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Author's Note: the following is a work of furry fiction. It may contain mature acts of a sexual nature, including but not limited to acts between two males, cross-species interaction, horny ferals, assorted bondage gear, illicit tickling, and gratuitous use of footpaws. If any of this offends you or causes you to write an Op. Ed. piece in your local paper, then do us all a favor and don't read further. If not, then read and enjoy.

Many thanks to faithful reader and fan Hyenapaws, for whom this piece is specifically crafted. I appreciate the chance to once again step outside my realm of comfort and try new things for the sake of others. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you.

FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]

Getting Off on the Right Foot ©MMV Whyte Yoté

The papers and magazines could say all they wanted about dwindling corporate shares and the dilution of fresh new models in an already flooded marketplace. They could write their little rants and raves about not being able to get the euro-spec engines, the non-governed version of this, the bored-and-stroked that, whatever. All the mean-spirited and envy-fueled words in the world would not change the fact that the United States of America just could not get the best of what Leipzig had to offer. At least, through conventional means. Malcolm DeSontre hadn't the smallest of doubts, however, as he shifted into fifth gear to pass a big rig, that this was a fucking fast car.

After nothing more than a split-second, the mid-mounted 5.7 liter V-10 blipped up to seven thousand RPM and launched the Porsche Carrera GT into the stratospheric realm of one hundred miles per hour and rocketed past the Kenworth to his right. After a quick indication the hyena switched lanes with the practiced precision and coasted back down to a rather dull eighty.

He flipped through the radio stations for the fifth time in what seemed to be as many minutes before swearing under his breath. There was absolutely nothing of value, as far as he could tell, in this desolate and flat part of the country. Malcolm settled for the innocuous elevator style of National Public Radio and tried to concentrate on the six hundred five horses currently under his control.

The hyena wasn't supposed to have been an exotic delivery driver for the rich and famous. He was supposed to have gone to college for four years, gotten a degree in bio-something-or-other, gotten a large footpaw in the door and spent the rest of his life working with chemicals in a nice white lab coat. Instead, he had dropped out after two years, gotten into some drugs, gotten referred to a delivery service by one of his stonie friends, and had quickly realized that the money from sneaking illicit foreign automobiles into the States far outweighed anything he could have gained from a college degree. Sure, he wasn't curing diseases, but he was fueling quite a few midlife crises.

While the company for which he worked didn't operate on strictly legitimate terms, they also didn't screw the hyena in his compensation. If they weren't good to their drivers, Malcolm would not have stuck around for the past twelve years shuttling the best of the rare for buyers who were affluent enough to risk international smuggling charges to get their metal-and-carbon-fiber babies.

It took only word-of-mouth, and then an impeccable driving record, to even be considered for a gig, so Malcolm had counted himself lucky to be referred. But time and an increasing need for excitement in his life had taken their toll on his driving skill, and ever so often he would find himself on the side of the road, fuming, while a highway patrolman wrote him a citation and took a point or two (or three) off his license.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn't weasel his way out of every offense, but fate had seen fit to spare him in the fact that he hadn't been on the job while incurring any of said infractions. There would be a major amount of explaining to do if he were to get pulled over in someone else's Gallardo or F-450 with no papers to back him up. The entire purpose of his job was illegal, and if he fucked up even once he was off the team for good.

But this car...this was the Porsche of Porsches! Some record label producer in Seattle had to own this piece of art, and he had to have it as it was made for German roads, not detuned for the choppy expansion joints of America. A 2006 Carrera GT, silver, with enough power put through its tires to top sixty miles per hour in under four seconds.

The owner had a penchant for right-hand-drive cars, so when the first models came off the production line bound for the British Isles, money had already changed paws. The car was bought through legal means and exported to London where, through a carefully crafted series of missing documents and a red herring paper trail, it had mysteriously disappeared. Under cover of darkness the Porsche was bagged, boxed and hidden amidst a sea of cargo bound for New York City, to where Malcolm had been flown to meet the vehicle. Just as secretly as it was packaged, the roadster was unwrapped in the dead of night and turned over to the hyena after a rigorous verification procedure.

Oddly enough, the best way to be as nonchalant as possible was to hide in plain sight, i.e. drive the car cross-country to its final destination like any normal person would do. Unfortunately (or, to Malcolm, the opposite), Seattle was way the hell on the other coast, but the owner hadn't bitched about the extra three-thousand-plus miles on his brand new car and the hyena had no qualms about piloting such a rarity over such a long distance. He would be the first one to break the car in, so to speak, and he relished the chance to experience the torque and short throws of a gearbox that was fresh off the assembly line.

That novelty had lasted until just past Chicago, when the countryside surrounding Interstate 90 had grown increasingly flat and boring. Three days in, and four days to go, Malcolm found himself mildly annoyed at the lack of landscape in the Upper Midwest. Minnesota had trees, yes, but South Dakota was nothing but a bleak expanse of corn, soybeans and cattle. The hyena had two more states to go before he reached any country worth looking at, and he had no idea how he was going to make it, especially if his radio couldn't pick up shit. The only sounds keeping him company right now were the occasional blips from the Valentine One, his radar detector and best friend. But even those were few and far between.

BELLE FOURCHE 7 MILES, BEULAH WY 14 MILES, read the giant green sign to his right.

"Jesus Christ." Malcolm just tried to imagine his paycheck at the end of this long run, to be picked up from the new owner at his mansion in suburban Seattle. It would be substantial, considering the distance he was having to travel for this job. He entertained a fleeting thought of masturbating in the car, even though he was not horny in the least, just to kill time. Maybe later.

He would have jumped physically off the bucket seat when his cell phone gave its shrill ring if it hadn't been for the harness-style seatbelts holding him to the leather. A loud, high-pitched bark had left his mouth at the same time, but he'd become so used to the embarrassing noises he made when startled that he didn't even hear it. Fumbling for the device with his left paw while trying to maintain eye contact with the road, he managed to hit the correct button. After a pause, a familiar voice came through clear as a bell from the Porsche's six-speaker Bose stereo system.

"Malcolm, how are things going on your end, dude?" asked the badger on the other end of the line. God, how he hated to be called that! Just because his boss was twenty years older than him did not mean he was a child by any means. It also didn't give him the right to try and act young, either. But the badger paid him, so he let it slide.

"Couldn't be better, Mr. Fairchild. Car's running like a beauty, no problems, everything's just normal. Did you need me to stop off somewhere and do a pickup?" Sometimes Malcolm's job involved a little more than delivering cars. Sometimes it involved short detours to acquire nondescript brown paper packages for Fairchild. The hyena didn't doubt some of those packages contained equally nondescript white powder, but he wasn't the kind of canine to ask questions.

"No, no, nothing like that," came the amiable reply. There was something about his boss's voice that always made Malcolm uneasy. "I just called to check in on you, and give you a heads-up."

"What's going on?"

"Our client has scheduled a dinner party in a few days, and he wants the use of his new vehicle to woo a lady friend."

"That shouldn't be a problem, sir," chuckled Malcolm. "I can have this baby to him at the end of the week, right on schedule."

"He wants the car in two."

"You're shitting me!" sputtered the hyena before he could form a more proper outburst. Two days? Even if he drove straight through, with no sleep, two days was cutting it awfully short. "Excuse me, sir...you can't be serious. I'm a little ahead of schedule right now, but getting there in two days is near impossible."

There was silence on the badger's end, and Malcolm could almost feel a palpable anger building. "The car needs to be prepped for the party, and that takes time. I've already told him we can accommodate his request, on the condition of bonus pay." Right now, the concept of bonus pay was not first and foremost in the hyena's thoughts. He was trying to rationalize two days cramped in a tiny cabin without sleep. It wasn't working. Already his footpaw was becoming heavier on the accelerator. Suddenly Malcolm felt like the past 1800 miles had been wasted in driving the speed limit.

At a loss for words, and knowing they wouldn't change the situation, the hyena muttered, "Okay, sir. I...I'll do my best to get there on time."

"No, my boy...you will get there on time, because the customer comes first, and the customer is always right." How cliché.

Even if the customer is an elite son of a bitch who thinks he can get some easy pussy with a fast piece of metal, the hyena retorted in his head. Too bad I have to give this car up; I'd like to try that myself. He was so busy cursing his luck that he almost didn't catch the glint of red and blue as he crested a lazy rise in the road. It was unmistakable, and the hyena knew he was dead meat even before his body reacted to seeing the light bar of a police cruiser.

"Shit!" he shouted through gritted teeth, and his world sucked in on itself until it was a vacuum containing only him, the Porsche, and the Crown Victoria less than a quarter-mile up the road, sitting lazily just off the shoulder. In a state of panic, he looked to the speedometer...saw the needle hovering just above the little "110" mark...looked to the Valentine...saw absolutely nothing to indicate radar presence...looked to the phone...saw it was still on...then, and only then, did he think to slam on the decelerator and shift down to second in order to shave a large chunk of illegal speed.

This was a mistake, because the new brakes, combined with the change of gear at such high velocity, did a very good job of locking the rear wheels and creating an attention-grabbing plume of blue-grey smoke that whipped around the rear end and sailed away on the afternoon wind. If the highway patrolman hadn't caught him speeding, he or she sure would have seen the result of Malcolm's failed rectification of that speeding.

The rear end of the car fishtailed only slightly, whipping back onto center as soon as the hyena let off the brake pedal. He didn't dare look at the Crown Vic as he rolled past at a lazy seventy-five miles per hour, but he thought he could see the driver on their radio. Maybe they were on another call.

"Malcolm, what in the hell was that?" spat Fairchild into the cabin with a crystal-clear mix of treble and bass. The hyena had all but forgotten about the conversation, and the fact that his superior had heard the whole damn thing.

"Uh, nothing! Nothing, sir, just this stupid radio. I have to use my left paw to do everything, and the damn volume is in a weird place. I turned it up all the way by mistake." As he finished his sentence, his eyes were glued to the rearview mirror where, verifying his darkest fears, he saw the cruiser creeping out to join traffic behind him. It was too much of a coincidence to disregard.

"Well, just make sure you don't break anything. That's an expensive piece of machinery to replace things for." What did it matter to him, anyway? Fairchild probably made the four hundred forty-thousand dollars the car cost every month. But, even in his cocoon of wealth and status on the black market, the stupid badger still couldn't manage a simple prepositional phrase.

"No sir, don't worry about it," the hyena replied in as steady a voice as he could muster with a heart rate akin to that of a ferret. His eyes were glued to the rearview, unblinking and undilated as the large sedan crept closer, weaving lackadaisically through the light traffic. "I'll close the deal." Hey, if worse came to worst and the cop did pull him over, the lie wouldn't matter since he'd be out of a job before he could post bail.

"Good. I'll try not to. Consider this a chance to give me a reason to trust you." Oh, that's reassuring, isn't it? "Goodbye, Malcolm."

"Bye," responded the hyena meekly, then cut the call before Fairchild could ask why he sounded so...scared? Was that it? Of course he was scared, because so much was on the line; it was all because of his boss's stupid phone call...

...and that's when the cruiser pulled behind him and started flashing.

"Oh, God damn it." This was not going to be pretty. Malcolm's paws felt like ice on the perforated and stitched leather of the steering wheel. Whether it was a minor infraction or a felony charge, he was going to jail. The last little point left on his license was about to disappear. He had no idea how to explain his possession of the Porsche, or anything pertaining to his mission, to the officer without getting slammed onto the car, causing even more damage. There was no easy out, no matter the angle from which he came at it.

Malcolm's foot hovered over the three pedals, his mind weighing the options of each one. He could push the rightmost to the floor, using the horsepower at his beck and call to easily double his speed and leave the cruiser in the South Dakota dust. It was only ten miles or so to Wyoming, and he could cover that in under four minutes. But the police had radios, and they would piggyback ahead and catch him at the next town across the border...but he could exit the interstate and take a nice long, deceptive detour in the countryside...

Another whispered vulgarity and the heavy sigh which followed it gave finality to the fact that he could do none of that and expect to get away with a clean record or a clean conscience. Too many run-ins with the law during his adolescence had taught him the valuable lesson that once you start fleeing from a pursuit, you never stop fleeing until you're six feet under.

The Crown Vic loomed large and intimidating, silent as it was in his mirrors and rear window. Lifting his foot from the accelerator and letting the Porsche's own revolutions slow its speed, Malcolm's paw rested for a few more undecided seconds on the little turn-indication lever before pushing up on it. He shifted into neutral, pulled onto the compressed gravel shoulder, and rode the clutch to a hesitant stop. When the sound of rocks underneath the Z-rated rubber came to his ears, Malcolm knew for sure his time was up.

Now, the world that had been a tight little ball of perception widened up to include everything that surrounded the car: a mostly-sunny sky, birds singing from the power lines above, and a soft yet noisy breeze that sent waves through fields of grain on either side of the highway. It also included the black-and-white Ford pulling to a heavy stop just behind, its nose diving slightly. Reflections of red and blue played over the hyena's eyes and face as he watched for movement.

Already Malcolm's mind kept concocting stories and excuses for why he'd been speeding, why he was in a nearly-half-million-dollar sports car with no official papers, but they all led to dead ends. Maybe the truth was the best answer. And maybe the cop was blind, deaf and half-retarded, too.

Still no motion from inside the other vehicle. The trooper was most likely canine, by the way the ears, triangular in shape, stuck out from the brim of the cowboy-style hat. The only other things discernable were the low, flat slope of the passenger's headrest and the mesh screen separating the law from the lawbreakers.

"Come on, come on." Wringing his paws in frustrated impatience, the hyena shifted in his seat. Was the guy running his plates? No, no, there were no plates to run. The VIN? Duh, number's too damn small to see from any distance. What the hell is he doing? The question hung in the air for only a moment, until the Crown Vic rocked on its springs and seemed to eject its occupant. The silhouetted figure stepped from the cruiser and proceeded to walk around the door, without closing it, up to him. Each footfall of a boot on gravel ground the realization of what was happening further into Malcolm's senses. This guy was sure taking his sweet time!

As the trooper reached the rear end of the car, he stopped for a moment, shifted position, and walked to the opposite side, having figured out the driver was on the wrong side for the country in which he was driving. In the reflection of his outside mirror, Malcolm watched the slightly bulky frame as it rounded the rear quarter panel, still in darkness, but saw the momentary flick of a bushy tail before it disappeared behind its owner. One finger, claw extended, drew an appreciative line over the painted curves leading up to the doorsill.

Then the sunshine was suddenly gone from his lap, making him miss its comforting presence because he knew exactly what was blocking it. There was quick movement from outside the window, and knuckles rapped twice on the glass, forcing the hyena to work hard to not jump yet again that day. The trick now was to try and beg off the ticket, playing nice to the trooper and maybe using his well-muscled body as litigation...just as a symbol of commanding power. Anything was worth it at this point, as long as he kept his job.

Malcolm flicked the "express down" button for the window, and it lowered obediently with a soft whine. The figure next to him, now only separated by a few inches of air, bent at the waist down to the hyena's level. Having his personal space invaded like this would normally piss him off, but now he was just plain scared. He turned to face the officer, and when all he saw was a shadow, he fumbled his sunglasses down from his face. After a second of adjustment, the black figure turned into a coyote, beige-furred and smirking. The white of barely-protruding fangs was not only unnerving...it was downright predatorial.

The smile Malcolm gave the officer looked weak and false, because it was.

"Afternoon," the coyote said in deadpan cordiality.

"Afternoon." The word "sir" almost crept in at the end of that sentence, and in that split-second the hyena weighed its addition in his head, opting not to sound like just another suck-up. The trooper's hat took up a great deal of the window, almost giving the coyote the appearance of being a floating head. Aviator-style sunglasses sat atop his muzzle, hiding his eyes. As Malcolm frantically searched for a point on which to focus, he happened upon the officer's badge--A. Wilkes, South Dakota Highway Patrol, No. 0041, K-9--and couldn't figure out whether that last title had to do with his species or his assignment.

Wilkes continued, "Quite a piece of rollin' iron you got here," accentuating the statement with a few affectionate pats to the driver door. Each time he heard that slap of fur on metal, the hyena could just see the fresh scratches being etched into the brand-new paint job. Without waiting for a response, the coyote said, "Don't see many of these around here. No use for 'em. Eat up gas like a bitch."

So far, so good. At least, not as horrible as Malcolm's overstressed mind was expecting. This was not the "license and registration" experience he had been dreading, but it would probably lead there nonetheless. Wilkes' demeanor was disarming, but somehow he took no solace in that.

"Yes, sir, they sure do," replied Malcolm, sneaking the word in this time to try and gain a respective edge. He tried to lean back in his seat to assume a less engaging stance.

"Must be fun, by the way you were driving." Ouch...Wilkes was blunt, if he was anything. "Do you happen to know the reason I'm pulling y'over this afternoon?"

There was no doubt in the hyena's mind about why he had been pulled over, and there was probably even less doubt in the officer's mind as well. His speed had been too great to just deny he was going much more than the posted limit, so there would be no playing dumb. Maybe a nice, good old shot of "just us guys" honesty would do the trick. Couldn't hurt.

"Yes, I do. I was speeding." Malcolm searched those aviator glasses for any kind of response, but all he could see was his own reflection, his own nose, black and shiny in the sun.

"You sure were, friend." There was something in that last word that unsettled the hyena to the core. "A hunnert 'n twelve miles an hour. You know the maximum speed in this state is seventy-five."

Malcolm nodded, actually feeling embarrassed now. The only reason he had been speeding was because he had been on the phone with that damn Fairchild. It was his boss's fault, but he didn't want to add being on the phone in a car to speeding, even if it had been paws-free.

"I'm gonna need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance." Oh, great. The license he had, but no one knew the Porsche was even in the States, and his insurance came from higher-ups whose very existence was clouded with so much paper not even Fairchild knew anything about them. Malcolm dug in his wallet, brought out the card, and handed it to the officer.

Wilkes turned the license over in his paw. "This is it? Things don't look so good right now, my spotted friend. I'm tryin' real hard to keep my cool here."

"I can explain all that," Malcolm replied immediately, in what seemed to be a calm manner, but really he was searching his panicked mind for quick and unincriminating answers. "I'm ferrying this car for a very rich client, cross-country, and I thought it wouldn't be a problem to drive it for a few days without a registration. And the car is insured, but the company who carries the policy didn't supply any paperwork. As you can see, my paws are tied."

Wilkes was studying the hyena's license very carefully, copying the information down onto his little citation clipboard. The latent sense of dread was becoming more and more real. The coyote remained silent for what seemed like way too long. "So are mine, you see. A guy, haulin' ass through the middle of nowhere, in somebody else's car--"

"I told you, officer--"

"With one point left on his license," continued Wilkes, and Malcolm shut right up. The coyote had him by the balls, and they both knew it. The hyena found himself more than a little disappointed that their nice discussion about cars and related things had ended so soon, and so abruptly. For once in his life, he thought he might actually get a nice cop, one of those rare few who actually had the time to chat like a civilized person before slapping the cuffs on, not one of those asshole Fox-TV wannabes who liked to make a big show out of false machismo. At this point, Wilkes was neither a hardass nor a best buddy, and it kept Malcolm on edge as to what he would do next. He definitely wouldn't try interrupting anymore.

"You must think I'm a dumbass, dontcha?" queried the trooper, now bent down at the waist and propped on the door with a stiff arm. Malcolm's license was held in two stiff fingers, and for some reason he smelled a faint trace of sweet pipe tobacco. I'm not that much older than you, boy, but I've seen some sorry excuses in my day. I might be tempted to believe your little ruse, because it was nice and original."

Once again, the sudden redirection of the conversation took the hyena off guard. Those damn glasses didn't do shit to help, either. Struggling for an appropriate response, his face working, he finally muttered, "Thank you." Not quite as original, but it worked.

The coyote continued, disregarding Malcolm's response, "Now, you could be carting a really nice car from one coast to th'other. You could be floating the registration, could have it insured up your ass, but unfortunately you got nothin' to prove it. If I had to venture a guess, I would have to say you're illegally importing a European vehicle from Great Britain, driving it all that way to avoid paperwork, and delivering it to some rich bastard who has a bottomless checkbook and a hardon for weird cars. You don't have to answer me, but I have a feeling I'm closer than I think."

Malcolm didn't answer.

Patting the door and beckoning with his paw, Wilkes said, "Why don't you step out here for a moment and let's have us a talk, huh?"

If Malcolm's paws weren't shaking before, they were making up for it now. You're under arrest, you're under arrest, you're under arrest for trafficking foreign goods. The words rang in his head; they had been sitting snugly there for the last ten minutes as the coyote interrogated him. Now, things were playing out exactly as he knew they were going to, and the feeling of helplessness nearly drove him crazy.

The click of the seatbelt, sliding clothes over leather, and Wilkes' unhurried steps back from the Porsche's opening door were all muffled against the flush of blood rushing to Malcolm's brain, circulating through his ears. It was beyond the scope of mortification, right into the realm of nightmares. It was a downright out-of-body experience now, and the scope of legal troubles was much more than he could bear to think about.

He squinted in the late-afternoon sun without his glasses to protect him; the small gravel of the shoulder pressed into the wide pads of his large feet. The coyote was standing with his arms crossed, the embodiment of personal control, patiently waiting for Malcolm to get used to standing up after so many long hours with his big frame scrunched into a small space. Cracking his back and letting out a whuff of relief, traffic whizzed by on the opposite side, only fifteen feet or so away from them. It was hard to believe all those people could be getting on with their normal lives while he sat right next to them, almost being read his Miranda rights.

"You done?" said the coyote in a put-upon manner, as if he'd just been indulging Malcolm the whole time.

"Yeah." A few remaining knuckles were cracked for emphasis.

"Good," said Wilkes, then he motioned to the side of the Porsche. "Mind standin' by that door, spread your legs shoulder-width apart, paws behind your head for me?"

What for? thought the hyena, and he was instantly glad he hadn't said it aloud. Instead he walked over to the Porsche, leaned against the door as gently as he could, and stood as ordered. A few moments later he felt paws on each side of his torso, firmly patting him down. They slid up and down from hips to armpits, glanced over his arms, down his legs and back up the inside. Malcolm knew it was coming, but he still couldn't help feeling uncomfortable when those paws, smaller but more dexterous than his own, went right into his scrotum, shifting it this way and that, even pinching the sensitive area of skin right around the juncture of tendon there. There was no disguising his twitching.

"Do you have any paraphernalia, sharp objects, drugs, needles in your pockets, anything I should know about?" asked the coyote, his paws resting squarely on Malcolm's hips. That slender muzzle was a bit too close to Malcolm's ear for comfort, but the smell of pipe tobacco was nice enough to make up for it.

"No, sir, nothing. Just the normal stuff."

"Okay then." Wilkes proceeded, without any hesitation whatsoever, to assault Malcolm's personal space in a way no one had ever done before. It was procedure, of course, but he couldn't help noticing how damn close the coyote came to feeling him up. Untucking his polo shirt was one thing; holding one buttock while removing his wallet was another, but emptying his pockets must have been uncomfortable for them both. There was only a small amount of change in his right pocket, but the officer had to fumble around before catching all the coins. He hadn't bothered to retract his claws, and the light brushing of them through fabric onto his sheath sparked a natural but oh-so-inappropriate reaction.

Once he had been turned inside out, he was allowed to face the coyote. "Was that all necessary?" he asked, going on the assumption that if he we wasn't restrained by now Wilkes didn't consider him a flight risk.

"Yes, Malcolm, it was," Wilkes replied. Was he trying to make friends, or did he just happen to enjoy patronizing citizens before he arrested them? Too damn hard to read, is what he was. "I'm actually not done yet."

The hyena threw his arms up, rolling his eyes to the sky, but quickly reverted to a more reserved stance. "Okay, then." It was very difficult to keep the exasperation from his voice, but his fear of all this police stuff was quickly being overshadowed by a growing impatience toward the coyote's tactics.

"Stay there," Wilkes said, pointing to a spot about ten feet from the car like a recess attendant to an overexuberant child. He then reached into the window, past Malcolm's side, and drew the set of keys from the ignition. After giving it a casual once-over, he pushed one button, then another. The hood and trunk of the car sprang open almost simultaneously. The coyote tossed the keys back onto the driver's seat before sauntering off to his cruiser.

Before Malcolm could wonder what this new bit was about, Wilkes whistled sharply, prompting a flurry of movement from within the large Ford sedan. He knew what it was before the trooper opened the door, and as the large feral dog bounded out, smiling and jumping excitedly at his owner's feet, there was a little bit of jealousy mixed in with his ever-present fear. "Unten!" the coyote shouted, pointed at the dog's nose, and it sat and quieted down immediately, panting and focused on Wilkes' outstretched finger.

The hyena watched as the trooper beckoned the white German shepherd to follow him over, and the dog did so, no more than a foot from the tip of the coyote's bushy tail, held purposefully horizontal behind him. Before they had made it all the way back to the Porsche, he commanded, "suchen" while indicating to the vehicle. The dog made several circles, sticking his nose in each wheel well, the trunk, engine bay and rooting around the doorsills with rapt attention, seeking out traces of drugs that were not there. Was this all really necessary? Malcolm doubted that having a nonregistered car that was NOT stolen counted as probable cause for a drug search. Whatever.

The shepherd seemed satisfied enough with the car, but that didn't stop him from approaching Malcolm and rearing up on his hind legs and burying his snout in the fly of the hyena's jeans. "Dieter, nein! Nein, unten!" shouted the coyote harshly, and Dieter (which was apparently his name) withdrew and sat by his partner's feet. For the second time in a short while, Malcolm was a little hard, and that hardness had not been caused by a scantily-clad woman. Granted, dogs would be dogs, but that dog went right for the goods.

"Sorry 'bout that. Dieter doesn't know when to stop; he likes sniffin' around too much. Trained him too well in Germany."

"I suppose he's just doing his job," countered the hyena, smiling in spite of himself. As many directions as this traffic stop had taken, there couldn't be much more that would surprise him. He decided to ask a tentative question: "What's all this really about?"

Wilkes stared at him, a bit blankly, and for some reason his right paw was hovering over the butt of his service revolver. "What do you mean?" He started taking steps toward Malcolm as he talked, Dieter right at his heels.

"I mean, the frisking, the banter, the--the drug dog...why all the rigmarole if you're just going to arrest me anyway? You just want to find out how many extra charges you can stick me with?" This was a bit out of line, for the situation he was in, but he wanted to know the truth. This pissant state trooper was perilously close to overstepping his authority.

"Whoa there, fella," said Wilkes, stepping up to match Malcolm gaze-for-gaze. "That's a little out of line for someone who's about to lose his license. You want to give me a little more respect here, or do you want me and Dieter to show you what a real shakedown entails? Just one command and you'll be on the ground, beggin' him to let go of your balls." Now the coyote was truly up in his face, the tips of their snouts almost touching, each word punctuated by sweet tobacco. The hyena folded his ears back at the sound of unfriendly snarling below them, and he knew the big white dog was just sitting, waiting for the chance to neuter him.

"Okay, okay, you made your point." Malcolm backed away, hoping Wilkes wouldn't follow. He didn't; neither did Dieter. "Just...what do you want from me?"

"Hehe," snorted the coyote. He giggled a few more times, then burst into a full-out guffaw, holding his belly while his body jerked with the laughter. If there was a joke to be gotten, it had sailed right over the hyena's head. He was not laughing, but on the verge of frustrated and confused tears. "You've got it all wrong, boy," Wilkes continued when he'd found his breath. "You need something."

Malcolm just stood there, knowing he could make no sense of the trooper's words, and shrugged. Kicking up dust, he turned and ran a paw through his headfur.

"You don't know how much fun it is to see you squirm." Well, at least somebody was having fun at the hyena's expense. Then Wilkes was right up on him again, paws on his shoulders as if they'd been buddies all their lives. "You're not stupid, boy. But you neeeeed something." The way that word, elongated and accentuated, stirred the minute hairs inside his ear, his upper lip began to twitch in reaction. Now he knew this was not a typical cop he was dealing with. Dirty? Maybe.

"Is this the point at which I'm supposed to bribe you?" the hyena asked with complete honesty.

"Yes."

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone...I can see all obstacles in my way... It was like a chorus of angels had erupted in his brain. As confused and irritated as he was, Malcolm had to admit he trusted that single word. He pretty much had to have some degree of trust in the coyote, because his actions had been so odd and nonsensical that an ulterior motive was just the thing to make sense of it all. It bore further looking into.

"A corrupt cop," he muttered ironically to the landscape. "Gotta love it."

"You're not smart, either," Wilkes released Malcolm so they stood facing one another on the sun-drenched side of the road. Traffic was tapering off. "Then again, I've gotta give you some credit for being an outta-stater. It ain't the department. They don't give a shit what we do out here, as long as we make quota and don't go all Rodney King on people. Lotsa free time."

Malcolm crossed his arms again, not believing what he was hearing but wanting to hear more at the same time. Dieter had lain down beside the coyote's boots and was looking up at him with waning interest now that he wasn't a direct threat. "Go on."

The smirk that had been plastered to Wilkes' muzzle when he had first leaned into the Porsche was back, and it suited his species perfectly. "I'm not a bad person, Malcolm. I do get joy out of busting asshole punks and drug dealers, but I like to make compromises when I can. And, as I said before, my spotted friend...you need something."

"What, exactly?"

"Let's get to the meat and potatoes of the matter. You got so many strikes against you right now, what's stopping me from arresting you and draggin' your ass to the nearest jail? Nothing."

Malcolm had to nod at that, hopefully not encouraging the possibility.

"Only that it would be a colossal waste of time, effort and the taxpayers' money, that's what."

"Well, good then."

"But I can't let you off either," shrugged the coyote. There was the rub.

The hyena remembered Wilkes' comments from earlier. "My checkbook's in the car; I can cut you a check right now if you want." He didn't have a whole hell of a lot of money now, but once he dropped the Porsche off in Seattle a little bribe wouldn't matter much, if at all.

Wilkes snickered, shaking his head as he twisted this way and that, grinding a boot heel into the gravel. "It's always about money, isn't it? Every time you open that muzzle of yers you give me another reason not to respect you. Now, if I can't respect you, I can't trust you, and I'd like to think I can trust you."

"You can," concurred the hyena, skipping a more criticizing rebuttal.

"Good, good. If you write me a check--assuming, of course, I wanted money in the first place--wouldn't that raise questions back at the station house, not to mention my wife at home?" And with that, the aviator glasses came off for the first time and exposed a pair of gleaming yellow, crafty eyes. That was actually worse than when they had been covered, thought Malcolm. Maybe now he didn't want to know what those eyes were hiding. But the officer was treating him civilly, and that was better than nothing.

"I didn't take that into consideration. So, besides money, what the hell can I do for you?"

"See, that's where the trust comes in," said Wilkes, clapping his paws together. "I can't tell you, because I won't know what you'll be doing until we get there. It's kind of a surprise for the both of us. Dudn't that sound fun?" Suddenly Malcolm had visions of Deliverance, and shuddered at the thought of having his head messed with by back-country hooligans.

"Sounds fucking vague," the hyena said dubiously.

The coyote looked positively heartbroken. "Aww, now, don't go and say that. Here I've been trying to make a friend outta ya by offering a way to get out of a speeding citation, a hefty fine, and jail time--not to mention the loss of your license and, most likely, your job--and you're swearing at me like I'm browbeatin' you. This is what I was talking about trust."

No matter how much he wanted to leave, no matter how much he didn't want to be having this conversation, and no matter how much he disliked the trooper's intentional obfuscation, the fact still stood that he had too much riding against him to not look a gift horse--er, coyote--in the mouth. He tried not to look at the present, but keep his mind on the paycheck waiting for him in Washington.

Malcolm sighed and brushed back a slightly sweaty forelock. "I don't have much time; the car's supposed to be in Seattle in two days." The coyote's already underhanded demeanor was emphasized even more by the grin that split his muzzle widely. The bait had been taken, and Wilkes didn't seem like he could be any more pleased. Flipping the sunglasses open, then sliding them back onto his face, he sauntered over to Malcolm, clapping a paw on one shoulder.

"Good man. That's a smarter decision than you know." He went over to the Porsche, plucked the keychain from the front seat, and proceeded to lock it up nice and tight. Somehow, the knowledge that he would be riding in the cruiser unsettled Malcolm, but it was just jitters. "Come on. Dieter, kommen!" He directed the hyena back to the still-idling Ford, let Dieter into the front seat, and closed that door. Then he returned to Malcolm, reaching behind his back.

"Give me your paws, please, behind you if you don't mind." The coyote's paw came out jingling with a pair of cuffs. The serious side of Wilkes had returned.

"I don't see why you have--"

"Malcolm, remember what I said about trusting me? It's all procedure."

"Fine," the hyena relented, and presented his paws, folded at the small of his back. They were taken, rather roughly, and restrained too tightly for his taste. He could feel the cool metal digging all the way down to the skin of his wrists. They allowed for no movement.

"Thank you. Now, you have to make me believe it, Malcolm. Do you trust me?"

"I sure hope so," was the reply. Wilkes walked in front of him, looking over the rims of his shades.

"That's not good enough, boy. You gotta trust me all the way." The conviction in his voice was thick and true; for once, it looked like he wholly meant what he said.

"I don't know if I can do that."

"You got to, or I won't believe you. You gotta gimme your word." The coyote's ears were perked forward, listening. He looked like an expectant father.

It was time to call his bluff, if that's what it was. "Okay, you have my word. I completely and utterly trust you with my life. Are you satisfied?" he asked, hoping Wilkes wouldn't take this ruse any further than it had already gone.

And, for once, he seemed content with Malcolm's answer. "Yes," he replied, and the hyena was so relieved that he didn't see the coyote reaching to the left side of his belt.

"Thank God. Now, could you please tell me--" He was so caught up in finding out a little more about where the coyote was planning to take him that the spray of mace caught him completely off-guard and wide-eyed. When he had looked up, there was Wilkes, raising an object, and then everything went blurry with the liquid. The sting was so immediate and so intense his brain had trouble sending response signals to counteract it, and it was a full second before he started bellowing.

Just the complete randomness of the action, unprovoked as it was made the pain that much worse. Already, as Malcolm lowered his head and shouted at the ground, unable to touch his own face, he was thinking of things he could have done to avoid what had just happened. But an even bigger question was why?

Wilkes was talking to him again, patting him on the back and saying, "It's going to be fine, son. Just follow my paw and we'll get in the car, huh?" That prospect held absolutely zero temptation for him now.

"You fucker!" Tears streamed down into his cheeks, staining the fur into weird patterns that made it look like the spots there were connected. "I'm not going!"

"You have to. You've got to trust me, son. You said you did, right?"

"Right," he sputtered, "but look what happened." He could not believe he had just been maced, but Wilkes sounded like he knew what he was doing. Like he had the choice to walk away at this point.

"Don't think about that." As if his eyes melting was something he could just shelve and leave it for future generations. "Just look at me."

Malcolm looked up again, just in time to be met with another stream of caustic liquid, except it was a lot more than his eyes which was sprayed. His vision was gone, replaced by darkness filled with bright spots that looked like movie film beginning to melt. Wilkes was saying something again, but his words were drowned out by the growing nausea in his head. The stuff was in his muzzle, draining into his throat. Saliva built up, salty and acrid, and drooled uncontrolled over his teeth. He spit once, twice, but it kept coming.

The hyena's equilibrium gave way, the only evidence of that being a swooning sensation punctuated by a hollow thump as his head collided with the side of the cruiser, and even then he had no voice with which to moan his objection. Why hadn't Wilkes tried to stop his fall? Runnels of snot coated his nose, and he hawked up a healthy portion before realizing his mistake. His stomach churned, and there were precious few seconds for him to turn to the side before he ejected the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

If someone could see how he was being treated, abused by this officer in a way that, as he thought about it more, seemed like extortion, then maybe his suffering would come to a swift and justified end. But to other motorists, passing on the other side of the cars, he was as noticeable as a shadow. Malcolm sat there, unable to move with his paws restrained, until there was nothing left to heave but air. His eyes stung like a bitch, and everything remained a grey blur. Thankfully, he was getting used to it, if that were possible.

"Are you done?" came the coyote's voice, neutral but placating and not at all angry. Malcolm was lifted up by his arms and chest, still sputtering. "You're not going to do that in my car, are you?" The hyena shook his head, because his mouth still ached too much to form words. His tongue felt large, fuzzy.

"Hold still." A cloth dangled over the end of Malcolm's nose briefly, just enough for him to smell old sweat and dog fur, before it was forced against his mouth. At first it caught on his upper fangs, but then slipped under and went all the way to the rear of his mouth. It was tied behind his head as a gag, and now the hyena knew exactly what was going on. He was being kidnapped. Why, precisely, escaped him, but when Wilkes ordered him into the back of the cruiser he followed the guiding paws without resisting. If the coyote had been able to neutralize him that easily, there was no telling what other means of punishment he had at his disposal.

The most agonizing thing about the ride in Wilkes' car was the utter silence in which it was conducted. Besides rushing air outside, the low hum of the big police-spec engine, and the bumps and squeaks and rattles of normal driving, none of the three occupants made a single sound. Malcolm switched positions often, trying to find a good average between sitting up (where the sun burned his already-ruined eyes even more) and lying on a side (where phlegm was free to run out of his nose and onto the seat).

Malcolm DeSontre was a trusting man. He was an Eagle Scout, former acolyte at his parents' Methodist church, left more pennies than he took at gas stations, and gave people the benefit of the doubt. He wasn't necessarily a God-fearing man, but sitting there in the back seat of the cruiser got him to thinking about whether his trust was because he was a good person or because he was a gullible fool. The hyena liked to think that he'd lived life enough to be savvy when it came to freak situations like the one in which he currently found himself. But he was blind, bound, gagged and miserable, and he honestly had no idea whether he was going to get out of this alive. Still, Wilkes' words echoed in his head: "Trust me."

The cop had just as much to lose as Malcolm did if he were killed. No sensible person would put that much on the line for some sick, cruel purpose.

The cruiser slowed, turned, and turned again. Smooth road progressed to bumpy washboard dirt, and they rode along it for only a few minutes before Wilkes turned again and rolled to a stop. After shutting off the engine, the coyote exited the car, which kept beeping until the driver door slammed shut. Malcolm noted the key must still be in the ignition, and praised himself for having the presence of mind to look for escape routes.

Another door opened, and he heard, "Dieter, kommen." The shepherd leaped out, and that door closed just as the one on which he rested opened. His head spilled out before he could stop it, and paws under his arms pulled him carefully into the warm air. The hyena stood on shaky legs and forcefully cleared his nose. He coughed a bit at the residual pepper spray but it was mostly cleared now.

Wilkes held his cheekruffs steady, and Malcolm could only assume the trooper was looking into his eyes. "Can you see anything?" he asked in that same so-so manner, before adding, "Nod or shake your head."

Malcolm shook his head. The only thing he could see was a bright blur, as if he were looking through a heavily-frosted shower door.

"Good. Just follow right behind me." Wilkes grabbed a pawful of the hyena's T-shirt, taking a number of chestfurs with it, and led him in a more-or-less straight line over lumpy, grassy ground. The sky above him hummed with electricity when the wind wasn't strong enough to drown out the sound. Malcolm kept his eyes closed to minimize the burning, but when his feet met cool concrete and the heat on his head disappeared, he knew they had entered some type of building.

The coyote shifted his paw and shoved Malcolm in a new direction; he had to step sideways to adjust but kept his balance. "Stop, please," came the command, and he did. The gag was untied and removed, as were the cuffs. Licking his lips to get the dryness and taste of dog from them (it was most likely Dieter), he jibed, "Okay, this was much better than arresting me. I think I'll go to jail now." Man, his wrists hurt from those things!

Wilkes' answer came in the form of a repeated squeaking, then a rush of high-powered water striking him squarely in the chest. The hyena backpedaled, but not even the use of his arms could stop his body from slamming into a corner. His head rebounded on the hard surface as he thrust his paws forward to fend off the spray. It didn't work; the water continued to inundate him from head to toe, flooding his nose, ears and eyes. The last was a welcome relief, because that infernal burning was finally gone.

Holding his breath, Malcolm waited it out until the water stopped blasting. Relieved of the pressure, he sank to his knees, clearing his sinuses and rubbing vision back into his eyes. The room was dark, so the shapes he saw were muted in color, but as things sharpened he could discern Dieter's white form sitting next to another taller form, which was undoubtedly Officer Wilkes. Other things were less defined; lines of black with shiny highlights attached to them. They didn't make him nervous, but they didn't allay any fear, either.

"Your vision should be perfectly normal in a couple of minutes," Wilkes assured from across the room.

"Is that what you say to all the felons you blind?" replied the hyena, still rubbing.

"Just the ones who think they're smarter than the cops."

"You have no idea how much that hurt. Why did you have to do that to me? My eyes are shot now."

"You baby. I tested it on myself. We're all required to take a shot to know what happens when we spray offenders."

Malcolm paused. He guessed that made enough sense, anyway. "Still, why did you need to do it to me?"

"Simple: I didn't want you having second thoughts and flipping out on me in the car. You did say you trusted me, but I still don't take chances. You're a big boy, you know." Malcolm could see enough to tell the coyote's muzzle was moving now.

"Nice. Real nice." The hyena blinked a few times, and suddenly what had been a greyish blob was now a perfectly clear, grey-sealed concrete floor, complete with tiny pits and grooves. He looked up, and there were the coyote and German shepherd, only about twenty feet from him in an opposite corner of the room. But it was what he noticed shortly thereafter that scared the bejeezus out of him.

If he had no cause to be nervous before, there was plenty now. The room was about twenty-five feet on a side, all concrete with opaque panels as the ceiling to let natural light in. Scattered about the walls were various shelves, one to a wall, each with a different set of objects sitting thereon. The shelf opposite Malcolm's kneeling form held dildos of varying sizes, shapes, colors and angles; a collection that probably cost close to $500 to procure. There were also things like pens, umbrella handles, gourds and bottles, presumably for the same purpose. On the shelf to his right sat various leather goods: masks, collars, leashes, and other things that were unidentifiable by their positions. The shelf to his left held a few boxes, doctor's tools, two bottles of pills and syringes soaking in sterilizing fluid.

The fourth shelf was above his head, so he couldn't see, but the oddest thing about the room was the contraption in the center of it. On the floor sat four small locking leather collars, one medium collar and two more, much larger, bands of leather. All were black, freshly shined, and the locks were polished chrome. Each leather band was attached by a gleaming O-ring to a rope; the central ropes led to the ceiling while the outer four were threaded through pulleys at each corner of the room. Everything converged in a series of rotating bollards all grouped together around a central black box. The scary thing was not knowing for what it was used, it was trying to find out how many things one could do with a device like that. To Malcolm, none of them seemed remotely good. As his gaze was elsewhere, he heard a click and turned just in time to see Wilkes snapping a thick Master lock on the door of the room.

"What the fuck is this?" he asked, already fearing he knew the answer. Despite his dripping clothes, the room was nicely heated, and he felt no chill.

"Well, what does it look like to you?" retorted the coyote in a parental sort of way. "C'mon, Malcolm. Don't give me more reasons to suspect your level of intelligence. Now, you and I both know what all this junk is for, and I'm sure you know what my game is now."

Oh, but this was much, much more than just a game. The hyena stood still, his eyes locked on those stupid aviator glasses, and just tried to fathom the implications of the room, and the coyote, and his intentions. "You said you were married," was the only thing that came out of his gaping muzzle.

"And your point is what? You really think a wife and two kids would get in the way of my recreations? Please, Malcolm. You can demonize me all you want, but we all are subject to the same desires now and again."

The plain truth in the coyote's words hit home for Malcolm then. Disheveled as he was, that upper part of his brain--the part that had earned him a place on the Dean's Honor Roll before he'd drugged himself out of college--could not help but give consideration to the idea that one could have real, moral ties to the everyday world while living an entirely different existence in other places, at other times. Living another life might have been a stretch, but indulging weird-ass hobbies in secret still applied. Hell...he wasn't one to disagree; peeing on himself in the shower every once in a while wasn't out of the ordinary to him.

"I don't know what you plan to do with...all of this, but it's not going to involve me," the hyena tried to say with resolve, but it sure didn't sound very forceful to his own ears. "You need to think twice before you mess with me, you bastard." He started to advance toward the coyote, sidestepping the restraining contraption in the center of the room and trying to look as tough as his buff exterior indicated, but as soon as he saw Wilkes' right paw inch toward his holstered service revolver he faltered. The cop wasn't scared at all; he was just very crafty and very well-prepared.

"Don't test my patience, boy," came the warning, a barely-concealed snarl. "I gave you ample opportunity to bow out and go the other way, but you didn't. Instead, you agreed to go with me. You said you trusted me. You've come this far without blowing up in my face, threatenin' to kill me, and now a little leather gets you all out of sorts? It's not like I'm gonna mace you again...not yet, unless you relax and do what I say."

"Where's the key?"

Wilkes smiled again. "There is no key." When he had gotten a nice, long look at the hyena's unbelieving face, he continued, "But there is a way out. The only way to get out of this room is to melt the lock with an acetylene torch. That torch is hidden somewhere around you. The only way to light the torch is with a match, a book of which is also hidden. Unless you can work miracles, you won't be able to find either, so knocking me out will do you absolutely no good. Right, boy?" The coyote looked down at Dieter, who panted happily and showed some nice bright teeth.

"Why go to all that trouble?"

"Because I admire a man who can keep his promises, and I believe you can keep yours. Those measures were just put in place to motivate you."

"Some motivation. God damn," Malcolm muttered, scratching the back of his neck.

Wilkes removed his hat and sunglasses, setting them on the shelf behind him, so the hyena got his first good look at the coyote's features. There wasn't anything special about him, just the average mix of beige and brown fur surrounding two striking yellow eyes. He must have been in his early forties, and in good shape for his age. The trooper smoothed his ears down where the hat had pulled up the fur there, and said, "Don't be a baby, Malcolm."

He walked over to the hyena and laid an arm over his shoulder, apparently unmoved by the attempted show of power. With his other paw, he lifted a single index finger to the front of the wet shirt and outlined Malcolm's left nipple, circling it slowly, catching the fabric on the claw every now and again. The touch sent the usual shivers through his back, and he snuffled aloud. That touch was much too intimate to be coming from another man, but he didn't dare move away. The fact that he had at least six inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Wilkes made no difference.

"Wh-whatever happened to 'no means no?'"

"You're making too much out of this room, boy," Wilkes said matter-of-factly, now skritching at the freshly-hardened nipple with two claws. "We won't need safewords with what I'm gonna do to you. Safewords indicate the use of pain. I'm not into pain."

Oh, thank God! Malcolm's relief was so total that he actually started to feel better about the attention paid to his chest.

"I'm into pleasure." And with that, the shorter coyote dragged his right paw over Malcolm's defined chest, tracing the abdominal muscles plastered to the soaked fabric of his T-shirt. That fuzzy feeling was back in his mouth again, along with his heart. He dared to look down at the coyote, only to find him already looking back. An expression of expectation was on his face, along with that slight smirk, and as much as he tried to find it there was no trace of malice or sadism in those bright eyes. With an audible swallow, Malcolm realized he did trust Wilkes after all...but just barely.

The coyote dropped his gaze, and his smile. "That sounded gay, didn't it? Dammit, it just sounds so much better in my head, but when it comes out...you know..." Wilkes' paw circled in the air as he searched for his thoughts. "Aw, screw it," he said, "I gotta bust a nut, and you prolly gotta bust yours." At least he was honest about his intentions, though the thought of where the coyote might be busting his nut worried Malcolm some. Even if pain were not the goal here, there were certain things he could think of that might be very painful for him. He shuddered to even entertain them, and a fine mist flew from his damp fur as it fluffed out.

"That's very thoughtful of you," admitted the hyena as his maleness twitched in reaction to the words. At any other time, in any other situation, he would have been very put off at the notion of another male fooling around with him, but the fact that he pretty much had to let Wilkes do whatever he wanted actually made the idea more accepting for some reason. There was no attraction, God no, but the coyote did sound confident in what he had planned, which meant he worked with skill and care.

Wilkes had walked back to Dieter on the other side of the room, where he had taken off his belt and set it on the shelf next to his hat and glasses. He turned around, crossed his legs and arms, and said, "You might wanna think about getting out of those wet clothes before you start chafing. I wouldn't want that nice fur of yours all matted and ratty-looking." The coyote might be well-spoken, but he left no doubt as to what he wanted. He just didn't like asking blunt questions. The way he was standing there meant he had his heart set on Malcolm giving him a show, and his soaked body said he would be doing just that.

He would only be getting colder the longer he drew this out, so without any acts of further ado he grabbed the T-shirt at his hips and drew the shirt up and over his head, turning it inside out in the process. As his chest was exposed, the air in the room actually felt warmer now that there wasn't that pesky extra layer of moisture present to rob heat from him. Malcolm just dropped it a few feet from where he was standing, and it landed in a dead heap near the corner. The hyena just stood there normally, never having taken his eyes from Wilkes', but with the way he was built he couldn't help but feel naughty, like he was doing it on purpose.

"Damn, that's pretty much what I thought when I first saw you. Built like a tank; God, I wish I could build muscle like that." Appreciation was front and center on the coyote's muzzle.

"With all due respect," said Malcolm, now seeing no need to add the "sir" onto everything, "it doesn't look like your body is conditioned to build that much. I mean, you can only get so big with what you've got."

"True, true," concurred Wilkes, striding back over to get a better look. "But you must be takin' some serious pills to pull this shit off." He didn't ask for permission before he ran both paws over Malcolm's giant bicep, raising and curling the arm into a flexed position. A low wolf-whistle came from his pursed, black lips.

"I don't believe in drugs," Malcolm admonished proudly.

"I accept that. Good for you, boy," replied the coyote with a firm pat on the back. "Let's get that wet denim off, why don't we?" A tug at the waistband of his jeans made it all the clearer, and Malcolm really did want to get out of them. They were cold, heavy and tight, and very uncomfortable.

He had just started to unbutton when Wilkes interjected, "No, no...please, allow me." Malcolm's paws were pushed away, replaced with new, smaller ones. There was no rejecting them or stopping them from doing what they were going to do, because the coyote had control, and he was quick about his actions. He might have had some attack command for Dieter stashed in his mind, or a hidden blade strapped to his ankle, and neither (or any other contingency, for that matter) were worth finding out because of a little invaded personal space.

It was less personal than he thought, though; before he knew it the zipper was down and Wilkes was shucking the pants down his thighs, little by little. After a small struggle the hyena was down to his boxers, but the jeans were still bunched around his knees. "Lift up your right foot," said the coyote, and Malcolm complied. He heard the clearing of a throat, then felt a light feathery touch of fingers on his soft, wide black footpad.

"Yeeeaaawww!" he shouted, jerking the leg down and forward, almost so forcefully that his toes slammed into the hard floor. He had hoped that skipping the footwear on this trip would desensitize him a little, but the way it tickled was just as strong as it ever had been.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Everybody's got a right to be sensitive. We'll just...get back to that later. You know, Malcolm, it must be hard finding shoes for those beauties of yours," said the coyote, a disembodied voice behind him.

Malcolm swore the trooper could see the red creep into his ears, both from the fact that the shoe comment was very true, and that attention had been deliberately drawn to two very big insecurities in his life. His footpaws were abnormally large; they always had been. It was not disease, genetics or exercise...just a freak thing with which he was born. "Um, yeah," he finally answered, concentrating on the floor...and his feet.

"You gotta give me your leg again," continued the officer. "You know, that's nothin' to be ashamed about. But, I'll have to add driving without footwear to the list of offenses I'm selectively ignoring. You do know that's against the law, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do." But in that tiny car, even wearing sandals would have interfered with clean shifting in tight situations, and with a car like that you either know how to control it or you don't bother driving it. "They're just too big." The hyena shifted legs now, and Wilkes started on the wet material right away.

"No, I don't suppose I can disagree with you there, but technicals are technicals. But who are we to bicker on about that when it's a moot point anyway? Hold still." One more good tug and the jeans came off, slapping heavily onto the floor just like the shirt only minutes previous. They were kicked out of the way, leaving a new wet trail along the floor which was now mostly dry...and warm. Malcolm guessed it had heating coils built into it for the specific purpose of reversing the effects of the high volumes of water used to spray down uncooperative people.

Wilkes' attention was now more and more focused on the hyena's increasingly revealed body, and the lust in his eyes gave Malcolm an uneasy feeling of pride and humility all rolled up into one. All those countless hours and dollars spent in bars and clubs, watching and talking and playing the flirting game...all that, and here he was with someone whose intentions were purely sexual, without attachment or guilt, lavishing compliments on him. If only Wilkes were female, and not blackmailing him...

When the coyote saw Malcolm look surreptitiously at his watch, he grew more frank. "Okay, okay, I get it. Neither of us has all the time in the world to spare right now, so just take those off and we can start havin' fun."

Malcolm snorted, smiling and shaking his head. "I can't believe you're making me do this to get out of a stupid ticket."

"You still don't trust me, but I can see some part of you does." Wilkes was looking down.

"What are you talking about?" asked the hyena, examining himself even as the coyote lunged forward and ripped the boxers from his hips.

"You're so damn slow, for someone as impatient as you are. Don't tell me you can't see that, even though it's attached to you." Malcolm didn't want to look, because as soon as it was mentioned he could feel it, especially behind the cotton boxers as they slid off his body. Even as he threw his paws in front of himself to hide it, it was there: the latent beginning of an erection, not enough to make him poke out, but enough to fill what was already an ample creamy sheath.

"That's not from you, it's--it's from being nervous," Malcolm sounded like a kid in trouble at recess. He was sure part of it was true, but he wasn't sure how much. While the prospect of getting it on with a fellow guy had never crossed his mind, he wasn't the kind of person to get angry when things turned to that subject. He knew he wasn't attracted to the coyote, not one bit; the situation itself coupled with his tense nerves from the traffic stop earlier this afternoon were more likely the cause of his most inopportune reaction.

"Sure it is, boy. You just keep on tellin' yourself that," smirked the other canine as he eyed Malcolm unselfconsciously. The hyena squirmed for only a few moments before deciding any further attempts to hide himself were futile, then his paws fell away. It reminded him of physical day back in high school. What an uncomfortable experience that had been.

Walking forward, with an obvious growing bulge just behind the tight khaki pants he wore, Wilkes asked, "May I?" in passing, and without waiting for an answer just brought his paw up between Malcolm's legs, barely tickling the fur on the insides of his thighs before his balls were shoved up into the base of his sheath. The coyote dropped to a squat and appraised the bits before his muzzle. Malcolm's gym teacher definitely hadn't done this.

"Do you really have to do that?" Being put on exhibition wasn't one of his strong points.

"Oh, stop being such an ungrateful, self-righteous child and let it feel good." Wilkes sounded downright annoyed, and looked it as he regarded the hyena from his own crotch. "If you're worried about being a faggot, why're you so uncomfortable?" The coyote was still using one small paw to roll his testicles around in their sac, which didn't actually feel all that bad when Malcolm started to forget that that gentle paw belonged to a male.

The big-built hyena spread his legs in answer, backing it up with, "I'm sorry, okay? This whole thing's got me nervous. I don't know what to think; you can't imagine what's going through my head right now, and--"

"Try me," Wilkes said, not a trace of huskiness in his voice. "Try going through life, getting married and having a kid, only to find out two years later you like your wife's friends' spouses more than your own wife. I won't bother you with any sordid details, but I'm still happily married, with a good job and a very productive hobby. No one knows, and I don't think they need to know. But aren't you glad you know?" If anything, the coyote had him beat in terms of angst. The trooper had now moved up and was kneading the base of Malcolm's sheath between two fingers, encouraging his hidden knot to grow more obscene.

"You know, that does feel really nice," the hyena had to admit. The gentle tingling of growing arousal was something he hadn't experienced in a long time, that fact brought to mind by Wilkes' attentions. You never do realize what you're missing until it's been gone for a while, he thought, and heard a low murr escape his lips. He opened his eyes (he hadn't even known he had closed them) and looked down at the officer who was so delicately teasing his cock further towards the open air.

The coyote gave the hardening sheath a little nuzzle before standing up, and Malcolm almost whimpered from the sudden stop in stimulation. "I'm glad you finally came around," he said. "I was beginnin' to think I just might have to arrest you after all. You're a good kid, and I hate doin' things like that to people who're just trying to make a living. It's not like you're trafficking coke or anything." Malcolm hoped to high heaven Wilkes could not see the red heat creeping up the insides of his ears, but he continued, "Now I know that's nice and all, but I think it's high time we switch things up a bit, if you wanna get back on the road."

Malcolm's heart jumped a bit, but not nearly as hard as before. "I suppose that would involve that contraption," he motioned to the pile of padded collars and ropes in the center of the room.

"Yup, sure does. You shouldn't be worried, though; I don't do whips and chains and that stuff. No pain unless you want it. But let's just get you set up and see where we are. Go ahead and get strapped in."

"Um...how do I do that?"

Wilkes took Malcolm by the forearm and guided him to the device. He pointed to the first pile of three collars. "You see those there? The two outside ones go around your wrists and the middle one your neck." The hyena followed the furry finger as it moved down. "The two big ones are for your upper chest and waist, and the two smaller ones go on your ankles. Of course."

"Of course," replied Malcolm, finally getting a mental picture of what everything was supposed to be used for. He still thought it was some kind of torture device though, but reminded himself that this was all about trust.

"I'm going to go ahead and let you put everything on, so it's comfortable for you. Everything's padded, so you should be nice and snug. Make sure they're all tight enough so that nothing moves, and keep the metal rings on top. That's industrial-grade Velcro, so it won't budge."

Malcolm picked up the first collar, the one that was supposed to go around his neck. The leather was soft and cool, a very fine grain, and it was backed by heavy wool padding. He put it on, feeling a twinge of vexation at being at the mercy of someone smaller than himself, and brought the top flap over, securing the Velcro and making sure the overlapping edges were even. It was tight but very cozy; the metal ring was spot on center behind his head so he didn't have to adjust it. The hyena did the same with the wrist collars, then moved to the ankle collars, making sure the rings were in the right place and none of the ropes were tangled.

After fumbling with the waist collar, he had to call for help. "Hey, Wilkes, I can't get these last two. My arms don't go all the way around my back. Could you--" He had looked up mid-sentence to see if the coyote had heard him, but found a mostly-nude Wilkes watching him from the other side of the room. It was amazing how silent the guy had been while doffing his entire uniform, all the way down to a pair of form-fitting boxer-briefs that actually flattered his slightly rotund body. For a man of his age, the coyote was in surprisingly good shape. With the exception of a small protrusion which only added a couple of inches to an otherwise slim waistline, Wilkes was defined enough to show through the bushy cream fur of his stomach. The double curve of pectorals was even visible beneath an ample chestruff, although his nipples were all but hidden.

"I figured you would have trouble with those," said the coyote, padding back over to Malcolm on slender, slender footpaws. Even though his legs were digitigrade, his walk was nothing close to a sashay, and the hyena chided himself for assuming all gay (or bi) men were effeminate, cloying sissies.

Wilkes picked up the sizable collar, stepped behind Malcolm and brought it around his chest, tightening it like he had the pair of cuffs, jerkingly and with authority. Once he had secured it, he asked, "Comfy?" and Malcolm nodded. The waist collar went on similarly, and soon the hyena was strapped in and feeling a bit like a trapped animal.

"Now what?"

"Now I need you to get on all fours," replied the coyote, who laughed a little at the expression of timidity he received in return. He was actually biting his lip.

"Okay," Malcolm said warily, and dropped to the warm floor, taking solace in the heat radiating through the pads on his fingers and palms. A series of minute clicks brought his head up just in time to see Dieter's large form trotting over to him. Before he could register the feral dog's intent, Dieter disappeared from his periphery, only to reappear moments later as a heavy weight on his back, dancing and jabbing at his backside. No way...no way was he going to let a dog fuck him. But Wilkes was facing away, walking back toward an LCD display on the far wall.

"Hey! Goddamn it, get this dog offa me!" he yelled, on the verge of begging, his voice coming perilously close to going falsetto. "Wilkes, for fuck's sake, do something!"

The coyote turned around, and a look of consternation, then anger, crossed his face. "Dieter, unten! Shit...hold on," he said, and Malcolm tried to do so as best he could. Dieter had surprised him, so his tail was already pushed up by the dog's probing sheath, and the beast was moving too quickly and with too much weight behind him to shake him off. Each time that canine tool jabbed at his ass, he yelped out, more in fear than in pain. The hyena saw Wilkes poke at the screen a few times, then watch him, waiting.

There was a muted whir from the ceiling, and as Malcolm tried to keep his rear end intact he saw the ropes start to draw away, then lift up from the floor. When they grew taut, his paws remained where they were for a moment before sliding outward as they were lifted. He yelled one last time before his arms and legs left the floor, and was surprised when his chin didn't hit the concrete. His body was held up by the chest and waist collars, and they were just as taut as the rest of the ropes. The hyena was now hovering a foot off the ground, and rising. Dieter gave one final push and actually breached Malcolm's tailhole before slipping off his back.

A ragged sigh calmed the hyena's racing heart a little, the beat slowing with each inch between him and the white shepherd below. Dieter pranced frustratedly, having been denied some playtime with his master's new toy. He even barked a few times before the coyote pointed stiffly at him and shouted, "Sie schließen Ihre ffnung, Haustier!" After that the dog sat on his haunches, smiling up at him. Mocking him.

And as soon as Malcolm had gathered his thoughts once again, only then did he realize the last of his freedom had been taken away. Now that he was suspended in midair, a good four feet and rising slowly, his limbs spreading ever outward, there was nothing that could stop Wilkes from doing the meanest and most evil things to him. His semi-erection all but forgotten, Malcolm began to panic as his mind conjured up scenes from his worst fears. They flashed past in a myriad nightmare of knives, dildos and gags, mace, anything he could come up with.

"This is over," he said, trying to keep from sounding scared shitless, even though he officially was exactly that. "Let me down now! You can let the dog fuck me, I don't care. Please, dude, just stop it..." As hard as he pulled at the collars, just as comfortable under strain as they had been before, the ropes were rigid enough with his body weight to not budge one iota. In fact, his arms and legs, as much as he worked out, were practically immovable, and spread at nice forty-five-degree angles toward each corner of the room. He was totally, undeniably exposed, and he hated it.

Wilkes stopped the motor, but left the panel and walked over to the struggling hyena. "You know, I'd just love to talk about your problems right now, but I think that's better suited for a psychologist. I'm no doctor. I'm a cop. And while I don't have a fuckin' clue what your problem is, I do know that you should just...chill...out." The coyote poked a clawtip into Malcolm's forehead with each spaced word, leaving him no time to prepare for the kiss which followed the last. Gripping the hyena's ears with startling conviction, Wilkes pressed his lips squarely to the spotted muzzle, licking at Malcolm's teeth to coax them to open.

Malcolm's eyes went wide, only to look into the intent-filled amarillo of the coyote's. He tried to curve his lips over his teeth to seal off his mouth, but Wilkes just used the opportunity to slip his tongue past. He tried to voice his disagreement, hell, his resentment of the unwanted act, but the trooper paid him no heed. After about thirty seconds of nonresponsiveness, Wilkes pulled back, licking his fangs, the flavor of tobacco now firmly planted in Malcolm's mouth.

"Damn, boy, you sure put up a fight."

"That's because I didn't wanna kiss you, you asshole!" Malcolm snarled back, wanting more than anything to punch the coyote's lights out but glad he was kept from doing so anyway.

Wilkes' paw was clamped around his short muzzle in a flash, those formerly amorous eyes now alight with hard clout. "Listen, Malcolm..." The coyote rolled his eyes up in thought, clicked his tongue and seemed to switch moods. He let go of the hyena and moved his paws to his hips. "How long's it been since you busted a nut?"

That was a question that took a surprisingly lengthy time to answer. Trying to remember the last few days of his trip was like trying to call forth memories of another world. "I don't know, I guess...coupla days?" He wasn't sure, but it may have been more.

At this, the dark gravity left Wilkes' face immediately, and he smiled so broadly it looked like he was suppressing a fit of laughter. "That's why you're so damn tense. Okay, maybe you don't like gettin' kissed by a man. Fine. But this is going to go nowhere fast unless I pop you once beforehand."

"What?"

The coyote didn't answer; instead, he walked to the shelf which housed the surgical instruments and syringes, rummaged through one of the nondescript white boxes, and pulled out a small shiny metal tube about nine inches long. It looked like pure stainless steel, only a fraction of an inch thick, with a round head about the size of a watch battery. For all intents and purposes, it could have been a rectal thermometer. Just the same, Malcolm didn't want to know what plans Wilkes had for it.

"This is a sound," said the coyote without waiting for the inevitable question. "And this will get you all nice and relaxed so you don't give yourself a heart attack tryin' to come when I get down to business." Now, Wilkes had moved out of the hyena's vision and his voice was coming from slightly behind and below his stretched form. "I'm going to warn you, this'll feel weird going in, but if you move one bit it gets a hunnert times worse."

"Oh, that's nice to know--gah!!" Malcolm almost jerked forward when he felt the cold hardness breach his sheath, but he trusted Wilkes enough to take his word seriously. He could not have imagined, even at that point, that the next thing he felt would be his urethra being penetrated. When the sound, well-lubricated, entered his penis from the outside, it stung, but only because Malcolm had never before shoved anything up there and had no description for the slightly uncomfortable feeling. But after that initial stinging, there was only an increasing coolness from the inside out as he acclimated to the room-temperature instrument.

Malcolm felt pressure near his knot (or where it would be if summoned) and then nothing. "There, that wasn't bad at all, was it?" asked the coyote.

"I'm not used to having things stuck up my cock. But no, it wasn't that bad. I'm sorry for doubting you." The words came out as soon as they hit his mind, but what could he do? They were true, and Wilkes needed to hear it from him.

Putting one paw on the base of the hyena's stubby tail, the coyote reached down again to rub Malcolm's sheath a bit. "Hopefully this baby won't give you a chance to get used to her." And with that, he pressed a button on the side of the sound, and reality took a back seat.

"Shhhhhhhit!" Malcolm barked so loudly he got an enthusiastic response from Dieter, who had been wandering over the floor and watching the action with detached interest. The little piece of metal in his cock was vibrating like a tuning fork, essentially turning the flesh surrounding it into a mushy bundle of oversensitive nerve endings. Immediately he began spasming, but an orgasm was still a far cry away.

It was silent, the vibrations so minute and so fast the only sound produced was Malcolm's repeated attempts to catch his breath. They were failing; as he hyperventilated all his focus was centered between his legs and the rapidly increasing pleasure there. The most maddening thing of all was that he couldn't move, couldn't even look down at himself to see what was happening. No telling if he was still sheathed or rock-hard; it was all a blissful numbness to him.

"Wuh-what're you doing to me?" he asked breathlessly, and coughed as he slipped a notch closer to climax.

Wilkes stepped in front of him again, cupping his chin with one paw while the other skritched delicately between his shoulder blades. "I'm showin' you one of the cool things guys can do to each other for fun," he said matter-of-factly, and suddenly the hyena was infinitely glad he was there. It was shameless, and for the time being the coyote was God to him. Somewhere a voice in the back of his mind told him that's exactly what Wilkes wanted to make him think, but he ignored it with abandon.

"Hoh...hoh, God..." Malcolm wasn't sure how much time had passed, but the level of pleasure he was experiencing would have normally taken him over five minutes to build up. His cock began spasming of its own accord, preempting his actual release. The coyote's paws weren't helping any, either, but the touch grounded him and gave him comfort in an otherwise alien situation. Wilkes switched up, moving back toward the hyena's rump, still maintaining a massaging pattern on his upper back.

"Are you gettin' close?" Fingers roamed around his buttocks, delving between them...

"I don't know...I think so...I can't tell." His rear was spread just a little, and a clawtip just barely caressed the black-rimmed entrance to his body...

There was no threshold to cross; there was just an ever-increasing pressure and intensity within his sheath, and the only way Malcolm knew he was coming was when he could no longer suppress a drawn out infantile moan. When that stopped, three soft splatters confirmed to his ears what he already knew.

"Good boy," praised the coyote, patting Malcolm on the back. The hyena finally relaxed, letting out a whoof and sucking in much-needed oxygen. He barely even noticed the removal of the sound. "Seems a lot longer than forty seconds when you're all caught up in it, doesn't it?"

"That...was less than a minute?" Malcolm asked incredulously. It was with a certain degree of pride that he realized it was the quickest he had ever shot a load in his life, by at least a minute...quicker than his first girlfriend, and she was tight as hell.

"Yup, you did a good job," the trooper tousled the bound canine's headfur, and as exhausted as he thought he was, his strength was rapidly returning. It was like the sounding had recharged him for a second round. Just what Wilkes had intended. He did know what he was doing, bar none. "You should see the puddle of cum on my nice clean floor. Didn't even get hard."

"Damn, I need to get me one of those sometime. It was awesome."

"Glad you're starting to see things my way. So much funner when everybody cooperates. Now that you're all nice and relaxed, I want a little attention. That okay with you?"

Malcolm hardly hesitated. Sexual play, no matter the partner, was a two-way street, and he owed the coyote big-time. "Yeah, sure. What am I going to do from here, though?" The image of the coyote lining up behind him, slowly spreading his ass open with his gigantic red-veined love rod, came back to make him uneasy again, but he knew that whatever the case, Wilkes would not hurt him. Of that he was sure now, and it occurred to him that just such a trust was lost on most people nowadays.

"You forget that, bound as you are, you're adjustable." The trooper sauntered over to the LCD screen and pressed it a few times, then held his finger in place as the motors began whirring again and Malcolm lowered slowly. When he stopped he was about three feet off the ground, pretty much at the level of the coyote's cock. When Wilkes shucked off his boxer-briefs, there was no question. Seeing the smallish beige-covered sheath pop out like that elicited an odd sense of arousal in Malcolm. It was arousing the way watching a porn film was arousing; just the removal of clothing in preparation for a sexual act was enough to start an erection.

Wilkes, however was sporting nothing more than sheath at the moment. While Malcolm's was round and set further away from his body like a wolf's, the coyote's sheath was more vulpine in nature, attached tighter to his body and pushed flatter as a result. It was much smaller than his own, but average for a coyote, he figured. Once again, the age-old locker room comparing and contrasting couldn't be escaped.

As the hyena watched, Wilkes padded over to the shelf opposite the one from which he had taken the sound. After rummaging through all the black leather there, he muttered, "Eureka," and pulled out a device that was nearly indistinguishable in its purpose. It looked like a set of thin straps with a plastic ring in the middle, and nothing more.

"What's that?"

"You'll see," came the reply. "Open your mouth for me."

Malcolm did as he was told, and as the device came nearer he got a good idea what was going to happen. He started to protest by saying, "Wait," but the ring (which was actually steel coated in rubber latex) was already firmly planted behind his upper and lower fangs. There was no moving now, no talking, and no biting down. The coyote fastened one strap behind his head and two more around his muzzle, locking it open.

What the hyena wanted to ask was why Wilkes had to put the device on him, instead of letting him perform oral sex freely. He had already resigned himself to that fact, and as weird as it was he would have tried his best to satisfy, but the coyote hadn't given him the benefit of proving his worth as a cocksucker. It was just downright confusing.

Wilkes stepped back to admire his handiwork, his bushy tail wagging amusedly behind him. It made him look twenty years younger, and Malcolm found himself wondering if he was being a good bitch. Oh boy, I've been here too long, he thought.

"It's not that I don't trust you; I just want to do things my way. You know, authority complex and all that. Plus, I'd like to talk to you about something, and I don't want you to disagree with me." Malcolm's ears perked up at that. At least he'd come to expect such non-sequitur behavior from the trooper. He nodded and looked into his captor's eyes, telling him to continue.

"All right, then," said the coyote, again walking behind the hyena. "These," he picked up each of Malcolm's footpaws in his own, "are just about the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

At once Malcolm was fully flushed, his ears drawn back as close to his skull as they could get. His feet? What in the hell?...

"You may think I'm a hardass sumbitch some of the time, having the job I do. I mean, fer fuck's sake, I maced you. But every man has a weakness. One thing I found out shortly after I learned I liked guys better than my wife is that I am a paw slut."

Well, this is different. Malcolm waited for Wilkes to continue. Now the coyote was rubbing the broad black pads on the balls of his feet, and he could feel the fingers slide over the soft leathery flesh. At this slow speed it was erotic, but any faster and it would be ticklish.

"I've done some embarrassing shit just to get at paws, Malcolm. Guys can take advantage of me; they have before. That's why I built this little bondage system; one time I offered to get a guy out of a speeding ticket for a blowjob. Well, things got switched around and he found out I liked paws...he blackmailed me with his goddamn feet! He kept them just out of my reach, and made me do things I can't even repeat to my other fuck buddies, because I'd lose all respect from them."

Malcolm remained silent. Like he could do anything else.

"I don't know why I'm tellin' you all this. Just suppose a smart kid like you'd understand." When the hyena nodded emphatically, Wilkes carried on, "I should tell you that the only reason I brought you here was because of these feet. As soon as you stepped out of that car, I fell in love with them. I had to fuck around with you." Malcolm suddenly felt very lucky that one single, unassuming fact had gotten him spared from jail. But he still couldn't understand how his oversized, ugly canine footpaws could attract someone so much like they had Wilkes.

"Just gimme a minute, Malcolm," the coyote said, definitely with a husky undertone in his voice, and then he felt his toes being separated...almost fondled. It was more than a little frustrating that the thick neck collar held his head up, his face forward, and left no room for movement of any kind. It magnified what the coyote was doing, and the hyena could only imagine those deft delicate fingers roving over his feet. By the noises Wilkes was making, little huffs and murrs and coos, it seemed like he was worshipping the damn things.

But it did feel very good, exceedingly good, because Malcolm had never let anyone pay attention to his feet before. The lengths to which he had gone to cover them up, shopping for gigantic shoes and socks which were ultimately never comfortable, had only served to depress him further. So many small decisions had led up to this moment, so many wrong turns he could have taken, but didn't; it was better just to let it go and enjoy the working-over his paws were receiving, and benefit from Wilkes' temporary submissive posturing.

The coyote gripped Malcolm's left foot with both of his paws, lifting it up slightly and running the cold, wet pad of his nose along the tufts of lengthy fur that inhabited the space between the four large toes. After having bathed liberally in the firehose, the hyena's footpaw held almost no smell, just the clean neutral scent of freshly-dried goldenrod fur. The tufts grazed along his narrow black nose, sometimes reaching inside a nostril and forcing a soft snort out of Wilkes. This only encouraged him to get even closer.

"God must have been smilin' down on you when you were born, boy," the coyote said, blowing hot breath and making Malcolm try to squirm away at the sensation, fighting back a giggle. "I would kill for feet like this." Again, the hyena blushed hard, but now he was actually smiling at the compliments. It gave him a new sense of power to find out that he had made such a big deal of his feet to himself that he just couldn't see that no one else cared, or even noticed. The timing, at this point in his life, was a bit late, but the liberation was coming in such an odd way as to be perfect in the hyena's opinion. He wriggled his toes, and Wilkes moaned, "Ohhh..."

Those fingers went over and over the end of his footpaw, claws circling each pad and leaving miniscule indentations where they pressed. Malcolm could feel every touch, as sensitive as he was, but the movement was slow enough so that the only thing that jerked was his sheathed member, already rousing itself from sleep once again. Each toe was cracked, the sound reverberating off the smooth walls of the grey room, followed by Wilkes rolling the bones around to ease whatever pain the cracking joints may have caused. The coyote wasn't just turned on by his foot, he was worshipping it.

Neither canine spoke (Malcolm couldn't have if he had tried) for a space of minutes after that, both of them too busy entertaining their senses to utter more than slight gasps and moans. Wilkes eventually worked up to a frantic pace, nipping at Malcolm's pads, dewclaws, and finally lashing out his tongue to the black flesh. The hyena yipped at the rough, warm wetness dragging over the concave bowl of his arches, trying in vain to tear away from the contact each time that pink tongue slipped and groomed a random square inch of fur on the side of a footpad. But the trooper didn't stop there, getting into every nook and cranny of his feet, between his toes, even going so far as to unsheathe each toeclaw and groom the cuticles with loving precision using his fangs. All the while he never stopped humming in low register, through the slurping and licking and kissing.

Malcolm was so caught up, and now used to, the touches that it was all but unnoticeable when the coyote pulled away, breathing shallowly as if he'd just ended an all-night fuck session. The hyena heard him walk around to his right side, then felt arms enveloping his chest. The hug was a tight and silent one; Wilkes abruptly pulled back and gave a few platonic pats to Malcolm's back as if to say there's nothing gay about this...the pat on the back says so.

"Thanks much for indulging me," said the coyote, now stepping in front of the hyena's propped-open muzzle so he had a clear view of all seven inches of pink cock that jutted, knot and all, stiffly from his crotch. The officer hadn't been kidding when he'd talked about a foot fetish; it looked like he was either ready to come or had just finished. But, since the erection showed no sign of emission or flagging, he guessed it was the former. "We both have our little secrets we want kept on the down-low, but I think it worked out very well, don't you? Like pieces of a puzzle."

Malcolm nodded as much as he could.

"I could tongue bathe those things all day, " Wilkes admitted with no shame whatsoever, feathering his claws over the flat expanse of the hyena's right footpad. Somehow, through all the attention the coyote had given him, the ticklish feeling was as strong as ever, but he couldn't jerk away due to the restraints. He just curled his toes and let forth a high-pitched giggle.

Oh, no...

After a second or two of expectation, again he was tickled, now on the opposite foot, and again there was the same result: a feral series of barks, uncontrollable because of the device in his mouth, and made even worse because of it. He sounded like he belonged next to a zebra carcass in the wilds of Nigeria.

"What do we have here, huh?" jibed the coyote about his new discovery. "The big ol' buff carnivore is just a ticklish puppy in disguise." Malcolm wanted to tell him off, say something smart to get him to retreat...even beg him if need be, but his jaws were currently clamped open, and his tongue lay flat and dry against the floor of his mouth.

A paw jabbed at the base of his ribs, and the hyena's voice exploded: "Haw! HAW!! GeeeyaaaHAAAW!!!" Since there was no way to touch his lips together and curtail some of the humiliating sounds coming from his larynx, it was all raw, elongated and loud. The grin of a true opportunist on his muzzle, the coyote slithered out of view once again, and Malcolm began pleading, trying to form the word "no" and ultimately failing, opting instead to just plain scream.

"Fortune has it," shouted Wilkes above the din of the hyena's voice, "that another one of my fetishes is tickling. And it seems that you--" a grab at his inner thigh "--don't like--" more fingers, like a centipede, in his armpits "--to be tickled!" And with that, the coyote did the one thing Malcolm knew would send him over the edge: he had his paws everywhere at once. His feet, the backs of his knees, his crotch, sides and armpits were all attacked with fierce quick motions that left the places they touched almost as soon as they made contact.

The hyena's naked body, stretched out with no fat to protect from the assault, was powerless to stop it. His already-defined musculature now bulged and strained against the collars; his toes curled and stretched as if during orgasm. The fact that Malcolm could see none of what was happening to him made it pure torture, and his eyes bulged even though the only things he could see were the grey wall and shelf in front of him, and Dieter's prancing body as he matched the hyena bark for scream.

And that's what was coming from his throat now: all the hyena-laughing had been forced from him, and now it was just a long monotonic, half-falsetto. He blinked once and multiple tears dripped down into his whiskers. How did it get from licking my feet to this? he wondered, frankly amazed at the trooper's sudden perverted sadism. Can't he see how much I don't like it?

Apparently Wilkes could not, judging by the way he was laughing as he continued his digital assault on Malcolm's body. If it weren't for the miraculous failure of the coyote's equipment, there was no telling how much longer it would have been until he passed out. But, for whatever reason, the collar supporting his upper chest snapped like a gunshot, the Velcro ripped right through the middle under Malcolm's twitching, swelling pectorals. Suddenly his back arced downward, and there was a sharp electric jolt that traveled the length of his right side. And, just as suddenly, Wilkes' paws were gone.

"Shit," the coyote muttered, trying not to be exclamatory. He was over to the corner in a flash, and Malcolm found his whiskers brushing the floor's warm surface as he was lowered, sputtering and sobbing, to a fetal position. Wilkes was kneeling beside him a moment later, rolling him onto his back and rubbing his thumbs over his wet, tear-streaked face. The hyena's cries had stopped before he'd hit the ground, but the aftereffects of the overstimulation looked a lot worse then he felt.

"You okay, boy?" asked the smaller canid, giving a furtive glance up and down his body. Malcolm nodded; now he was okay, now that he wasn't being tickled to death. Wilkes' detached tone of voice indicated he was well aware of the hyena's ability to bounce back from embarrassment quickly. He'd be damned if he was going to show weakness to the coyote now, after he'd witnessed how much of a slave to footpaws he'd shown himself to be. It occurred to him that he could reach up and wring the trooper's neck now that he was free to move about, but since Wilkes didn't seem overly concerned with that threat he didn't see a need to act on it.

"Sorry I carried that kinda far. Sometimes I get so caught up in what I'm doing that I get selfish." The coyote ran the flat of his paw over Malcolm's newly-exposed chest, grooming what had been swept out of place. "What's the point of all this talk about trust if I can't even follow my own rules, right?" He was looking right into the hyena's eyes now, waiting for a response. They had reached a deciding point, he realized: the coyote had breached his trust, and it was up to Malcolm to decide how to end their little encounter. Well, far be it from him to be a prude and cut it off just because of a little tickling, the memory of which was already fading. There were better things to do with his life than hold a grudge. He pointed to the coyote's wrist.

"What? You wanna know what time it is?"

A nod.

Wilkes stood and went over to his uniform, where he rummaged through his pants pockets before finding his watch. "Jesus Christ, it's almost eight," he exclaimed. "My buddies'll be wondering where I got to...and you need to get yer ass back on the road. Well, I wasn't a complete waste of time," he said, and returned to Malcolm's prone form amidst all the black ropes. When his paws went to the back of the muzzle device, the hyena shook his head vigorously and hummed, "uh-uh."

"What do you mean, 'uh-uh?'"

Making the international sign for "okay" with his right paw, Malcolm gripped his sheath with the left and stroked it in Wilkes direction. There was no misinterpreting that message. It occurred to him that he could have gotten off without continuing this, but that wouldn't make him a very honorable person in any light.

The coyote smiled and patted the larger canine between the ears, an almost paternal pride on his face. "Never shoulda doubted you, boy. Color me retarded." Malcolm just pshawed him back. "Mind if my partner joins us?" he asked, referring to Dieter. He shook his head, but what he really wanted to say was as long as I get off, I don't care.

"Dieter, kommen." Wilkes whistled once, high, and the big white dog trotted over obediently and sat down next to them both. Then, with not so much as a preamble, the coyote laid a paw fully over Malcolm's sheath and started stroking slowly, digging the tips of his fingers into the short fur covering his penis. "I think you've earned this." Malcolm nodded, oddly relaxed and suddenly very, very horny. There was no more attention on bondage, no more struggle for authority or control...just guys getting down to business like guys are wont to do.

This time, with no ability to close his muzzle Malcolm could hardly prevent the airy moan from escaping him in all its husky glory. It was unavoidable and unforced, and Wilkes picked up on that immediately in his ministrations. Now it was easy to see the skin of his sheath, bunched up in the coyote's grip, stretching and giving way to the hardening mass underneath it.

"Oooh, black...I like that a lot," Wilkes murred, and it was a good few seconds before Malcolm figured out to what the coyote was referring. He cast a glance downward, and sure enough, there was the first half of his length, out in the open and growing with each stroke. Man, it felt so good after all the emotions he'd been put through this afternoon! The hyena spread his legs a little wider, coaxing his knot closer to exposure, and a fresh surge of blood to the black member made Wilkes "Aaahhh" in appreciation.

It was obvious the trooper was just as satisfied to be speeding things along as Malcolm was, if his cock-hungry eyes and shiny, saliva-coated fangs were any indication. The coyote paid as much attention to his cock as he had to his feet, it seemed: with every up-and-down movement of his paw he would alter his technique just a little, looking for what got the best reaction from the hyena. He also lowered his mouth ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, until he was just a tongue's-width away from the seeping tip. At this point Malcolm wasn't going to do anything to prevent the coyote from giving him pleasure, or getting his own pleasure, and he actually startled himself with a rumble of assent when those thin, beige-rimmed lips parted around his flesh.

Watching Malcolm the whole time, the coyote made a show of working down the eight inches of shaft, stopping only when the hyena's sheath wrinkled around his knot. It was clear his wasn't the largest cock he'd ever sucked, but that just meant he could do an extra-good job on a slightly smaller one. Wilkes took extra time in lowering the sheath by centimeters until it reached the apex of Malcolm's substantial knot, then slid the rest of the way to his closely-cropped pubic fur. With reluctance, the coyote pulled up and away, making sure to keep suction until the last possible moment.

"Dieter, es ist Zeit für Aufrichtung," Wilkes beckoned his K-9 partner over, and the dog stood to walk the few feet to his master's side, where he waited, legs spread. Dieter had definitely been trained in more than police work, but that had been evident the first time the shepherd had tried to mount him. Murmuring happy words of encouragement, rubbing the dog's face, neck and body into a frenzy, the coyote walked on his knees closer to Dieter's hindquarters. Wilkes made no pause before stroking his partner lightly and fast, apparently just how the dog liked it. Malcolm was propped up on his elbows now, watching the show with more than a passing interest. For some reason, seeing the feral dog masturbated, the near-smile on his muzzle, got a much stronger reaction from his groin than Wilkes alone. Not as strong as wrestling lesbians, but he was still hard.

"Guter Hund, mögen Sie das," said the coyote, and Dieter bent back to lick at the perked ears. It was only a matter of a minute before the shepherd was sporting a pretty decent six-incher between his legs, different from Malcolm's only in its size and color. That, and the already-copious spurts of pre shooting from him every time Wilkes pressed around his knot. "Okay, Malcolm, why don't you just lay your head down there on the floor and I can get him into position." Then the dog wasn't going to fuck him...but now he knew the reason for the device strapped onto his face; it was there so the shepherd could get a nice, thorough blowjob without anybody getting hurt.

Malcolm lay down as ordered, shifting about on the ropes so nothing was digging into his backside. As soon as he stopped moving a wall of white fur appeared over him, the only detail visible therein being the glistening hard shaft of veined red skin. Looking at it like that, knowing it would soon be buried in his muzzle as far as the mask would allow, actually made his tongue ache for the moisture. It was as if his mouth had remembered just how dry it was, probably left open for a good twenty minutes or more. He couldn't even swallow without straining the stretched muscles.

"Keep still and let me set things up, okay? Dieter'll stand still 'cuz he knows what I'm doing. As long as you make him happy he won't fuss. Not too hard, really, just do what he does to you." What was that supposed to mean? Wilkes' vagueness was beginning to bother the hyena, and he couldn't even ask a simple question. Oh well, his loss.

Even now, set free of the suspension restraints, Malcolm's field of view was severely limited to white fur and cock. Dieter shifted in place above him, but not enough to tell anything; there was only heavy expectant panting and the jingle-jangle of the dog's collar tags. The hyena saw one of Wilkes' paws take hold of the shepherd's member behind the knot, lift the dog's rear and angle it down, and he envied Dieter's flexibility. He'd never been able to bring his cock down like that, even when tied to some random woman. The cock became a red circle with a hole in the middle, blurred because it was so damn close to Malcolm's eyes, and the coyote aimed it carefully through the front of the mask where his jaw was held open.

Dieter's back end lowered again, his claws finding purchase on the floor as the whole of his erection found a snug home in Malcolm's muzzle. The heat radiating from it sank into his upper and lower palates; a first drop of salty precum hit the back of his tongue and he shivered. Knowing only millimeters separated his mouth from another male canine's sex made the hyena all the more reluctant to take that first step. But Dieter was in all the way, the front ring the only thing blocking him from fucking down into his maw. He exhaled, and thought he saw the white dog shiver.

More movement and whispers from down his body made Malcolm perk his ears in a vain effort to hear better. The words were both too soft, and in German. His cock was grabbed, though, and stroked to full hardness in a matter of seconds, taking his mind off his occupied mouth. Dieter ruffed in excitement, and shortly thereafter the gently moving paw was replaced with something far more flexible...and wet...and unbelievably hot. It was slathering all over his crotch, nuzzling his balls this way and that, wiping the natural lubrication from his member, and grooming his sheath so thoroughly it felt as if the dog would rip it open. The pain was pure pleasure.

The shepherd's gusto was an abrupt surprise, and Malcolm couldn't stop himself from reacting, both vocally and physically. It was in the form of a combination moan/cry, and his own tongue had curled up and around the tip of Dieter's cock before he knew it. The taste of the dog's arousal was heady and natural, salty but not rank. Considering what it could have been, the hyena was very glad Wilkes kept his partner and pet exceptionally clean. Some of Malcolm's past girlfriends had smelled and tasted worse than this.

"Alright, boy, you want that cock? You want it?" singsonged the coyote, making it seem as if Malcolm was part of some show. Dieter must have wanted it badly, because Wilkes took hold of it and kept it still so the dog could get his muzzle around the tapered tip. No teeth, no rough canine treatment...just intense heat and nothing else.

"Ohhh, Gaaaw..." uttered Malcolm around his treat, and rewarded Dieter's wonderful muzzle with more emphatic swipes of his tongue around the glans, catching the increasing amount of fluid and swallowing without losing a beat. The white shepherd bore down, obviously trying to get as much of himself in the hyena's throat as possible, and only then did it first occur to Malcolm that he now had his paws free to manipulate the dog's position.

He grabbed hold of one furry thigh and encouraged Dieter to shuffle to the right a few inches, where his cock could now point straight down, and the tip of it tickled his uvula. His other paw groped around blindly over his forehead until his fingers rested upon the pliable flesh that was a scrotum. The weirdness of that act was not lost on him, but, like Wilkes had done earlier, he was just reciprocating the professional job the dog was doing on him as well.

Malcolm was used to pawing off twice a day. He would pop out a quick load in the morning before breakfast, and then take his time at night to bring about the strongest climax possible. Today, his first cum had happened so quickly and with such intensity that the hyena had thought there was no way in hell he could get up for another round without at least an hour to rest up in between. But it had been no more than thirty minutes since that, and now he was already having a hard time not humping up into Dieter's expert tongue. It was a certainty that he would never look at feral dogs the same way again.

"Told you he was good," assured the coyote from behind Dieter's bobbing head. "Nicht sind Sie?" He ruffled the shepherd's head, making Malcolm's cock twist and turn between tongue and fangs. Dieter never lost contact with his ebony member, though, instead deciding it would be better to deepthroat the cock instead of keeping part of it in view. The dog's long tongue ran the length of it, making lazy circles over one side, then the other. Malcolm twitched, and felt Dieter speed up, no doubt greedily tasting his essence. It was implausibly hot. The hyena matched him stroke for stroke.

There were no words spoken, no issue of trust and no haggling for the right to do this or that when Wilkes started again to fondle Malcolm's right footpaw, which was extended at an angle to his body, clear of Dieter's busy muzzle. With the utmost care he undid the Velcro and pulled the collar away to expose the hyena's meaty ankle, the fur underneath now moist and slightly matted with sweat.

The coyote ran all ten claws down the leg from just below the knee to smooth out the grain and revive the normal fluffiness there. Wilkes' erection had not abated one bit thanks to its smaller size, almost at a perfect acute angle to his body with the exception of its slight upward curvature. He took the foot and raised it, burying his nose once again between the hyena's big cute toes and inhaled his earthy, masculine scent. It was like having a living, breathing teddy bear, as big as those paws were; Wilkes could grab one toe and his fist would not be closed. Those toes were moving now, curling and uncurling as Dieter sucked the buff canine into oblivion, and Malcolm seemed to be enjoying himself too, despite the unconditionality of his part.

As he worked Dieter's cock, trying desperately to find out if he was doing an adequate job of sucking (even now, as pleasure clouded his brain, he was analyzing himself), Malcolm watched the dog's chest fill and empty, the looser skin below his ribcage waggling slightly as he shifted feet. The trickle of salty fluid had built to an almost constant sluggish flow, which did wonders to ease his dry tongue and throat. If anything, it encouraged the hyena to redouble his efforts for the real thirst-quencher.

He hardly noticed, beyond the bliss that was Dieter's muzzle, his footpaw being stroked, the pads traced and kissed once again, the light blowing on the tufts between his toes. But he did notice when his foot seemed to be split in two by something long and hard and wet, followed by the most thankful groan of pent-up sexual energy he'd ever heard. He should have known that fucking his foot was going to be the coyote's objective, but it seemed so unconventional that it hadn't even crossed his mind. If Wilkes liked sending his cock through two toes, it was going to be interesting watching to see if it got him all the way to completion.

Dieter was grunting in the guttural, halting way dogs grunt when they are struggling down an uneven path to a very rewarding goal. If his tail hadn't been curled up in a gesture of dominance, it would have fwapped Malcolm's head into the world of migraines. His mouth, his cock and his foot were all trying to send messages to his brain, but the strongest one won out without much deliberation between the three. That shepherd was doing things to him, hitting all the right spots that no girl could manage to reach, that sent an unequivocal "orgasm imminent" warning through his system, which tightened up everything in preparation for an aftershock that promised to overshadow the original by a large margin. Just the disbelief that he would shortly be ejaculating into a dog's muzzle raised the bar considerably.

Above the blood rush in his ears, the hyena heard a certain coyote's heavy breathing in time with slow, measured thrusts into his foot. The four toes were split open into sections of two, and because of their size it wasn't uncomfortable having the relatively average pink tube sliding between them. Again the tufts of fur held an extra advantage, brushing the underside of Wilkes' member and adding hundreds of pleasurable little surfaces to the soft friction. The coyote had Malcolm's foot in both paws to hold it steady while he worked himself into a fever.

By this time Malcolm had gone so far that he had lost his voice...or, at least, his ability to use it. Eyes closed, it took most of his concentration to focus on the building pleasure in his loins. His balls, he knew, were practically inside his body by now; his pulsing cock was just waiting for a few more swipes by Dieter's tongue to let loose its second load of the day. It was give and take; Malcolm had nothing to hold onto with his paws except white fur, so he slammed the shepherd's cock into the roof of his mouth, jerking his head as best he could to utilize the ridges of his hard palate. It worked, even though he hadn't meant anything special by it. The dog grunted and wedged his member up against his throat, swallowing once as Malcolm finally gave in.

"Aaahh-hhuh!" came the short broken gasp, followed by multiple poundings of the back of the hyena's head on the floor. His lower body was tight, then tighter, and even tighter still as it was rid of seed into Dieter's ravenous muzzle. It was a good thing that mask had stayed on, or someone might have lost his cock at that moment. Malcolm couldn't be sure at all how much cum he pumped out, but it seemed pretty copious by the way the shepherd slurped at his urethra for quite some time even after he collapsed (as much as his already splayed body would allow).

Finally Dieter left his withering shaft alone and went back to panting happily now that he'd gotten his snack of the day. For a few moments Malcolm felt too tired to move even his tongue, and considered settling for pawing the canine off, but the guilt he felt was too great. Dieter's cock was already there, so why not? The hyena resumed his fellatio, trying to suckle like an eager child, for once not overanalyzing his actions but just wanting to make the shepherd feel as good as he had just felt. A little ball-massage couldn't hurt either.

"Oh yeah...fuckin' hot seein' you shoot into my dog, boy," uttered Wilkes through gritted teeth. Evidently, as his level of passion grew his civility faded away to reveal a more basic, good-ol'-boy mindset underneath. This is what the coyote lived for; this is what he had waited for all day, and once he had seen his chance this is what he had made happen with his gentle persuasiveness and constant aplomb. Now, as all that beautiful dirty-dark goldenrod fur, those manicured pawpads stroked the sides and bottom of his cock, even working their way into his sheath a little, all he wanted to do was let Malcolm know the appreciation his feet warranted. And that appreciation would come in the form of neat little white splatters all over his leg.

Dieter was next to let go, albeit with much less fanfare. Malcolm again had a paw cupping and squeezing those snowy balls, and he noticed his grip becoming lesser the more the shepherd's member jerked in his mouth. The hyena did know the dog was close by his impatient hind-leg dancing. His tongue worked overtime along the fiery hardness, its wild natural smell in his nostrils and taste buds. Dieter whimpered but stood still like a good pet, and without so much as a warning the first jet rocketed straight down his angled throat. Had he been inhaling at the time, Malcolm may have nosed him quite hard in a very sensitive place, but he was fortunate enough to take the first of the load with ease.

Dog cum may have been voluminous, but it was exceedingly thinner and easy to swallow. Since Dieter was more or less constrained by Malcolm's muzzle mask, all the feral canine had to do was stand still and let fly. The hyena continued to massage those productive testicles, ensuring they were properly drained.

Looking up from his preoccupation, but not slowing or stopping, Wilkes smiled when he saw Malcolm's throat muscles working dutifully on his partner. "Atta boy, Dieter," he said. "Give him a load he'll never forget. Bet you're happy now, aren't ya?" Dieter only smiled back as much as he could, his tongue (still a little white in places) wagging flaccidly and flinging strands of saliva over the floor. The coyote sped up and groaned, at the smoothness of Malcolm's now pre-lubed toes.

It came as a shock, and a rather regretful one at that, when Dieter decided to disentangle himself from the mask's constraints, even though when he lifted up he was unaware of shooting semen all over Malcolm's face and neck. The hyena snuffled and tried to shake the goo from his head, but it was futile. At least none of it went into his eyes or nose where it would sting like a bitch.

"Man, look at that dogcock shootin' all over the place...watch me do it now, Malcolm, I want you to see this." Wilkes was pumping as fast as ever, down on his knees using his hips as a fulcrum for deep penetration. The head of his cock was peeking out through two toes as a blurry pink mass. With that, he took Dieter by the collar and pulled him close. He had two fingers in a circle behind the dog's knot, aiming, and then he squeezed. Immediately, several hard shots of cum coated Malcolm's right footpaw, right where Wilkes was fucking him. With one paw he spread the warm substance over his cock and around the toes, then dropped to all fours and murrumbled in predatory lust. Home plate was in his sights, and he had just rounded third base. Nothing could stop him now.

As hot at it was seeing the trooper pistoning through Malcolm's foot, Dieter couldn't help but be a dog, losing interest and turning his attention to himself. He sat down to clean up his retreating member while the hyena quietly watched the coyote bringing himself to the edge. It did feel very good to know he was doing so much for Wilkes with just one foot, and once more he found himself smiling satisfiedly even though the sweaty, vocal coyote had his eyes screwed shut in concentration. The hyena decided to give his other foot something to do.

Wilkes had no idea there was a big, cuddly footpaw in front of his face until Malcolm skritched the top of his muzzle with two toes. "Ah, Malcolm, shit boy..." He couldn't take his steadying paws from the hyena's other foot, so instead he opted to practically ingest it, snarling and growling in frantic lust. The slight pain from those short fangs was outweighed by the effect of Wilkes having more foot than he could handle.

Gone was the easygoing but unyielding state trooper who had scared him so much at first, earned his trust as a man and a slave, and looking back on all that had happened to him in the last hour or so, it hadn't been all that bad. It wasn't a fond memory, but it wasn't a nightmare either...it was just something he would never forget. But just because the coyote got to fool around with him didn't mean he would let any male do that ever again. There were too many women to be that desperate.

Now the coyote was closer to a wild canine, his mind set completely on the task, and as he moaned and licked up and down the toes of one footpaw his thrusts became more ragged on the other. Teeth scraped over Malcolm's footpad but didn't dig in; Wilkes was satisfied to gnaw and taste. The hyena pushed harder and trapped the end of the coyote's muzzle within his curled toes. That bushy, beige tail swung in circles behind him, a counterbalance to his movements.

One final whimper and Wilkes spat Malcolm out just in time to grit his teeth and nuzzle under, shoving his head in their place. "Fuck, ahh...yesssss..." He hissed, and his body went still; the coyote's knot was wedged between Malcolm's toes and the hyena squeezed, aiding the orgasm. He looked down the length of his right leg as it was covered in long, thick ropes of white cream. For all the effort Wilkes had made to get to this point, his climax seemed way too short. But as he finally relaxed and used the hyena's appendage to milk the last droplets out, he seemed very satisfied. In fact, when he pulled away there wasn't enough strength in his legs to stand. The coyote toppled backwards onto his tail, and laughed.

"Not so intimidating now, am I?" Malcolm shook his head, still trying to keep Dieter's cum out of his eyes. "Here, lemme get that thing off you," offered the coyote, who unstrapped him.

After taking a minute to re-wet his mouth, the hyena was a bit stunned to hear his own voice again. "Now you just look silly. What time is it?"

Wilkes managed to stand and wobbled to his uniform again, taking out the timepiece. A look of disdain shadowed his rugged features. "Sheeyit."

* * *

Seattle was cold, cloudy and boring. As the Porsche sped along Interstate 405 to its final destination, with only two hours to go until it was expected to be on hand, the hyena who piloted it kept one paw on the radio, listening for anything that might catch his interest...anything was better than NPR. Malcolm kept an eye open for his turnoff, seeing what had to be the millionth Starbucks since entering the city's limits.

It had been tricky getting the GT through four states in two days, but Officer Wilkes, in all his rogue-cop glory, had given him the stretches of I-90 that were routinely and heavily patrolled by troopers. That, coupled with his very good, very expensive radar detector, gave him enough of an excuse to keep the speedometer at or beyond one hundred for the entire trip to Washington. Every one of the coyote's caveats rang true; most of the time, as soon as Malcolm slowed down to a respectable speed, sure enough, there would be an idling Crown Victoria or Impala or Liberty, just waiting to pounce. It was fun laughing at the other speed-demons on the side of the road, fuming at their own stupidity.

The hour Malcolm thought he had spent with Wilkes had turned out to be closer to three, and there was precious little time to revel in the afterglow. Cleaning up was relatively easy, and the coyote had even given him his civvies to wear so he wouldn't have to suffer wet clothes on perforated leather. "Don't worry about all this junk, I'll come and fix everything back up after my shift," Wilkes had said before rushing them all, with sirens and lights aplenty, back to the Porsche. There had been a key after all, hidden inside Dieter's collar, and the hyena had to admit he never would have found it.

Goodbyes had been short and sweet; the coyote returning to his curt roadside manner while thanking the hyena for being such a wonderful distraction on an otherwise boring shift. Malcolm could only blush again and thank Wilkes in return, for letting him off with a warning. He couldn't quite bring himself to mention the two cums he'd helped with, just out of straight pride, he guessed. But when the trooper had pulled him in for a tight bear hug, he had placed a small kiss on the side of the coyote's muzzle. It was only meant to humor him, but Malcolm could tell the gesture was appreciated.

After having given a few enthusiastic pats on the head to Dieter, Malcolm had just stepped in the Porsche and driven away, not entirely believing it was over...that whole, "interesting" experience. But Wilkes had not followed him, and he passed into Wyoming without incident. Even getting two nights' full rest hadn't put a dent in his schedule, not with his official speedtrap cheat sheet.

The overwhelmingly dull atmosphere was beginning to get to him, though, not to mention being very near the end of a long cross-country junket. The sign for Lakemont Boulevard passed above him, and Malcolm made quick work of crossing three lanes to the exit ramp. Lakemont took him two miles north, where he hung a left onto 171st Terrace and trundled up a shaded hill into a secluded upscale community. The homes here were large, large enough to have private driveways.

Mailboxes whizzed past as he looked for the correct one, and as soon as he neared the number he slowed to a crawl. After seeing so many brick boxes, it was odd to see one made of cinderblocks and stainless steel. But the numbers 1-8-7-0 were hard to miss, and the hyena steered up to the entrance gate. A metallic, disinterested voice uttered, "Yes?" from the speaker as he pressed the TALK button below it.

"My name is Malcolm...I have a delivery for Mister..." He double-checked the slip of paper on the passenger's seat. "Callendar. A Porsche?"

"Of course, the automobile. Very good, we've been hoping you would arrive early. Bring the vehicle round to the front door and someone will meet you shortly." With that, the gate opened and Malcolm drove through. Two hundred yards of macadam later, he was parking the Porsche between the double front doors and a fountain. Exiting the car, the crunch of leaves under his feet, he heard the door open.

"Ho!" greeted the Greyhound before he closed the distance between them with lithe ease. "You must be Malcolm." The hyena took the proffered paw and shook solidly.

"Yes, sir. I have a car for you. It's a little dirty, but I figured delivering it on time was more important than washing it."

"She's beautiful, isn't she? Bet she's a thrill to drive. I'll have her washed in time for the party, so don't worry about it. Did you have a decent trip over?" The other canine's paw was over his shoulder. "You must be sick of sitting down in bucket seats."

Malcolm chuckled knowingly. "It wasn't that bad, actually, but I am looking forward to a rest."

"I'm sure you are." The Greyhound, who couldn't be a day over thirty years old, was dressed in a very expensive-looking suit and had a genial quality about him that bordered on infectious. "By the way, the name's Hiram Callendar. I commissioned this little road trip."

"Pleased to meet you."

"Here," said Hiram, guiding the hyena up the walk. "Let's step into my office and talk shop." He led Malcolm through a decadently-designed foyer and around two corners to his office. The thing was bigger than the hyena's living room at home, and well-stocked with books, artwork and the standard assortment of supplies. "Please, sit. This won't take long."

Malcolm sat and waited patiently for Hiram to put things together, attempting to get a good look at the office without seeming like he was staring. The Greyhound seemed to work tirelessly, signing a few papers, clicking like mad at his PC, and utilizing his desk appliances with professional speed. After setting a pile of papers to one side, Hiram reached over to open the top drawer to his left. His paw disappeared, then came back up holding three small manila envelopes. Each was slightly bigger than a business check, and had a different thickness.

"This one is for the car," said the thin canine. Malcolm took it, opened it and counted the money while Hiram waited. It was all there, to the penny. "This," he repeated, "is for your boss, the good Mr. Fairchild." The fee for Fairchild's company was a ten percent premium over the price of the car's black-market value. This, as well, was correct. "And, of course," Hiram was smiling as he handed over the third envelope, "this one is for your trouble, and your help with this transaction." The transporter's fee was usually a ten percent addition over the dealer's fee, about one percent of the car's value, but when the hyena counted the money he stopped...counted twice...and handed the envelope back.

"I'm sorry, but there's double what you should be paying in here." There was nine thousand dollars there, more than twice what he'd been expecting. He had forgotten all about the bonus pay.

"I know. I made a difficult request, and for all the stress it caused you I thought you deserved more than your usual fee. I trust you won't tell this to Fairchild?"

"But it really wasn't a problem, sir."

Hiram leaned in close, smiling. "Are you honestly going to tell me you are refusing good money from a good man and expect me to respect you? Come now, don't be belligerent. I only want to pay you what I think you're worth."

Malcolm's chuckle was incredulous but not disrespectful. "Man, you are one cool dude," he said, standing up to shake the Greyhound's paw with gusto.

"That's what they say, I suppose."

"I feel like I need to repay you."

"Well," thought Hiram, scratching his chin in thought, "I was so hoping you would be free to take part in the festivities tonight."

The hyena's muzzle was open for just a moment. "Oh, no, no, you wouldn't want me to hang in for that. I'd just be in the way."

"Nonsense," said Hiram, dismissing the comment with a wave of both arms. "When people ogle over that vehicle, naturally they are going to ask how I procured such a thing. With you there I won't have near as much explaining to do. What do you say to making my life a little easier, huh?"

"Uh...sure, I'd love to. How can I say no to that?"

"Great!" exclaimed the Greyhound as if he had known the answer all along. "I'm sure you can tell Veronica all about the features on that Porsche."

Malcolm was silent.

"Veronica, my girlfriend, hopefully fiancée? She's wild about fast automobiles."

Malcolm put his hands on his hips and said, "Sounds like my type of girl."

"No way, man, she's taken." That infectious geniality had Malcolm in its grasp already. He was heartened to find an affluent person so down-to-earth. "I assume you'll be staying the night?" he asked, then, "there's a guest room upstairs if you want to gather your things and head up. The party starts in...just more than an hour now. Take a long shower, relax, then just get dressed and come down to the foyer. I'll be expecting you in full suit-and-tie regalia."

"But I don't have a suit," said Malcolm obviously as he walked next to the Greyhound back to the foyer, the envelopes making quite a bulge in his pocket.

Hiram had an answer for everything. "There's a rack of tuxedoes in the closet. I'm sure you can find one that fits. Now go before you have to hurry. You wouldn't want to disappoint any of the ladies coming here tonight, huh? Some of them are available, you know," he winked.

Malcolm retrieved his meager possessions from the trunk of the Porsche and ascended to the second floor and the guest room. The accommodations were nothing short of spectacular, and the hyena thoroughly enjoyed a lazy thirty-minute shower during which he almost fell asleep twice. The water seemed to get him cleaner than either hotel bathroom had done the previous two nights. After drying off, he opened up the closet doors to find multiple tuxedoes lined up, pressed and ready to wear. Below them were pairs of dress socks and shiny black shoes.

Picking out clothes in his size was no problem, but getting them on took the rest of Malcolm's time. He finally fumbled the bowtie into place, and checked himself out in the mirror. The tux did little to hide his sizeable frame, and he found himself wondering if it was just going to get ripped off in a fit of passion later tonight. He didn't get many chances to hobnob with the snobs of the world, but if there were ladies as Hiram inferred, a little posturing couldn't hurt.

The sounds coming from the foyer increased, reminding Malcolm he was expected downstairs at any time. His plane back home didn't leave until late tomorrow afternoon, so Fairchild wouldn't throw a fit. In fact, he was saving money by not staying at a hotel. And there was the prospect of a little play on top of it all. To say the least, this delivery hadn't gone as he'd expected, but they had turned out just fine. A little richer, a little more confident, and a little smarter for it all.

Turning swiftly on the balls of his feet, the hyena strutted out of the room to join the party, leaving every shoe and sock in the closet untouched. He wouldn't need them.

FIN

9/12-10/18/05