Sending A Message
#1 of Brass Ghost
This is the first chapter of the story series I had planned. It has action, it has blood, it has swearing, and it has death ( not in the sex! ). People with 'super powers' exist in this universe, as do other unusual things. Though this first chapter doesn't explain too much, more should be revealed in the next... If another chapter is wanted. Hopefully I didn't miss anything in editing, because I accidentally deleted my first posting by being stupid.
If you are under the age required by law in your area for stories featuring violence or sex, look no further. If you don't want any action and only want sex, skip right to the last line break. All the characters and the story itself are of course, mine. All the brands and companies mentioned belong to their respective copyright holders.
The moon was full, it's light casting down from above and onto the slick to the slick, snowy streets that ran through the neighborhood. Few street lights in that part of town worked because of either vandalism or neglect, but it wouldn't matter if none of them worked tonight. The way the snow and ice reflected the light from the night sky almost made the run down neighborhood seem beautiful in it's own way. Aside from an occasional passing car or a distant siren, the streets were serene and quiet. Ice gathered on the steel shutters and bars outside of shops glinted, snow crunched pleasantly underfoot and the cold air felt invigorating against his fur.
"It's such a lovely night." Tibalt murmured to himself, pausing on a street corner to light up a cigar. He closed his eyes and savored the distinct flavor of the fine tobacco, letting the smoke swirl in his mouth with a smile. He reluctantly let his breath go, casting the smoke out into the cold air of the night. It was below freezing but there wasn't any wind, making it tolerable for most, if a little chilly. Only when his cigar burned down to a nub and it was cast into a gutter did Tibalt start moving again. There was something that he had to take care of, and it was something that demanded his immediate attention.
A new crew had moved into his neighborhood, a group that was part of a larger gang in another part of the city. Mostly just new guys with a few veterans helping them, Tibalt was sure, but the potential was there. If they got a foot hold in his neighborhood more and more of them would come along, making it even more of a headache to deal with. Frankie told him that the guys had tried to scare his gang off, threatening them and rolling through Frankie's turf in an old Buick. They were moving things that Tibalt didn't want in his part of town. Meth, heroin, crack, guns. One way or another, that kind of heavy stuff had a way of getting the innocent or the stupid killed.
Frankie told him where they liked to hang out, a bar by the name of Logan's Run on Martin Luther King Boulevard. He'd wait until they went a block or so away from the bar then have a little chat with them, to see if he could resolve it without fighting. Sometimes a gang would recognize him or the myths around him, and they'd listen when he told them to get the hell out. Back in the bad old days of his neighborhood, he killed enough people that only the stupid or the arrogant gangs dared to set foot in his protectorate.
He started to become more careful when the 'heroes' started to look for him, trying to put an end to his 'vigilante justice'. Was it really a horrible thing when it was the only justice around? The police didn't come to his neighborhood back then. The Zoo, as it was called, was a hellhole sketchy enough to make even a resident of Detroit a little worried to walk through it. Delivery men didn't go there, you couldn't spit without hitting a homeless junkie or a liquor store and the police ( when they came ) were always late. By the time the boys in blue rolled through the criminals were always gone, the robbery already over, bodies already cold.
Heroes didn't come, either. There weren't any news crews in his part of town. There weren't any major disasters or crises to be taken care of, aside from the occasional fire from an exploding meth lab. A villain flattening a Star Bucks with a suit of power armor was a far more glamorous fight than trying to clean up a part of the city no one really gave a damn about. Ironically when the media began to call the mysterious killer in the Zoo a 'villain', that was when the heroes actually started coming to his part of town. Their presence coincidentally finished what Tibalt had started, and as the crime rates went down more people with some money came into the neighborhood. Police started to patrol regularly, and within a few years even pizza men were delivering again.
After the heroes gave up the hunt, things didn't change too much. Crime spiked up a little but it was still better than before, and while the cops still had horrible response times it was better than before. Tibalt smirked to himself and turned to look at his reflection in a car window, lifting one of his hands up in the shape of a gun. He looked into his own eyes, a brilliant amber and a pitch black that were more natural to a bird of prey than a weasel. His short white hair was also a little odd, but it matched the clean white fur that covered the weasel's lithe, almost lanky body. He adjusted his 'gun' hand, pointing it at his own reflection.
"Bang." He murmured, then turned to walk down the street again. He could see the bar from where he was, a grey building with a green and white sign over the door and a window garnished with a green, clover shaped neon light. Soon the bar would be closing, and he knew from one of Frankie's boys in the bar that some of the gang was inside. As if on cue, just ten feet before Tibalt reached the door a group of men stepped outside. Five of them all together, all of which were wearing the trademark signs of gangs across the country. Baggy clothes, flashy jewelry, the gang colors in the form of bandannas either on their head or tied off on their arms. They didn't notice the softly stepping weasel following behind them as they carried on with one another up the street, laughing and shouting back and fourth.
"Hey boys! Frankie sent me to have a talk with you." Tibalt called out in a cheery voice, mustering a smile as the men turned around to face him. He could see some of them were pretty drunk from the wobbling in their stances and the look in their eyes. None of them were fall down drunk, but they were hardly sober, either. After a few moments of studying him and whispering amongst themselves, a brown and black dog of no particular breeding stepped a few feet out in front of the pack. He was just a few inches taller than the six foot tall weasel, and he was more muscular, that was certain. His body was hardened by the life he led, one that demanded physical prowess above all else. The weasel had a much thinner build, a lean, lithe body that was about 'average' in general shape but much more trim, sinewy and fit than his clothes let on.
"You're one of Frankie's boys, huh? He send you to tell me he was moving out?" Tibalt lifted a hand up and took a black baseball cap off his head, setting it on the hood of a car to his right. He just shook his head and sighed, then looked the dog in front of him in the eyes.
"Frankie wanted me to tell you you've got to go." Not necessarily true. Frankie wanted Tibalt to beat their asses up and down the block and leave them dead in a snow bank, but Tibalt was the one running the show. Everyone deserved a chance to walk away, to turn their backs and leave with their lives. The dog looked him in the eyes, his lips starting to curl up to show the canines in his muzzle. The crew was watching their alpha dog and the weasel, and the alpha wasn't backing down. He took a few steps forward closer to Tibalt and leaned forward, the hair on the back of his neck starting to frizz up.
"We ain't got to go nowhere. Fuck you and fuck Frankie. We're going to own all this shit and that rat's already running from us." Not necessarily true. Tibalt had an agreement with Frankie, and part of that agreement was that his gang didn't start gun fights in the street or enforce their own turf. If someone tried to kill him or his boys, they were supposed to lay low until the weasel stepped in. Tibalt took care of that sort of thing for him, and he was much better at it than anyone on Frankie's payroll.
"If you don't leave and never come back, I'm going to kill you." Tibalt said the words with a smile, as casually as making an observation on the weather. He heard a growl from the lead dog and three behind him, and the cats flanking the dogs hissed in his direction with their ears back.
"Fuck you!" The dog shouted, drawing a gun from his waistband.
It was sometime close to eleven or twelve, and the contact David had been waiting for never showed at the bar. Nothing was worse to a reporter than information that never materialized, but at least he got some cheap beer and a few plates of hotwings. The night wasn't a total wash, he'd just have to reschedule for another time. He'd just finished taking a wizz on an dumpster and was about to turn the corner out into the street when he heard a loud series of pops in rapid succession. He instinctively cringed and ducked down close to the alley wall, putting his hands over his ears with a grimace on his face. He knew it was a shady part of town, but he didn't think it was that bad!
When the gunfire stopped the panther crept forward, leaning around the corner to see what was going on. He saw a dog holding a raised pistol with a group of people at his flank, and another laid out on the ground in front of him. David couldn't tell if he was dead or not, he couldn't really see anything other than the top of the prone male's head and his clothing. Someone with white coloration, and an olive drab jacket that seemed out of place against the fur. As a resident of the city for many years and a reporter that traveled through some rough circles at times, violence wasn't anything new to him... But it had been some years since he'd actually witnessed a killing.
The men turned away and started to walk off down the street, and David was just about to fumble for his cellphone when he saw the 'corpse' move. A jerk at first, and then as silently as the night itself it rose up to it's feet. Even in the dark David could see a few gunshot exit wounds in the material of the figure's jacket. Three of them, right through the middle of his back. From behind he couldn't tell what the man was doing, but it looked like he was reaching into his jacket. As soon as a thought crossed David's mind he clenched his hands over his ears again, just before a series of gunshots rang out again. One after another all the men that had been walking away fell to the sidewalk. They never knew what hit them.
The man in the green jacket walked over to the bodies on the walk, nudging a few of them with one of his boots. There was one more shot, placed into one of the men on the walk, and then he turned around. The weasel walked back to where he had fell down while putting a large black handgun back into his coat, reaching for a hat on the hood of a car. He pulled on the black baseball cap, took a moment to adjust it and then walked off down the street as if nothing had happened. Even in world where Scientology advertised itself on TV and The Rolling Stones were still doing concerts, it was the most absurd thing David had ever seen.
Once the man was out of sight he had a small fight with himself, one of his insatiable curiosity as a reporter and a feline conflicting with self preservation. Curiosity won out after he checked again to make sure the stranger was nowhere in sight, stalking out of the alley to approach the crime scene. He got close enough to take in the details without getting too close, drawing a small digital camera from one pocket. He took pictures as he surveyed the carnage, making mental notes to himself. The corpses on the ground all seemed to be part of a gang of some sort, each had two gunshots to the chest and a few had additional follow up shots to the head.
"Mozambique drills?" He wondered aloud as he studied the bodies, snapping his pictures as quickly as he could. It was a term that an old cop boyfriend had taught him. Also called a 'Failure To Stop Drill', it was a technique that called for two shots to the torso to be followed by one to the head, immediately killing an attacker. Whoever the guy was that did the shooting, he sure as hell wasn't a gang banger like the poor bastards on the ground. He turned from the corpses and to the ground where the man had been laying, and stared with disbelief at a misshapen circle of crimson red soaked into the hard packed snow.
Who the hell had he seen, or what the hell? Who took all those shots from a pistol at point blank range, died, then got back up again and killed their attackers? His buzz from the beer long since killed and his curiosity sated, David pulled out his phone and dialed 911 while cautiously looking around him. He couldn't exactly leave the crime scene now that he'd gotten close enough to leave evidence, but he didn't want to get caught by whatever or whoever had left behind the grisly scene.
Tibalt walked down the street of the warehouse district, whistling a quiet tune under his breath. This was at the fringes of his territory, not far from the bay with it's rows upon rows of piers. In one hand he held a large can of gas, and in the other he held a half eaten candy bar. The bullets passed clean through his body, something that made sealing up his wounds a lot easier. Just a half hour of rest and concentration and the flesh stitched itself back up again, better than new. The blood loss was a bigger problem, but as long as he stopped for some fluids and rested a little bit more when the job was finished everything would be fine.
He walked past the rusted remains of a chain link fence and into the yard surrounding a dilapidated warehouse that was the gang's 'safehouse', heading for the side of the building. He set his gas can down behind a garbage dumpster, then started to leisurely stroll around the building in it's entirety. The shutters on the large bay doors behind the warehouse had rusted shut many years ago, and the two side doors he found were in a similar shape. Just to be sure, he braced the side doors shut with some debris that was littered around the building and continued on his way. By the time he got back to his gas can, he had sealed both side doors and the one door around front that was still in working order.
He grabbed the gas can and started to carefully climb a ladder on the side of the building, licking the chocolate from his lips. What was he going to do afterwards? He was always so worked up after most jobs, after all. He could always swing by a bar, he thought to himself just as he crested the final rung of the ladder. With a breathy sigh he picked up the can of gas and started to work, pouring it in a wide circle around a skylight in the middle of the roof. There was snow, but once the fire got hot enough it wouldn't matter. If you used enough accelerants or the right ones, hell, you could make fire in the middle of the ocean. He glanced down into the skylight, getting a glimpse of what was probably a set up for making meth and a few people sitting around.
Tibalt walked to the far end of the building, a good distance from the gas vapor that was starting to fill the air and took a cellphone from his coat. It was one he pulled off one of the bodies, and it had the number he needed inside of it. He picked it out from a small list of numbers in the phone's memory, then brought the device to his ear.
"Yeah, what you want Tony?" A man answered, a 'Carlos' according to the phone. Tibalt didn't recognize the voice, he didn't have to.
"Tony's dead. I shot him and all his boys outside the bar on MLK, and you my friend, you're going to be dead too unless you promise me you'll leave this neighborhood. Frankie doesn't need any help around here. Just pack it up and leave." Tibalt used the moment or two of silence on the other end of the phone to light up a cigarette, something he usually didn't smoke outside of bars.
"You work for Frankie?" Carlos asked, a bit lower than it had been when he had first spoke.
"Something like that." Tibalt replied as he tucked his lighter back into his pocket.
"When you see'm again, you tell'm that when we roll through his neighborhood next time we ain't sending no messages. We're gonna smoke him, you, and his fucking family." Smoke? Tibalt smiled and shook his head.
"Interesting choice of words." He replied, pitching the phone off the side of the roof. He strolled back over towards the other side of the roof, then crouched down near the pool of gasoline that had soaked into the snow. He took out a large ziplock bag from one of his jacket pockets, removing an oiled rag contained within he'd prepared just for this. He tossed the bag aside and set the rag in the gas filled snow, then took out a matchbook from one pocket and wrapped the non-burning end of his cigarette within it. He carefully set the matchbook arrangement close to the rag, then strolled back to the ladder a short distance away. They had their chance to walk. They wanted a fight. Too bad their enemy was going to get the first strike.
As soon as he was down the ladder, he took out a can of spray paint from his jacket and started to shake it up. He walked across the yard, then across the street at a leisurely gait. Once near the middle of the road he stooped over and popped the cap off the spray, writing in big red letters a simple message that would be echoed by what he just set into motion. On the black asphalt the weasel wrote 'GET OUT' in bold, stylized red letters. He took a moment to reflect upon his handiwork, then tossed the can into the gutter and turned on his heel to watch the warehouse. It took less than five minutes for the cigarette to burn down to the matches, and another ten before the large burning rag turned the gasoline vapors on the roof into a blazing inferno.
The brick of the building, that would not burn. The wooden roof would, and if the people inside were lucky the fire would suck out all the oxygen before the aging, burning timbers collapsed in on them. Honorable? Honor had nothing to do with it. Tibalt was fighting a war, a war in which actions were the only words that mattered. Hot brass casings, multiple gunshot wounds and corpses were the words and punctuation for the messages he sent and the message was clear. The Zoo was not a place for people that profited on the pain and suffering of others. The people of the Zoo wouldn't live in fear of some scum that the justice system couldn't or wouldn't take care of. Tyrants and bullies spoke in only one language, and it was a language that Tibalt had become fluent in long ago.
As Tibalt turned and walked off down the street, he put his hand on his chin and started to think. What did he want for dinner, anyways? Oh well, he was sure he could find something on the way to the bar.
He sat on a bar stool with a small plate of ignored limes and a salt shaker to his right, doing his best to ignore the techno music that filled the night club as he sipped his tequila. Cuervo Black Medallion, not his favorite drink but it would do. It wasn't as though he was going to find a fine wine or cognac in a place like this one. Behind him a sea of bodies bounced and jumped to the rhythm, writhing against one another in an energetic form of foreplay. Tibalt never really cared for it himself, the music or that kind of dancing, but at least these 'bars' were open all hours of the night. That and if you were looking for something ( or someone ) to do, you could probably find it in a club.
He left his army jacket and his pistol at home, exchanging his bloody clothes for a pair of marble button fly 501s and a black tank top. The clothes clung to his body but let his long weasel tail hang freely behind him, and he rather liked the way the black clothes contrasted with his white fur. He lifted a hand and passed it through his now long, black hair, smiling to himself as the last of his Cuervo disappeared down his lips.
"Buy you another glass of tequila?" He turned his head to the right and saw a diminutive fox, one that was probably barely twenty one by the looks of him if he hadn't gotten in with a fake ID. He was five foot seven and he screamed 'twink' with his short, bleached blonde hair and blue eyes set into a delicate, youthful face. He had all the typical colorations for a fox, red-orange fur set on white, matching black boots and gloves, a pale white tail tip and small little coal black smudges on either side of his muzzle. He wore a pair of tight black leather pants that showed off every little movement of the muscles beneath, and a low hanging, tiny mesh 'shirt' that did nothing to conceal his chest. Tibalt had to bite his tongue from laughing. Cliche? Sure, but the boy had a hot body and was the first one that approached him that night.
"Sure, Cuervo Black Medallion." The weasel nodded at the bartender who was listening in for a moment, sending him on his way. The fox took a few steps closer and offered his hand along with his best coy smile, tilting his head to one side.
"My name's Quentin." He told Tibalt, who took him by his hand and pulled him a bit closer than before. The weasel's eyes were less abnormal now, a simple shade of brown like the polished wooden bar top beside them.
"My name's John." Tibalt let his hand go after giving it a firm squeeze, turning to take his glass as the bartender refilled it. Kind of pricey stuff but the young guy paid without complaint or surprise. Suburban kid or college kid? Either way, the fox had money to spare and free drinks were the best kind.
"Why aren't you eating your limes, John?" The fox asked, leaning over on one arm to get a little closer to him. Quentin reached out to take one of the lime slices and the salt shaker, playing with them as he waited for a response.
"Never really thought they added that much flavor to the tequila." Quentin smirked and put a finger in his own muzzle, then ran a line of saliva down the side of his own neck.
"I bet I could convince you to give them another chance." The fox salted the line of moisture on his neck, then put the lime in his muzzle and clenched it with his teeth. Tibalt smirked and rose up to his feet, turning to face the fox with his tequila in hand. Quentin was staring at him with the best 'fuck me' stare he could muster, and Tibalt had to give him points for being forward and honest. He put his hand on the fox's ass and pulled him closer while squeezing the lovely little bubble butt, hunching forward to press his muzzle to Quentin's neck. He sucked the salt right out of the fox's fur while pressing their hips together, then pulled back at the chest to down his tequila.
As soon as he set the glass down, he put his hand on the back of the fox's head and slowly leant in to take the lime with his teeth. The fox tugged at it in turn, his lips curling up in a smirk of his own as they fought over the slice. Tibalt came away with a chunk of lime in his teeth that he swallowed and Quentin barely had time to drop the rind from his muzzle before the weasel leant in again. He bent the fox backwards over the bar and pressed him down against it, tugging at his hair as their muzzles met and the two began to kiss. To his credit the boy knew how to kiss and he wasn't being coy or shy, his hands roaming over Tibalt's stomach and back while their tongues delved deeply and danced in each other's muzzles.
When he pulled back there was no doubt that they were both hard, and both guys had broken out into a small pant.
"What do you think of the limes now?" Quentin asked, his hands reaching down to feel over the weasel's backside. Tibalt leant in to press his nose to the fox's, looking him in the eyes as he spoke.
"I still don't think limes add much to the tequila, but you do, Q." The fox laughed at the somewhat corny line, standing up when Tibalt leant away from him. He grabbed the weasel by his belt loops and started to pull them down a little, holding onto them as he pulled himself close to Tibalt's body again.
"You wanna head over to one of the back rooms?" He whispered, his muzzle inches from his half cookie shaped ears.
"What do you think?" Tibalt murmured back, his tongue rolling across the inside of one of the fox's ears. He followed it with a nip and a tug at the edge of the same ear, then leant away, giving the fox room to turn and lead him. It was a short walk through a big crowd, but the weasel had a good grip on the base of the fox's tail and he wasn't about to let go. Thank God for ass handles. Officially, this club and a few others in the area had these rooms so patrons could sleep and sober up instead of attempting to drive home. That was the club said, at least. In reality the rooms were more often than not used for quick fucks, drugs, or both. It kept the patrons happy and kept them from fucking in the bathroom, and for the city it kept drunks off the road.
As long as things were kept on the down low, everyone was happy. Now if the club had idiots that sold drugs or tried to pimp in the back and the club security turned a blind eye, the city would come down on them like the fist of an angry God. Off in the large side hall, the techno was a bit quieter and the lights were much softer. There were rows upon row of doors, fifteen on either side of the hall by a quick count over Quentin's shoulder. In the very rear of the hall, a bull that was easily a good six and a half feet tall glanced at all the patrons wandering up and down the hallway. He wore black pants, shit kicker boots and a black t-shirt with big yellow letters printed across that proclaimed 'SECURITY'.
"Any of the rooms free?" Tibalt asked the bull when they got closer, close enough for what someone what consider 'polite' conversation range with a bunch of noise in the background at least. He didn't want to risk pissing off the bull and getting into a fight, especially not when he had a handful of fox tail. The bull simply raised a finger from one of his crossed arms and pointed at the door closest to his right, which Quentin eagerly went for. Tibalt spared the bull a nod in thanks before going in through the doorway, slapping the door shut with his tail behind him. He gave the fox's tail one last pull then let it go, giving the room a quick once over.
The walls were painted a dull red and the floors were a some kind of cheap black plastic tile. There was a single light fixture set in the center of the ceiling, a black metal waste basket in one corner, and a tiny single bed without a single sheet or pillow on it against the far wall. It was torn and was patched with duct tape in many areas, and whatever color it had been was long since lost to the spiderweb of tape stretching across it and an ocean of stains. If it could talk it would probably beg to be to put out of it's misery.
"Top or bottom?" The fox asked as he peeled off his mesh shirt and tossed it on the floor, wasting absolutely no time in stripping off his clothes. Tibalt was starting to like him more and more by by the minute.
"Switch." Tibalt replied as he pulled off his tank and threw it onto the fox's shirt. The weasel's hands just came to his fly when the fox stepped forward and grabbed him by the wrists, pulling him over to stand by the bedside.
"I'll take care of that." Quentin murmured, leading Tibalt back until his ankles hit the bedframe behind him. He lifted his tail to one side and sat down on the bed, spreading his legs apart as the fox sunk down to his knees with his hands on Tibalt's thighs. He put his nose against the weasel's fly and took in a deep breath, then looked up at him with a smile.
"You taste as good as you smell, John?" The fox asked, his eyes on Tibalt's.
"Only one way to find out." Tibalt replied, reaching out to take a handful of the blonde hair on the back of the fox's head.
"I never understood why men put their hands on my head whenever I did this." He spoke as one by one he snapped Tibalt's button fly open, his nose only a few inches away at all times.
"It's to keep from applauding." Tibalt murmured with a breathy sigh, chuckling to himself. The fox snorted then looked down again as the last button came undone and his fingers snaked into Tibalt's pants, wrapping around his dick. He drew it out of his pants with care then took a moment to examine it, his fingers kneading down it's entire length to make sure it was entirely out of Tibalt's sheath. Only one more glance was given Tibalt's way, then the fox looked down again and drew his semi-rough tongue across the underside of his dick from balls to tip in one long motion. Tibalt's fingers drew tighter on the hair in his grasp and he moaned with a grin on his face, doing his best to stay still as Quentin parted his muzzle.
He grabbed Tibalt's dick with both hands, his fingers and palms squeezing and working from side to side while not moving up or down. It left him with plenty to suck on, as the fox did as soon as his lips fell upon the dick in his hands. His reward was a pull of his hair and a shot of pre-cum across his tongue, fresh from the weasel's balls. Tibalt's eyes locked in on the scene in his lap, staring as he watched the fox work over his cock like a pro. Finally, someone that used their damn hands while they sucked on his dick! It'd been a long damn time since he'd come to one of these clubs, but he was starting to remember why the obnoxious music and high bar prices were all worth it.
Quentin took one hand off to grab Tibalt by the balls, rolling them around in his palm while his muzzle began to sink lower. The fox's hand drew tight around his base as his lips kissed the top of his hand, effortlessly swallowing as least half of Tibalt's dick into his muzzle. In the corner of his vision he watched the door open just a third of the way, enough for Tibalt to see a small portion of a very large bull watching him and his new friend. Tibalt didn't let on that he spotted the big wall of muscle lurking in the doorway, his eyes resting squarely on the fox sucking his dick. If someone wanted to watch, he sure as hell didn't care as long as he still got to cum.
"Your ass as hot as your muzzle?" The weasel asked as the fox drew back to lick the tip of his cock, sending a small shiver down his spine. The fox stood up and unzipped his leathers, dropping them along with a small orange thong beneath them.
"Why don't you be the judge?" He teased back, stepping out of the last his clothes and his boots. He grabbed Tibalt's 501s and pulled them the rest of the way off his body, along with a pair of black, old school style canvas sneakers. He pushed Tibalt back on the bed and then climbed onto him on his hands and knees, his hands pressed onto his firm, washboard stomach for support. He didn't even have to look behind him to line things up, simply reaching behind his ass for Tibalt's dick with one hand while supporting himself with the other. He tucked it between his ass cheeks and leant backwards, popping the weasel inside of his body on the very first try.
Maybe it was just because of the time that passed between his last good fuck, but to Tibalt... Well, if the fox's mouth was a warm shower, then his ass was a sauna. He moaned out blissfully and pumped his hips upwards, lifting the both of them off the worn mattress with ease. The fox yipped at the sudden thrust with a smile on his face, his eyes squeezed shut as the initial sensations of being driven into washed over his body. Tibalt spared another glance past the fox and smiled when he saw the bull's impressive dick out and in his hand, jerking away at it as if he was hoping to get off quick and then go back to his job. Even while rubbing one out his stern expression hardly changed at all.
"Oh yeah I love a nice tight ass like your's!" Tibalt moaned aloud, maybe just a little louder than he would have if he didn't know he was being watched. He took the fox's hips in his paws and Quentin let himself sink down against the weasel's rising hips, the fuzz of his ass cheeks tickling at the weasel's balls. He left his back arched like it was with most of his weight resting on the shoulders pressed to the bed and the feet he had on the floor. The skinny nature of the bed and his long body helped with the position, which the fox was all to eager to take advantage of. He began to rise and fall, drawing up slow but impaling himself again as quick as he could.
Every time he fell on Tibalt's dick he moaned or shouted with enthusiasm, his choice of words as filthy as the mattress beneath them. His dick kept tapping Tibalt's stomach every time he came to a sudden stop on the bottom of the weasel's dick, leaving a trail of fox cum dotted in the fur around his navel. He fucked like a pro and he talked like a slut, what more could Tibalt have hoped for? When he felt that delicious moment come when there was no turning back and only a few seconds before his orgasm, he jerked his hips up as high as he could while pulling down on the fox's hips. The weasel clenched his teeth together involuntarily gave a full body twitch as the first rope of cum shot into the fox's ass and was followed by a stream of others.
"Goddamn yes!" He shouted, rocking Quentin back and fourth on the base of his dick while the cum leaked from the fox's ass and across his thighs. He finally let his back go flat as his orgasm died down and the two fell to the bed, the fox falling across his chest with an excited grin that told Tibalt he wanted more. After only a moment of rest, before either had even gained their breath the fox pulled himself off the weasel's dick and stepped backwards onto the floor. The fox took his own dick in his hand just above his building knot, working his sheath across it a few times to smear his precum all over his prick. Tibalt let his legs drift apart and simply waited with a grin, looking Quentin in the eye.
"A fox that does more than raise his tail? I thought they only existed in legend. Do you grant wishes?" He teased in between pants for air, watching across his stomach as the fox lined himself up on his asshole. Quentin paused long enough to rasp out a laugh and and flip him off with the hand that wasn't full of fox dick.
"Lets see how much you're laughing with a knot in your ass." The fox pressed his tip against Tibalt's backdoor and widened his stance up, readying himself to stand and deliver.
"Just do it hard and fast, don't worry about me. I like it a little rough." The fox gave his ass a firm squeeze then leaned over between his legs, his hands on the back of Tibalt's thighs to push them apart and use them for support. As soon as he was satisfied with his position, the fox's thrust came just as fast and hard as Tibalt invited. In one rough drive the fox had gone from tip to knot and tied the weasel to boot, forcing the bulb of flesh into his ass without a second of hesitation. It hurt, it hurt but it hurt in such a painfully delicious way that he didn't care at all. He just moaned in unison with the fox and pulled at the fur on Quentin's back where his hands rested.
The fox started pulling back hard and fast at a frantic pace, as if he was trying to desperately escape from the weasel's ass. Tibalt just closed his eyes again and dug his claws into the fox's back, doing the only thing he could do at that point : Hold on for dear life. He nearly came again when the fox actually managed to pull himself free only to re-tie Tibalt in the same thrust. As soon as the knot was back inside of his body and the tight ring of his ass squeezed down forcefully on the fox's prick, Quentin hit his peak, dumping thick jets of hot fox cum deep into his ass with nowhere to go. The heat spreading through his body along with the abrupt re-entry of Quentin's knot was more than enough to give Tibalt his second orgasm.
He painted both his' and the fox's stomach with another wave of cum, matting fur down with viscous, musky pools of seed. While his mind centered and the two regained their breath, he thought and wondered just how the night could possibly get any better... And then he remembered something.
"What'd you think of that bull we saw earlier? Was he hot?" He asked the fox as soon as he had the breath, his hands reaching back behind Quentin to spread his ass cheeks apart. If the bull was still jerking off in the doorway, he had a nice clear view of Tibalt's cum leaking from Quentin's pucker.
"Kind of hot, built... Why?" The fox asked, leaning forward to kiss Tibalt on the side of his muzzle.
"Would you fuck'm?" Tibalt asked with a challenging tone, tilting his head with a smirk.
"Who wouldn't fuck a stud like that, but I don't see what-Ahhh fuck!" The fox shouted as the bull behind him pushed the first few inches of his girthy dick into his ass, his body leaning back until it was in his beefy, muscular arms. The bull's mitts clasped the fox at his hips and held him still as he stepped forward, burying inch after inch of dick into the helpless fox's ass. By the time the bull was resting his chest against Quentin's back, the fox was shaking in his arms with his eyes closed.
"You fucker." He whispered under his breath. Whether it was to the bull, or to Tibalt for setting him up to accept the bull, the weasel didn't know. But hey, the fox said he was willing and the bull was able... He watched with glee as the fox slowly lifted his hands up, grabbing the bull by his horns to keep his body up and against the body behind him. It stretched out Quentin's slim body like he was on a living rack, showing off every little contour of his chest and stomach. He wasn't certain how big the bull was, but Tibalt was impressed that the fox was able to take the entire thing and still retain his ability to speak.
The bull didn't speak and he didn't moan, he just gave Tibalt a small nod as if to thank him then began to work the fox over. The big guy took it slow even though he had to be pretty close, probably because he wanted to savor the moment and his earlier masturbation already put him near his peak. Whenever he pulled backwards he could feel the knot in his ass tug slightly, and whenever the bull pushed forward again the fox's body went forward with it. The way the motion carried through the fox's body and into his, it almost felt like he was getting fucked by the bull at the same time.
Quentin didn't even have the energy left in his body to moan or whisper, not even as the bull behind him began to draw back and pound into his ass with short but powerful thrusts. He breathed against Quentin's neck through his nose as he fucked him from behind and his hands roamed over his body. The meaty hands even went so far as to grab a handful of fox balls in one paw while lewdly feeling at the spot where Quentin was tied to Tibalt with the other. The weasel cried out at the additional pressure on his ass, nearly hitting his third orgasm of the night as the fox came in his ass for the second time.
The first and only time the bull's stony face cracked was a second before his orgasm as he let out a throaty, powerful moan that sounded more like a battlecry than a shout of pleasure. The fox finally lost his grip on the bull's horns as battery of cum unlike anything he'd had ever felt before was unleashed inside his body. He fell on Tibalt's chest and the weasel watched only inches away from his face as he whimpered, shook and cringed with pleasure in his slender white arms. He watched as the bull pulled out of the fox's stretched asshole, hosing down Quentin's flanks, his ass, even his lower back and tail before he was through.
"Thanks for the fuck, kid." The bull said in a voice as growly and deep as Tibalt expected, slapping the fox's cum coated ass roughly before he tucked his dick back into his pants and walked out the door. It would be a good long time before the fox's knot would go down, and even longer before either of them would really want to go anywhere and so he just laid there with the spent vulpine in his arms. He just breathed in nice and slow, taking in the lingering scents in the room that were every bit as intoxicating as the aroma of his cigars. Maybe when the fox woke up, he could get his number for more fun in the future.