Through the meal, Thorne was surprised at how little she had to reprimand the fox; he knew the proper way to hold a fork, he didn't slurp when he drank or ate soup, and aside from a single incident, his elbows never touched the table. Perhaps the only truly naughty thing was how often he exchanged playful looks with Cherri, who had taken quite a liking to the foxcoon, but Thorne didn't stop them; it was too cute.

After dinner, Thorne didn't even have to ask Desmond to help clean up. Without a single word, he started to gather up dirtied dishes and silverware, but she noticed a distinct spring in his step, and the fact that Cherri had actually started to help the fox rather than run off to play one of her silly video games was very telling. How cute. When the dishes were all clean, the leftovers were put away, and the trash was taken out, Desmond and Cherri both confronted the raptor like a pair of hopeful children, side by side, hand in hand. "Hey, Thorne, do you mind if I take off with Dez for the night?" The triceratops punctuated her request with a tug on the fox's paw; Desmond just smiled, first at Cherri, then up at Thorne with bright eyes. Folding her arms thoughtfully, Thorne considered it carefully: "Hmm... And why, if I might ask?" Then, what was only appropriate, a smirk. "Come on," Cherri said, almost deadpan. "You really gotta ask?" Thorne chuckled and stroked through the tod's hair, shaking her head. "No, I don't, but it's still cute to hear you dance around the subject and tell me you're going to go play video games or something. As if that was your first thought when you saw him. But I'm afraid the answer is no. This little fox," said Thorne, tickling under his chin with a clawed finger, "is going to spend one more night in my company." She could see their expressions souring, but that only made what came next better. "And if he behaves, then he'll be free to spend his time with whoever he wants." Just as she expected, the foxcoon's ears perked, and Cherri chuckled in mischief, giving him a small kiss on his cheek. "Heh, okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then, Dez - if you're good, anyway."

Back in Thorne's bedroom, Desmond was issued a pair of simple commands as the raptor disappeared into the walk-in closet, the one filled to burst with sex toys of all shape and size: "Take off your clothes and put the collar back on, Desmond." Not surprisingly, the tod placed her orders above all else; do as mother says, and be rewarded. Quickly and quietly, the fox slid out of his clothes then fastened the leashed collar around his neck, which waited for him on a hook on the wall. It was funny, Desmond thought, that an implement of bondage hung so casually on a hook just beside her car keys, but that was Thorne for you. In the time he had left, he folded his clothes and set them neatly on the bed; though his technique clearly suffered from a lack of practice, he was trying. As Thorne stepped out of the closet now nude, cradling a few items against her chest, she said nothing about Desmond's absolute obedience, which was as good as a compliment in his eyes. "Up on the bed, darling," said Thorne evenly and clearly, kneeling on it only after Desmond climbed up and sat. She took a moment to look him over; though his sheath had begun to swell with some arousal, she could see his wanting in other ways, too; blushing cheeks, hopeful eyes, and a pursed lower lip. She smiled, though not in a way to disarm any anxiety. "You never did get those cookies I promised, did you, Desmond?" asked the mistress, letting her tail flick behind her in a playful manner; the now willfully enslaved vulpine shook his head and answered: "No, Thorne."

"Mmm... I thought I may still do that for you," she began, looming over him. She set the toys down upon the bed - Desmond saw a vibrator, one that was of a pleasant size for him, a muzzle, and a pair of handcuffs without any sissy padding, just cold, unfeeling steel - and let her hand idly take the lead of the leash. Eye-level with the small twink, she pressed her lips to his own in a tame kiss, one that saw Desmond melt even from a smooch as shallow as that. There was no parting of lips, no tongue; she simply pressed her full, red lips to his soft, fuzzy muzzle, but he shivered in hopeless arousal, completely bewitched by that fine mistress. In that kiss, she growled, slowly twisting the leash around her hand, removing any and all slack from it until she was able to pull it up and tight, yanking the breath from Desmond's lungs, jerking him back into the reality of his situation. She loved the brief gack! that squeaked past his lips, the way he screwed his face up into disbelief and fear, an expression she met with a surprisingly reserved smirk. "Good boy or not, Desmond, no matter how deserving of treats you may be, you're in my bed, at the end of my leash, at my mercy. A smart young man like you knows what that means." Even under his fur, she could see the color draining out of his face and the subtle tremor of fear, the anticipation of pain. His worry was almost palpable, and it became wonderfully clear that he knew he still needed to answer for his crimes.

Thorne put some slack back in the leash, then stood, thus removing the free length yet again. A soft tug or two saw him move up to his knees, and with her young criminal in a position of submission that bordered on the absolute, she stood before him. His cold nose was only a sinful inch from the sweet pink between her legs; so close and helpless, he smelled every facet of her prehistoric musk, sexual smells no modern creature like himself was ever meant to experience. He shivered and huffed, his hot breath washing over the cold raptor's cunt, and though it sent a twinge of pleasure up her spine, she didn't show it. The helpless fox licked his lips, gazing upon her, his keen eyes so focused that he could even see the texture of her smooth hide, the subtle glisten of female moisture on the pink flesh. The moment lasted for an eternity; she teased him without moving, without saying a word, just waiting for him to act on his instincts. In her leashless hand, she clutched a leather strap Desmond had not noticed, a simple piece of sadist erotica whose purpose was clear; to punish boys who couldn't control themselves. As time went by, Desmond lost what little composure and dignity he still had; he sniffed freely at the raptor's cunt, and below him, completely exposed, dripping with viscous, slippery slime was his canine member, bright pink like the rest of his flesh, knotted, throbbing and wanting desperately for something both it and its' owner knew would come with a heavy price. His lips and tongue were dry as though he'd been in the desert, and all he wanted was a lick of the sweet oasis between her legs. Looking up, he mouthed a single word: Please.

She shook her head slowly. "No." Again, pleeease. Her face, impassive and straight, started to turn sour. Desmond knew what she was going to say before she said it: "I said no, Desmond." And to punctuate her disappointment, she brought the leather strap down against his shoulderblade and back, sending him rigid with sharp pain. The crack! of leather on nubile flesh was sickening and crystal clear, but Desmond said nothing. Though he heaved and winced, the pain made what pleasure he wanted so much more vivid. Nevermind the countless bitches he'd had at parties and in alleyways; Thorne was the only woman he wanted now, that forbidden fruit. Not even the pretty triceratops he'd just met mattered; his world was Thorne. "Please!" he called out with desperation; crack! Across his other shoulderblade this time; Desmond groaned, then dipped his head low, so much that the collar started to choke him. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he wanted her more. Every strike left him wanting her in worse ways. He would have given up his eyes just to touch her. He looked up at her again, his expression more pitiful and broken than ever. "Don't beg, Desmond... The only time I want you to beg is when you want mercy," she hissed, her eyes narrowed to slits, but her mouth was again a smirk of total derision, a woman in control and happy with it. "I do want mercy, Thorne," he shuddered, resting his head against her stomach; she stroked through his hair with the leashed hand. "I've been good... I've suffered, I've been a pretty girl, and I've done everything you asked of me. I want my treat now." He trembled more than ever, and she saw his body tense, awaiting another venomous bite from the strap, but it didn't come. She dropped it to the bed then gripped his hair with that hand, pulling upon his scalp until he looked her in the eyes. "You've earned your treat, Desmond. But... If you ever misbehave, if you ever steal a single thing again, I will know about it. I've brought much bigger men crying to their knees. I'd be happy to add your balls to my collection, too." Her tone left no room for negotiation, and she didn't wait for any promises. It wasn't a mutual agreement, it was simply a very blunt and honest threat.

When she let go of the tod's hair, he stayed on his knees, but his head was low in defeat, exactly where she wanted it. Releasing the leash, Thorne stepped over his prostrate body and knelt behind him. With the same speed and skill as she'd shown with the collar before, she fastened the handcuffs around his wrists; there was no slack in them, and the steel dug into his tender flesh. Desmond gasped and whined, but Thorne wasn't done. She fitted the muzzle around his snout, fastening it down with its' straps. It was such an effective muzzle that Desmond could only breathe, and only through his nose; there wasn't even a slim chance that he could lick or bite, though it was the denial of the former that the mistress was thinking of. With her criminal tod thoroughly bound, Thorne laid him back, and though the edges of the handcuffs caused him excruciating pain as they dug into his wrists and, in this new position, his spine, he didn't make even a grunt. Thorne wondered if she was making a masochist out of Desmond, then she wondered what the downside to that was. To make a new plaything out of such a cute fox was very much a desirable outcome for this little session. "You may think I'm being cruel to you," she cooed to him, kneeling between his prone legs, grasping the vibrator; it was blunt, bullet-shaped, unlike any natural penis with its' simple, smooth surface and polished sheen, and it was beautiful in that regard. She felt no need for lubricant, correctly assuming the twink fox was still loose from being so ruthlessly raped the night before, and so she slid it up beneath his tail, sinking the toy in up to it's flared base with only a soft huff from the twink. To start him off, she turned it on its' lowest setting, still leaving four more for her to build him up with. "...But your treat is coming, sweetie."

With the toy buzzing inside of him, prone Desmond squirmed and groaned, helpless to Thorne's whims, an enviable situation to some, but a nightmare to others. The raptor straddled his hips, pinning his throbbing need against his belly with her damp snatch, letting the cool lips of it tease against the underside of his flesh. In a way, she expected him to cum right then and there, but by no means was she upset when he didn't. If he got off now, then where was the fun in teasing him further? "You really are a handsome, pretty boy... It's such a shame you're a liar. I really wouldn't have minded feeling your knot inside of me," Thorne hissed to him, pressing her nose against his, letting him breathe only what she exhaled while her fingers stroked across his chest and nipples, one of which was still sore and discolored with a bruise. "But I'm still a woman of my word, Desmond. I don't lie. You'll get a treat... You'll get off tonight." She grinned dangerously, baring her teeth, brushing them against his nose. The raptor slid her damp cunt along the bottom of his throbbing penis, teasing him yet more and more, letting her cold juices coat the flesh; Desmond almost expected steam to rise from his genitals. Thorne scooted further up the tod's body, allowing herself a single noise of pleasure, a sultry growl as his warm fluff brushed intimately against her flesh. Now straddling his chest, she looked down past her impressive, tattooed bosom at the fox, down into his wide, glistening green eyes, and she stroked through his hair with a genuinely fond touch. "The other girls will probably let you lick, touch, and please them in every way imaginable, but not me, Desmond." Leaning down, showing off lewd flexibility, she kissed him on the nose, though her hips never moved an inch. "Any time you touch me is going to be a privilege. You won't do it without my blessing. On any occasion I do allow you inside of me, you'll be my slave the entire time." And as she was apt to do, she punctuated it with a smirk. "I bet you're perfectly fine with that, aren't you? Don't try to nod, I can see it in your eyes... You belong to me, little foxcoon... I am your mistress. I gave you a second chance, an opportunity to not wind up in prison. Don't ever forget it."

Desmond's eyes conveyed understanding and devotion, and thus the mistress was satisfied with her thorough stranglehold on the fox. Outside of the bedroom, they could be close; she knew, in some way, she filled the void his own parents had probably left in his life, but when it came to matters involving flesh and pleasure, the distinction would be carved into stone. "I'm glad you understand your place, Desmond. You're a very smart boy." In a rare moment, she wasn't smirking, and her voice was completely unbiased, no condescension, no derision. In one graceful motion, the raptor turned and moved a few inches further up the tod's body, and, so slowly as to make him savor the coming contact, she lowered her cunt closer and closer to his nose. Oh, it wasn't lost on either mistress nor slave that Desmond couldn't lick, only sniff and suck her scent down into his lungs, which would, of course, drive him wild with primal lust. At long last, he felt the gratifying chill of her cold snatch against his warm nose, and he sniffed deep and hard, drawing her musk in, even some of the moisture. His entire body shuddered from ears to toes, and he moaned. A moan that had been pent-up in his body for years, escaping even through the muzzle. He'd never needed a woman quite like Thorne before. The moment couldn't have gotten any better, not even if he could have licked, but it did. The raptor bent over his scrawny body, and though she had to somewhat uncomfortably bunch herself up to account for her height over him, she drew her tongue along his aching penis, from the tip to the knot. Beneath her, the fox trembled again, his member squirting ropes of slimy precum in complete helplessness, matting down the fur on his stomach.

Reaching beneath the tod's balls, Thorne incremented the dildo two whole notches, and the rise of the buzzing's pitch was met with a sharp twitch from Desmond, followed by another deeply gratified moan. Closing her eyes, the mistress clutched Desmond's fuzzy, throbbing sack in one of her hands. As easily as she could have caused him agony, she gently kneaded and squeezed. Her other hand wrapped around the swollen knot at the base of his shaft, and for the final touch, the treat he had been ready to kill for, she slowly slid his bubblegum-pink shaft past her full lips, between her rows of deadly teeth, and into the loving moisture of her maw. She felt the fox tense into statue-like rigidity, and then he melted, becoming completely pliable to her needs. There was absolutely no tension in his body, just complete bliss. Thorne was good; no, not good, the best lover Desmond had ever known. He'd gotten blowjobs, plenty of them - but the way Thorne slowly bobbed her head and twisted her muzzle, how she pumped his knot with her firm grip, her tongue coiling around his meat, those smooth, full lips dragging against his flesh; she was in a class all her own. He whimpered in utter contentment, continuing to suck her scent into his lungs. He almost felt guilty, defiling such a divine mouth with the nonstop trickles and spurts of his pre, but Thorne wasn't offended, quite the opposite, for no matter how much an exalted privilege she painted the sex as, to make the tod moan and give him pleasure was almost as enjoyable as beating the sins out of him.

With all her skill and the simple reality of Desmond's arousal, Thorne knew the fox wouldn't last forever, and she didn't want him to; she wanted him to get off, to feel that supreme pleasure, just so long as she was the one administering it. Just briefly removing her hand from his scrotum, she dialed the toy up to its' fourth setting, one tick below the maximum, and though he shuddered, what he enjoyed most was her wet, sucking maw. Purposefully, she pushed her pussy down against his helpless, harmless nose, allowing it to enter her; the feel of his soft fur and whiskers teasing her flesh sent a shiver up her spine, and perhaps once she'd gotten the fox off, she might tend to herself, but she focused on the foxcoon's climax for the time being. Reaching down again, she set the toy to the fifth, final, and most violent setting, buzzing so fast against the tender flesh inside of his ass that, coupled with her skills, it would result in an enormous mess. She bobbed faster and sucked harder, giving him a thorough tongue-lashing, but she paid special attention to his knot. Well-versed in teasing and breaking men of all species, Thorne knew how tender that gland was; on a canine, it could almost be considered a second prostate. She squeezed tightly upon it again and again, each grope drawing veins to the surface, sending not waves, but tsunamis of pleasurable sensations through the twink's body until, at last, with a whimpering, blissful cry muffled by the muzzle, he came explosively, pumping rope after sticky, hot rope of jism into the mistress' sucking mouth. As a creature who, of course, had a strong dislike of any and all messes, Thorne swallowed every drop of the tod's warm semen, and gave the pointed tip of his slobbery penis a soft kiss afterwards.

The raptor pulled herself up and off of the shuddering, squirming tod, completely lost in his afterglow. Only when he started to relax and calm down did she turn the vibrator off and gingerly slide it free of his behind, but she wasn't done, not just yet. She wasn't ashamed in the least to admit she, too, was aroused, but getting off would be another lesson in torture for Desmond. She undid the muzzle and slid it free, and just as she expected, the fox licked his lips clean of her residual moisture, something that made her crack a smirk. You'll get plenty of that, foxy... She ran a hand down his chest, then disappeared from his vision; though he could have sat up if he tried, he thought it would be best to stay put, where she had left him. In a moment, she returned, wielding another dildo and a device he likened to a speculum - though he didn't remember where he had learned what that was. She knelt down beside him, stroking along his blushing muzzle, baring her teeth in an almost involuntary grin. "Open, Desmond," she purred to him, and as he parted his jaws, she slid the metallic device inside. He whimpered in supreme discomfort; not necessarily physical, it was almost entirely emotional distress. It was like a demented dentist tool, the way she turned wingnuts and jostled it around in his mouth until it fit flush and held his jaws wide apart, while at the same time depressing his tongue. It was a small mercy that she didn't let him stew in his thoughts about what would come next; she squatted over top of his muzzle, purposefully pinning his hair beneath one of her feet to keep him still.

The dildo she wielded was simple, no frills; shaped like a human dick, it was seven or eight inches, a modest size for a fake penis, curving upwards in a pleasant way, pocked with veins that were nicely pronounced, but not so much that it looked like a freakish monster cock - though the translucent neon pink color didn't help that case. It wasn't even fitted with a vibrator, but it didn't need one. Thorne slid it into herself with a quiet, collected moan, and with a tight grip on the base of it, she pumped it in and out, but to describe her technique in such a way didn't do it justice. She twisted and tilted the toy at all angles, stretching and teasing every inch of her snatch, and the more she did it, prodding the blunt tip at her sensitive insides, she grew wet. Not just damp, but soaked; dripping wet, and as the first few drops of her chilled honey fell into Desmond'a maw, he understood what his purpose was. Thorne wasn't cartoonishly wet; the most the fox got was a drop or two every few seconds, but it was enough to wet his dry throat and leave him blushing. His eyes were, of course, fixated solely on the sight of that translucent pink dick as it pounded in and out of her, twisting, tilting, glistening with moisture. He never thought he'd envy a dildo, but there it was.

For all her theatrics and teasing, Thorne's climax started to come on fast. As much as she enjoyed the feeling of the toy, it was just too clumsy for what she needed. She set it aside and plunged her long, clawed fingers in, sinking two in to the knuckle. With far more dexterity that that toy, she ruthlessly assaulted her g-spot; her fingers knew just where it was... And the g-spot of everyone else in the hotel, for that matter. As calm and domineering as she was, Thorne couldn't, or perhaps just didn't care to, stifle her groans and howls of pleasure. She freely dribbled her juices into the tod's forced-open maw, abusing her cunt with her slender fingers until, at long last, with a deep shudder up her slender body, she came. She slid her fingers out, gripping a handful of Desmond's hair with the wet digits, pressing herself down against his gaping maw, letting him almost taste her flesh, but no matter how much he wiggled his tongue, it couldn't be freed. In her climax, she dribbled more and more of her juices, and some did, indeed, make it onto his tongue, but it was still a cruel denial. As her breathing slowly evened out, the raptor dismounted Desmond and loosened the torture device, sliding it out of his jaws, and while he was still working feeling back into them, she undid the handcuffs, but the collar and leash stayed on. Laying back in bed, she finally relaxed with a content sigh, and Desmond rolled over on his stomach, utterly exhausted. The mistress chuckled, then patted his side. "Desmond, honey? Don't go to sleep just yet. Clean up." In response: "Mmrpht... I'm tired, Thorne..."

Thorne reached for the leather strap...