FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Ian thumbed slowly through the flimsy dossier in his paws, a brief but adequate summation on who was to be his next target. The hit was pre-paid, and so an element of reward was missing from it, but it was tolerable. Getting to head home would be reward enough; all for the sake of getting close to some corporate raider Dutchman bear, Ian was sleeping in a ramshackle roach apartment, a foul dwelling to say the least. Though afraid of very few things, Ian was definitely afraid to sleep in the bed, something that appeared clean and benign, but he simply knew a blacklight would reveal more sloppy jism than a stud service barn floor. He slept upright in the chair, which he'd covered with a bleached-clean sheet, and only in that chair.

Temporarily settled in, Ian was ready for part two of his plan, one that involved his laptop computer and the horribly slow wi-fi internet. A bullet point in the report was that the target had a serious fetish for callboys from one particular service, and of a type so incredibly specific, it almost felt like cheating. All the skunk had to do was Google the service by name, and he found himself in the digital domain of Part-Time PrettyBoys. At least past the eye-rollingly bad name, it was straightforward. Ian took to the link offering profiles and photos, and then he scrolled down through dozens of different sissies, looking for one to match the bear's interests. Twink, blonde, easily mistaken for a girl, exotic species/mix. The skunk found more partial matches than he knew what to do with, but no dead ringers. Not until he found one Desmond, or "Dez" as his profile said. He was an uncanny match; pretty like a girl, long blonde hair, and a mix of both the red fox and raccoon, two common species, but together, they made for a considerably exotic creature.

The site was only barely legal, operating under the guise of a dating site, which, in a way, was quite accurate. However, there was no formal way to set up a date, or even directly contact the boys. Desmond's profile had an exhaustive list of likes and do-not-likes, ranging from mundane to sexual, but more importantly, he listed a bar-slash-nightclub where he could be found every Saturday night, just waiting for some handsome man to buy him a drink. Convenient, then, that it was a Saturday afternoon. Committing the twink's photo to memory, Ian waited for the night to fall. At an idle, he was dressed well for the club scene with a fishnet shirt that didn't hide a thing, and leather pants so tight that one poorly-timed erection could put out an eye. On top of that, a black trenchcoat that nearly dragged on the floor, almost a cape in the right lighting, and boots that were covered in unnecessary but fetching buckles. Rounding off this unmistakably goth outfit was a spiked collar, one that never left his body, by his own admission.

At the club, Ian had no interest in the festivities. The drinks were appealing, but not right now. At any rate, the music and dancing could burn, as far as he was concerned. As he slowly took inventory of the club's patrons, under the guise of "checking people out," he felt not even the smallest pang of interest in the oohn-tss beat of the music, and he intended to keep it that way. Making things better, he easily found Desmond sitting at a table, not dancing; a small blessing, considering he didn't want to have to push past the writhing mass of faggotry that was the dance floor to retrieve the twink. One obstacle was, however, the hyena seated across from Desmond. It was obvious that the spotted wild dog wanted to get into that blonde sissy's pants, and as little as Ian would have cared otherwise, he needed that fox on his side tonight.

Ian remembered a number of likes from Desmond's profile; for instance, double-screwdrivers with a slice of orange, something that was easily acquired for the stinging price of six dollars, and bulging crotches, something Ian was almost smug to acknowledge he already had. With the drink in hand, Ian stepped close to the fox, entirely disregarding the hyena. Desmond turned, first taking in what was immediately in front of him; leather pants with an unmistakable cock-and-balls outline in them. The foxcoon then looked up, smiling impishly at the skunk. "Hey, now... Do I spy a screwdriver with my name on it?" His smile turned to a grin, and Ian couldn't help but return it, if on a lesser scale. Turning to the hyena, Desmond dismissively shooed the wild dog. "Beat it."

Desmond sipped blissfully upon the drink, looking across the table at Ian with a friendly smile. Though Ian was unaware of it, buying one of the boys his preferred drink, verbatim, was the unspoken invitation; it said "I want to give you money in exchange for a fake relationship with anal sex." Ian only realized this when Desmond casually danced around the subject. "So... You must look for pretty boys online a lot, yeah?" He sipped the liquor, then sucked upon the slice of orange, crinkling his snout at the sharp, tangy flavor. Warily, Ian said "I'm sorry?" Desmond just grinned, knowing the skunk was playing dumb one way or another. Leaning close, he spoke softly, in such a way Ian had to read the tod's lips, even with his keen ears. "Let's head back to your place." Ian nearly shuddered at the thought, then cautioned the twink. "You don't want to do that." With that, Desmond shrugged, then took the skunk by the paw, leading him home.

Stepping into his own apartment, Desmond showed Ian his beautifully coordinated dwelling, one that clearly knew the loving touch of gay interior design. It was even in the richer part of town; clearly, Desmond made good money selling himself to strange men. With some unease, Ian shed his coat at the tod's urging, but he hung it in such a way that the two handguns he kept stashed in it were still hidden well. With the skunk out of what Desmond thought was a stuffy, unattractive coat, he kissed the goth on the lips, something Ian quite willingly returned; whether Ian was working or not, Desmond was, indeed, a pretty boy.

"So, you know my name already. Tell me yours." Desmond said, more of a soft-spoken demand than a simple question, pulling him to the sofa, where he eased the mustelid into a seat. "My name? I'm Ian." The fox nodded, putting his paws on his hips, with on an expression that was very much business; straightforward and no-nonsense. "Listen, Ian, you don't look like an undercover. What are you looking for? Quick fuck? Long-term? What do you need, babe?" Ian didn't blush or stammer, but the sudden, blunt question took him by surprise. He simply blinked, and Desmond carefully stroked over the skunk's cheek. "Double-screwdriver with a slice of orange. That's too good for a guess. Don't be ashamed, lots of people need companionship... I'll make you feel loved."

Ian gently brushed the tod's paw away, and then thought for a moment. A little white lie could go a long way. "I asked the bartender if he knew what your favorite drink was, that's all. You looked like you might be... You know, a little bit of fun, but I had to get you alone." It was Ian's turn to stroke the fox's cheek, then, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. "Oh... Heh, that hadn't occurred to me. Sorry! I guess you know my dirty secret, then..." The fox kissed Ian's cheek, then stood up straight, blushing ever so slightly. "It's good to know there's still nice guys in the world, though. You wouldn't believe me, but I really do get sick of being paid for sex. It makes it so... It's such..." Desmond struggled for words, and Ian leaned back, relaxing in the plush sofa. "Such a chore?" Desmond nodded vigorously, then folded his arms. "Mhm! It's never about... Me, you know? It's always all about what they want me to do, usually with my mouth." The twink sighed and sat beside the skunk, who gave the vulpine a gentle pat on his shoulder, a comforting touch that saw the sissy leaning against the mustelid. "I wouldn't make you demean yourself for me like that." Ian said pleasantly, getting an adorable smile from Desmond, one that just upturned the corners of his muzzle, bridging the gap between a smirk and a smile.

"Thanks, Ian... You seem alright. Oh, and... My name is Desmond, since I guess you really didn't know it." Ian smiled thoughtfully, and though he knew it already, hearing it from the fox's lips was nice. "You seem pretty smart... How did you end up as a callboy?" It was a question that had such potential for cruelty, or as a means to set up the proverbial soapbox, but Ian had no such motives, something the fox could detect. "Well, I got tired of living in a shithole, what can I say? Mom left, dunno where she went, dad didn't want a faggot son, as he called me, so it's kind of a sob story, I guess." The fox paused, and for just one disturbing moment, he gazed off at nothing in particular. The silence was unbearable, and so Ian gave the tod a gentle verbal prod. "You're not boring me, if that's what you think. Please."

The fox huffed, clasping his paws, letting them hang between his legs. Closing his eyes, letting his ears pin in what seemed like shame, or perhaps sorrow, Desmond continued: "I never had plans for my life. My parents weren't exactly role models, so..." A pause, but the tod continued on his own this time. "My boyfriend at the time was a few years older than me, really pretty guy. Twink, right? Probably dating me because I was an underage piece of ass. He works for that site I'm on, and he suggested it to me on my eighteenth birthday. After I started working, we broke up, but I at least got out of my dad's place before he killed me." He turned to Ian, looking at the skunk with an unnerving face; wide, agitated eyes, and a quivering lip, the kind of face that suggested wounds had been ripped open. "So that's it, that's my story. Remember, you asked for my baggage."

It would have been a lie to say Ian didn't understand drama and bad choices, even if they weren't necessarily his own. Desmond was a fascinating creature to analyze, though as casually as he could kill, Ian was no heartless sociopath, and he gave the vulpine exactly what he needed; a hug. He pulled the twink close for a firm, drawn-out squeeze, and though he expected it, no sobbing came. "It sounds to me like you did what you needed to, Desmond." Dismissively, the fox pulled away and grunted "Call me Dez." Once again, Ian relaxed against the sofa, folding his arms behind his head in a lazy way. The fox was done opening up, and Ian was in no position to push. "Can I ask you a question, Dez?"

Again, there was a pause, as if the fox knew something unpleasant was heading his way, but he nodded slowly. "As a callboy... What do you usually make?" Narrowing his eyes, the tod's mood was about to flip, but he remembered the skunk's words: I wouldn't make you demean yourself for me like that. And, so far, he had liked Ian; so he answered respectfully. "It varies. One night's usually a grand. A weekend's five." The skunk rubbed his chin thoughtfully, thinking of how best to phrase what came next. If it came out the wrong way, it could be a true disaster, possibly resulting in the vulpine's untimely demise if he didn't cooperate. And, unfortunately, as objective as Ian tried to be, he had begun to develop a certain appreciation for the fox. "Five grand for a weekend, huh... What if I offered you twenty-five for couple hours' work?" Desmond's expression changed like a light switch had been flipped, and he stammered to match his shocked look. "Ian, I, what...?"

"Let me explain, Dez. I'm an assassin." Ian didn't stop, giving the fox no quarter, no time to butt in with questions, laying his ploy out in rapid-fire. "One of your clients happens to be an extremely lucrative target of mine. I need him gone. You've got an opportunity to make a fair amount of money off of it. Will you help me with this, Desmond?" Absently, the fox corrected the skunk, then paused again: "Dez. Um..." With the pause came an accusing, but also disbelieving look, as if this were a sick April Fool's joke. "Ian... Come on, an assassin? I'm a blonde, but I'm not fucking stupid!" Ian shook his head slowly, then put his paws together. "You're right, you're not stupid, and that's why I'm asking for your help. I'll do the thinking, you just do as I say, and you'll get your cut. Nobody will suspect you if you follow my plans." Ian then stood, leveling himself with the vulpine. "You... Shit, you're for real, aren't you?" Desmond squeaked, shrinking away from the skunk, as if mortal danger had reared its' head. Ian raised his paws, splaying his fingers in a gesture of harmlessness. "Relax. I don't want to hurt you, Dez. I stand to gain nothing from your death. So, do I have your cooperation?"

With information Ian had managed to drag out of the vulpine, setting up the hit became trivial. Such a powerful, but hated businessman as that bear went everywhere with an entourage of armed thugs, prepared to throw away their admittedly pointless lives at a moment's notice. They followed him everywhere, no matter how benign or short his business might be, but there was one consistent exception to the rule, and one that worked to give Ian an advantage; when the bear wanted Desmond's company, he went entirely alone. Paranoid by his own doings, the ursine didn't trust a soul to keep his little affairs a secret, not even his guards, with their double-digit, easily-defeated IQs.

From a vantage point that Desmond had pointed out, Ian watched from above with binoculars as the double-crossing callboy, well-dressed at the usual request of his client, disappeared into a luxury sedan with tinted windows. What came next was precisely what the fox had laid out; an arbitrary drive around the block, and the car came back, only to pull into an alleyway between two decaying buildings, owned by nobody but infested with homeless crackheads. Ian was at the top floor of one such building, and he had an easy view down at the car, which shook and jerked indicatively of backseat romance. Ian retreated into the room he peered out of, setting aside his binoculars in favor of a scoped crossbow; efficient, silent, impossible to trace, and it imposed only a minimal chance of killing Desmond too. It made for the perfect hit in this situation. Ian loaded and cocked the bow, a motion as swift and efficient as the weapon itself, and leaned over the window sill, peering down into the blackened scope.

"You're as stiff as a board today, bitch, loosen up." The bear grunted, squeezing the small fox's feminine, smooth chest in the both of his broad, dangerously clawed paws, and all the while, he pumped the young twink with his thick, throbbing shaft, one the fox would have shamefully enjoyed any other time. "Sorry... Hey... Listen, do you like me at all...?" Desmond asked between soft little huffs, putting his paws on the powerful bear's shoulders. He gave Desmond a strange look, one that didn't seem to understand, or perhaps it was a display of disgust at the very notion. "I... What? You're a whore, I'm not supposed to like you. I pay you, I fuck you like I want to fuck my wife, and you go away until the next time I call you. Don't be an idiot." Desmond knew all of it already, but to hear it, that made what came next easy. Almost satisfying. "That's kinda what I figured." He said solemnly, then kissed the bear on the lips. It was a gesture of affection that stunned the bear, but only for a second, and he resumed defiling young Desmond as he'd done so many times before. Closing his eyes, wrapping his arms around the ursine, Desmond reached over with one of his long, slim legs, parted around the bear's waist, and he jabbed the sunroof control with a clawed toe.

Ian tensed as the tinted, hardened window slid back to reveal the broad, easy target below. No hesitation. The skunk pulled the trigger, and the wickedly sharp, pointed tip of the bolt was buried between the bear's shoulderblades in the blink of an eye. The mighty creature bellowed in agony, a noise Ian could hear even as he collected his things and fled the building, and Desmond began to think no amount of money could have been worth the trauma, both physical and psychological. Thrashing and howling, the bear pounded the fox beneath him, just knowing that little faggot had something to do with this, but despite all the slashes he left on the vulpine's body, he managed to miss tearing out an eye or, worse, his throat. Yet, just as quickly as it began, it was over, and the bear collapsed on top of the fox with one last grunt, pinning him, but the sheer fear from the ordeal gave the twink what strength he needed to squirm out from under the bear and flop out of the car. It was a disgusting terror the fox had never known, even as street-smart and hardened as he liked to imagine himself. With his knees trembling too much to even run, he simply knelt and looked at the bear's cold eyes, and then the narrow shaft wedged neatly into his spine. It was just too much, and the fox turned to the side, physically sickened to the point that he vomited.

Desmond practically scampered into his apartment, wet from the rain that began to fall on his unscheduled run home, and he fell into his sofa, shaking just as badly as before. Booze. He needed booze, that would help. The fox raided his liquor cabinet, taking out a bottle of cheap, but potent whiskey, and he took a gulp from the mouth of it. He shuddered as the calming warmth filled him, then fell into the sofa once more, breathing as though he were in labor, doing his best to calm his heart. Without so much as a knock, Ian entered, taking a seat beside the fox. "It's almost never as easy as that. Good work, Desmond."

It took Desmond all of five seconds to register the praise, to contemplate what it meant while his head was still spinning with images of violence and death, not to mention the consequences. "Good work? Good work!? Ian! He's dead, you fucking killed that asshole!" The fox screamed, nearly a screech, but Ian was calm, folding his paws across his lap. "What did you think I was going to do, Dez? Just relax, if you scream about it like that, you're going to bring in attention I don't want to deal with." He spoke calmly, almost a dismissive tone, but to help comfort the twink, he patted his shoulder, and surprisingly, it worked, if only on a small scale. The foxcoon took another gulp of the whiskey, then shook his head, rubbing his eyes. "Stupid. Stupid, fucking stupid, I shouldn't have done this. I can't go to jail, Ian..." He whimpered, turning to the man who changed his life in a way most unpleasant. "Dez, you're not going to go to jail. I promise you that. Think about it." Ian spoke as calmly as ever, using a soothing tone to further relax the tod. "You're a callboy. A paid lover, a prostitute. No offense, but that's pretty low on the social status food chain. That "asshole" was, on the other hand, a very well-known, respected trader and entrepeneur. He dies with an arrow in his back, what a shame. The police find traces of someone else's DNA on him, he had his pants down, and a condom on. Do you really think his family will make a public affair out of that? No, they're going to keep his good name safe, and he'll simply wind up as a martyr." Ian squeezed Desmond's shoulders tightly, and looked upon his face, taut with rapt attention. "So you're fine, Dez. I've done this plenty of times, I know how people react to things like this."

Desmond nodded slowly, and then a satisfied Ian reached into his pockets, pulling out five thick wads of cash. "Paid in full, twenty-five-kay. Don't spend it all in one place, Dez." With that, Ian stood and made for the door, but something made him stop; he turned, looking back at the pensive fox. The skunk felt a feeling of regret, perhaps even guilt. With a reserved sigh, he went back to the fox, sitting back down without a word. He pulled the trembling foxcoon into a close, intimate hug, and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. Desmond practically latched on to the assassin, reaching under the coat to hug the skunk's nearly bare body, and just as tightly, he closed his eyes, resting his chin on the mustelid's shoulder.

Ian knew a verbal apology would see him gain very little ground with someone like Desmond. He needed something more tangible than words, more passionate than money; physical affection. Not necessarily sex. Desmond wanted it, and perhaps now, the broken fox needed it. Holding the vulpine as close as ever, Ian reached beneath his shirt, stroking across the shaking vulpine's bare back, slowly and carefully caressing the fur, wet with rain. Desmond purred, a sweet, forgiving noise, and one the skunk genuinely enjoyed hearing. Fighting back every urge to cry, the fox pressed himself even closer to the skunk, flattening his ears, forcing himself to dismiss the desire to hate Ian.

Desmond's new sorrows were valid in Ian's eyes, and he felt some of his own for the way he'd changed the vulpine's life. Almost as bad as taking lives was thinking about the ones you ruined in the process, and it was one of the reasons that he so hated using loved ones for his means. Closing his own eyes, Ian pulled away just enough that he could kiss the tod, a soft and tender gesture of affection, and one that Desmond returned. Ian lost of track of just how long he held on to the young fox, but he only did so when Desmond finally stopped trembling, and his eyes no longer threatened to cry.

What came next was an unexpected display of assertion from the fox as he took hold of Ian's paw, and took the skunk to the bed. He willingly followed Desmond, and he said nothing as the young tod slid the coat off his body and set it aside. Then, the twink slid out of his shirt, a stuffy, uncharacteristic piece of attire intended to be worn under a business suit, all a part of the little disguise that his former client bought for him. The fabric was torn here and there on the chest, with fresh blood around the shirt's wounds, clearly from the bear's dying tantrum. As he caught sight of the weeping gashes on the callboy's effeminate body, Ian felt compelled to dress the wounds, but it was a concern he kept to himself, if only for the time being.

Desmond tossed the shirt away with clear contempt, but he returned to Ian with a gentle touch, running his fingertips across the skunk's toned upper body, caressing him through the translucent, thin fishnet of his shirt. Ian made a noise of pleasure that was subtle and soft, but one Desmond heard with ease. "Heh... You know... You're the first goth I've seen who doesn't look or act like a douche." Ian smiled, carefully brushing Desmond's damp hair from his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment... Sit down, and give me a second, Dez." The fox watched with intent curiousity as Ian disappeared into the nearby restroom, but he sat down, letting one leg hang off of it, with the other folded under him in an endearing way.

As Ian expected, he found the usual first-aid amenities in Desmond's medicine cabinet, but he had only two items in his paws; cotton swabs and peroxide. At the sight of them, Desmond blinked and tilted his head, and Ian slid out of his coat, sitting beside the fox. "I can't just leave you with a bunch of open wounds. Hold still, now..." He said absently, dipping a swab into the peroxide. Though Desmond winced as the skunk began smearing his scratches with the stinging liquid, he appreciated the gesture. He said nothing until Ian had him lie back, so as to give him a better angle to treat the abrasions on his chin. "I was thinking about how everything... Changed today."

"Mhm?" Ian inquired, taking a moment to look into the tod's eyes. Desmond continued, putting a paw on the mustelid's hip. "My career as a callboy is pretty much over. One of my clients was killed, and even if I don't get arrested for helping with that, word will get around that I did something. I doubt I'm in danger... Our little community doesn't really work that way, but nobody's gonna touch me, not even two-bit pimps." As Desmond paused, so did Ian's work, and he offered a sympathetic apology, one Desmond dismissed with a wave of his paw. "I'm tired of that life... I'm not going to say thank you, but I don't hate you." With that, the fox winced and twitched as Ian brushed across his jawline, over a slim cut the fox hadn't realized was there until now. "I'm glad you don't feel that way about me. Maybe you can put all that money to some use. I'm not going to preach to you because I've got no room to talk, but I hope you can find a way to make life treat you better, Desmond." With his work done, he helped the tod to sit up once more. "There. That should be all of them."

"Thanks." Desmond said, and Ian slid his coat back on and prepared to leave yet again; no goodbyes, no hugs, no kisses. As he turned the knob with every intention to finally leave, however, Desmond took hold of his shoulders, squeezing them, pulling him away subtly. "Ian, it's raining. Maybe you should wait until it clears up." The fox offered, but Ian shook his head, dismissing the concern. "The rain doesn't bother me. Don't worry about it." This time, he got the door open, but Desmond aggressively reached around and shoved it closed. "You're gonna make me say it, aren't you? Ian... Don't leave me alone, wait until the morning. I don't want to be alone tonight."

Ian slowly turned, looking down at the half-naked fox before him. In truth, he didn't want to be alone that night either, and while he could have been on the first plane back home, what was one more night? The tod's desire was clear, and it was one the skunk shared. He pulled the twink into a tight, affectionate embrace, and they kissed, briefly but passionately. After it, Ian made a blunt remark: "I didn't realize your tongue had a piercing in it."

"There's a lot of things you don't know about me, and I don't know about you... And I think it ought to stay that way." He punctuated this sentence with a kiss upon the skunk's cheek, and Ian nodded slowly. Pulling free of the skunk's arms, Desmond took him back to the bedroom, unceremoneously undressing for the skunk. There were no stripteases from the ordinarily playful fox, just quick, efficient nudity, something Ian could appreciate, and he did much the same, leaving himself in only that ever-present spiked collar, not that Desmond wanted it off.

The foxcoon took hold of the skunk by the wrists, flopping back into bed, pulling Ian down on top of him. Desmond gently kissed the goth on the lips, then stroked slowly down his back, letting his paws come to rest on the skunk's hips, avoiding his taut ass out of a sense of submission. "I imagined you as a very forward lover, but I honestly didn't expect to experience that myself. Not after what happened today." Desmond pressed a finger to the handsome skunk's lips, the universal gesture of shush. "Don't talk about what happened today."

A fair request, Ian thought. Keeping pace with all the fox had done so far, Ian moved to kneel between the fox's parted legs. Desmond looked down, and he at last took a moment to examine the skunk's manhood, taking in the sight of it; uncut, human, black, and despite the fact that it was flaccid, deliciously thick. Well aware of what the young fox was ogling, Ian took hold of his shaft in a paw, squeezing and stroking the flesh until it began to stiffen, growing to a nearly perfect length of seven inches, dripping with a small amount of pre. Ian didn't need to hear any compliments; the way Desmond stared and began to pant was all the praise he needed.

Before he could go any further, there was one thing Ian needed, and a simple glance around the room found what he was looking for; sitting neatly on the nearby nightstand was a tall bottle of lubricant, and the skunk took it, immediately slathering his shaft in the slippery slime. With his cock dripping with lube, the goth gripped it once more and pressed it under the foxcoon's balls, biting his lip intently when he felt it rub against Desmond's tight, warm pucker. As he penetrated the fox, there was a mutual groan of pleasure, and Desmond wrapped his arms around the skunk's neck. Kissing the vulpine on the lips, Ian slid in to the hilt, then began pumping the twink's tight passage, making love to the young ex-callboy with quick thrusts, ever the model of efficiency, but Desmond was glad to do without foreplay for once.

Desmond panted into the skunk's neck as he worked, squeezing himself tight to the goth, ignoring his own swollen, aching shaft as it oozed with pre and otherwise begged for attention. They had no words for one another, just huffing and shuddering, the typical soundtrack of hurried sex. Gripping the sheets with both paws, Ian fucked the young fox harder and harder, bringing himself closer to an orgasm, a sensation he hadn't felt since leaving home. With the hit over with, he reasoned with himself that this made for a good reward.

Ian was in a nice, steady rhythm before long, and he found that he could easily control the twink; if he chose to pound him harder, the vulpine would gasp and whine with every thrust, but when he favored speed, the tod pressed closer, seeking warmth and affection. Soon, as the need to get off overtook him, his thrusting degraded into powerful, hasty, indiscriminate bucking, and with a low-pitched groan, he wrapped an arm around Desmond, squeezing him tightly in it as he at last came, shooting a week's worth of thick, hot jizz deep inside of the sissy fox.

Desmond gasped sharply as he felt the intimate, sticky warmth covering his sensitive walls, and after a moment of panting, Ian was able to relax, moving to kneel once again, leaving his pulsating cock within the hot and bothered twink for what came next. Reaching down, Ian clutched the tod's own shaft in a paw, pumping the pink, knotted flesh in a firm grip, working the foxcoon to a very quick, but incredibly messy climax of his own. As the fox nearly convulsed with such an intense orgasm, Ian grinned, rubbing the mess in his soft paw into Desmond's fur afterwards. Closing his eyes, exhausted from his ordeal, Desmond soon slept. Ian slid free of the vulpine's rear, then laid beside the fox, keeping watch over the pretty foxcoon until he, too, was taken by sleep.

Early in the next morning, Desmond successfully insisted Ian have a shower before he left, but the skunk adamantly refused breakfast. Once again, the fox followed him to the door, but he made no efforts to stop the skunk. "So... I'll probably never see you again, will I?" Straightening his coat, Ian said: "Not regularly, but you'll figure out how to get in touch with me. Goodbye, Desmond, and thank you." Stepping out the door, he looked over his shoulder at the fox, and said: "You take care of yourself."

Desmond walked away from the door and seated himself upon the sofa, looking down at the five thick wads of cash. Reaching down, he lifted one, first theatrically flipping through the crisp bills, but something caught his eye; scrawled upon the sleeve was a phone number, and written beneath it was "Call me? Ian" All he could do was smile.