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The buzzer rang. The ball crashed into the rim, hovering for a moment as if gravity had taken a holiday, lingering...lingering...and then down it went, hitting the floor with a sickening slap of rubber against parquet floor.

No basket, no points, no win. The Hudsonville Malamutes were going home yet again this season. It was like Casey at the bat if the titular king of the strikeouts was the only batter on the entire team and never once got that hit the Mudville folk needed to win the game and whatever glory came with it. 103-80, victory so far away you could only smell it when the opposition left their windows open for a second. But that's all any of those players got to do. There'd only be humble pie on the table tonight.

There would be cries from all sides. The coaching staff would get blamed, people would ask if maybe Pat Sumerstead was getting too old to keep a younger, wilder bunch of players under control or if his old school strategizing didn't work in the modern high-speed game. Others would point at the showboating from wonder-gryphon Rich Cardiff and wonder if he hadn't cost the squad a few chances while he juked and jived around the defense, eating up the attention from the fans in the stands along with precious seconds off the clock. Was it young Rico "Suave" Domingo, the coyote whose three pointers were things of beauty when he wasn't getting picked off at the mid-court line? Or should people take their anger out on Li Zhao, the imported crane from the Far East that management had taken an expensive gamble on, only to find out that he spoke near to no English and wasn't used to playing ball against people two feet shorter than him? Was it Leroi LaCroix's bad ankles that took him out? The fox hadn't been on his feet more than half a game this season and the scuttlebutt in the trades was he'd be going home to stay when the season ended.

No matter who you pointed at or if you pointed at everyone, the fact of the situation was that Hudsonville were already in the bottom of the league. Everyone and their brothers had given up on the 'Moots climbing out of the basement before the break, and even then only the most daring predictions put them anywhere near the five hundred mark. No, the 'Moots were slated to go down swinging at shadows yet again, far enough from the playoffs that they'd be more likely to win the hockey cup than the basketball one.

Sumerstead sat in his office, staring at papers. Nothing synced up. Everything was in disarray but for all his experience and knowledge of the game of hoops, the old cat couldn't put the numbers together. These boys were talented, some of them fantastically so. It worried him more than a little bit every time someone like Cardiff had a magnificent game that still came up short--how long before "wonder gryphon" would take his shooting game to another city and leave Hudsonville struggling to find a replacement in the has-beens and wanna-bes that were left behind? Not even the college kids wanted to end up with Hudsonville. It was a badge of shame to get stuck with the Champions of Choke that no money or prestige could wipe out.

And that was the real growing problem. Attendance was down, way down. Showboats like Cardiff or Domingo could get a flashbulbs serenade turned their way with almost every shot, but it wasn't the diehard fans of the game working their cameras, it was the women who came to watch the self-proclaimed 'studs of the court' show off. Sumerstead rubbed his forehead. There'd hadn't been a game this season where one of his players wasn't badgered by the officials for stopping to pose for some pretty young thing in the front row, and it was getting wilder every week. What coach had to tell his star forward to wear a jock even if that meant he couldn't wave his 'other scoring machine' at the stands? That gryphon was going to be the death of him one night. He was just sure of it.

The cat's ear flicked and his hands clenched, almost tearing the stat sheet he was flipping over, a little thankful that the league still put things on paper for another year instead of those expensive tablet thingers. That was a moan from the showers, and not the kind you got from feeling warm water hit sore muscles. No, that was the kind that you hear from a certain mouse, your hard-scrambling defense evader who has fewer points per game than he has inches off the ground. That's him having sex in the shower stalls again, probably with one of the cheerleaders who just doesn't know better yet. The players couldn't drop their hard-ons for the 'Mala-Beauts', the dozen perfectly sculpted dancing goddesses who filled in time around plays and made half-time more interesting than the game itself. The front office refused to skimp on presentation even if it meant cutting corners in the locker room until all that was left was a big circle with the words 'fuck you Sumerstead' in the middle.

And then, like one of Diego's terrible passes bouncing off his head, it hit him. Pat Sumerstead had what might be a solution to his team's complete and total inability to focus on the game.

He just needed to incentivize things a little bit. He needed to make a phone call...

It wasn't twenty minutes later everyone was gathered together for the last talk of the night before packing up and heading home--theirs or someone else's--to wallow in the sorrows of another loss, or maybe to pretend it hadn't happened and wait for those offers from somewhere like Brooklyn or San Diego to finally come around so they could play for a winning team before they retired. The cat could tell most of these men were hot to get out of the arena before too much longer, already showered, cleaned, and packed up. Only the ones he knew were in no hurry, like Breslin Jovanavich, the thick-as-a-brick-wall bear who never let a shot or a meal get by him, were still waiting around in their jocks and bullshitting with teammates. Well, most were in their jocks. Cardiff was strutting about as naked as ever, letting his dick bounce around in a way that made everyone distinctly uncomfortable and just a little bit self-conscious, Sumerstead included.

"So what's de word tonight, coach? You got da big secret plan to get us back on top?" LaCroix sat back in a folding chair, arms crossed. The fox hadn't even suited up tonight; that damn ankle of his was out again. Sumerstead knew he wasn't taking good care of it, not doing his exercises or wearing his brace. The Cajun didn't give a rat's ass one way or another--he'd been shooting for a decade now and had more than enough money saved to ride the pine until he was released and could retire. Hudsonville wouldn't be losing a thing when LaCroix and his zero points per game finally went on their merry way.

"Oh, it's just a little something I worked up tonight, Leroi. I think you'll enjoy it."

"Not as much as de dinner I miss to hear dis."

Sumerstead just smiled, which on a feline usually means they're plotting something just the slightest bit evil.

"Boys," he said, putting on his best Knute Rockne, clipboard clutched to his chest. "You're all talented players. But you suck on the court. You've got no teamwork and half of you just want to show off while the other half just wants to go home. You come to lose and that's exactly what happens."

Jovanavich snorted. "This is motivation?"

"Hear me out. I'm here to offer you something I think might improve your focus. Something I think you'll get behind, some of you harder than others." Pat popped his whistle into his mouth, every player cringing as the shrill squeal echoed off the tiles.

Out of the showers walked a woman. Not just any woman, but the kind of drop-dead gorgeous female physiques who can suck the intellect right out of a male's skull. The rabbit was tall, lush, bouncing with every step she took, body stuffed into a pair of shorts and a tube top so tiny the logo was stretched beyond recognition and certainly not something you'd wear to church. Maybe she was fake, maybe it was all natural, but it wasn't really anyone's concern.

"This is Taffy. She's our grand prize." As if on cue, 'Taffy' pulled a lollipop from her cleavage, sliding the bright red candy ball between her lips. Sumerstead grinned smugly to himself. It was obvious as anything that this was going over...pretty well.

Sumerstead tapped his clipboard as he spoke, all business, even while the majority of his team stared in awe at the buxom doe's lip-service to that lucky sucker. He'd definitely gotten their attentions and their libidos in the palm of his hand. "Miss Taffy here is one of a number of motivational specialists I've recruited to help the lot of you learn to actually play the game again.

"Now before you boys go and start getting all your jerk-off fantasies going and blow a load on the floor, there's going to be a few rules." There was a sharp snort from the back before a locker door slammed and someone started to walk away. "Have a seat, Rick. This is official team business, and you're part of the team even if you don't act like it. Or did you want to opt out?" The gryphon turned on his talons and faced his coach, but his face was made-up with apathy and a little disdain told Sumerstead that to either sell this idea like water in the desert or don't try at all.

"Thank you for giving me a chance. So here's how it's gonna work. Number one, we gotta win. You lose that game, you all lose the prize. We go home, we come back and we practice harder to try and win."

Jeff Gale, the mouse he'd overheard in the shower earlier, piped up as he sat there with a towel wrapped around his neck, straddling a bench. "If that's the case, none of us here are getting any of that." He winked at Taffy, rolling his hips forward, giving a little pelvic thrust. All he got in return was a giggle tucked underneath an eye roll so small you might have missed it if you weren't watching.

Pat ignored him and moved on. "Two. The player who contributes the most to the game, they get the prize. There're a dozen girls waiting back at their apartments to come in here and blow your goddamned mind through your head." There was a collective hush in the room, everyone engaged in what he was peddling except for LaCroix and Cardiff, neither of whom seemed sold, not yet, not now.

"We're here to please you," Taffy added, swallowing the last bits of her candy with a nearly theatrical flair before licking the residue off her lips. "If you want to bang us right here on the locker room floor, that's fine. Take the girl home and make slow, passionate love to her all night long, we can do that for you. And if you just want to whip it out and spunk on your girl's face, well, it's kind of a waste but why not?" The rabbit giggled lightly, bouncing on her toes, setting off more bounces, like one of those toy springs that had been set off down the stairs. "Or if you'd rather play checkers, that's up to you. Heck, sit and talk. You'll find us to be flexible to your needs."

Sumerstead cleared his throat. Taffy turned and blew him a little kiss before taking a seat on a folding chair, legs crossed daintily. "As I was saying. If more than one of you has a fantastic night, then more than one of you might get a girl. But I'm the one who decides if you've made the target. I might just say you don't deserve one. No one gets two 'prizes' in a row, no matter how good you are. Don't need you getting worn out.

"And last but not least, especially for a couple of you: after midnight tonight, no sex. Not even with your hand." The climate of the room changed suddenly, grumbles and agitated hands waving in the air, just incredulous that their coach would say such a thing. "I know for some of you guys, that's not a big deal. You couldn't get laid if a naked girl fell on your dick." At least one player shied back, turning his head, making Pat wince. He hadn't really intended to call anyone out like that. It was hard for him to believe that in a den of hormonally-driven studs like Cardiff, Jeff, or Breslin that anyone would be different. He'd have to apologize, maybe, after found out who that was.

"I know some of you are married or you've got girlfriends. If you're not comfortable bein' 'motivated', with or without sex, we'll work something else out. Just tell me." The grey feline leaned back against a pillar, arms crossed over his clipboard. "Hell, if you want to decline or give it away to someone else, go for it. No skin off my nose."

"How are you gonna know if I've been getting girls on the side, huh? Gonna follow me around?" Rick puffed himself up to full size, showing off his perfect chest and arms, his immaculate plumage, and the length of his cock as it bounced against his thigh like some sort of manliness barometer. Sumerstead rolled his eyes and wished that for once Cardiff would concentrate less on scoring with every piece of ass he saw and more on scoring points.

Taffy looked over at Rick, maintaining a face of disinterest. She even made eye contact the whole time, deflating the big bird a little bit. "We're professionals, honey-feathers. We'll know. Now sit down and let the kitty-cat talk, okay?"

Pat had to try really hard not to break out laughing. No one shot down Rick Cardiff, not to his face and especially not once he'd shown them the other reason they called him "Wondergryphon". But there it was--an escort who was being paid to enjoy what he was waving at her had treated him just like another customer. Time to finish up the presentation and get on his way home, though; he'd have time to laugh later.

"Try and keep this private, guys. The girls won't be tattling on you, so don't be talking this up to the press. It's not strictly legit, but when you're the losingest team in the league, what else can they say about you? Rest of you, get cleaned up and out of here. You hornballs better be ready in the morning--Coach Wensdale is gonna drag your asses through teamwork drills until you puke unity and sweat cooperation, something you assholes need!"

With a slap of his clipboard against the metal pole, the group broke up, a few heading back to the shower while others dressed and headed off to where-ever they went after the game ended. They weren't a social bunch, no barbecues or nights carousing at the local pub. Hopefully that would change with some work. Sumerstead laughed one more time as Rick went back to his blunt-force flirtations with Taffy; the rabbit couldn't look more disinterested in him, concentrating on putting on her coat and checking her text messages even as the gryphon dropped the smoothest lines he knew. Oh, that ego would be bruised in the morning, and the coaches would have to deal with a pouting point guard the whole damn time, preening his feathers and sulking.

Back in his office, he figured it was worth it. So worth it.

There was a rap at the door as Sumerstead was packing away the last of his papers, long after he assumed everyone else had gone home and he'd changed out of his suit. "Come on in."

Breslin's towering form blocked out the light from the hallway, the bear hunching a bit just to clear the frame. "Sorry I am here so late, Coach Sumerstead." Where Rick Cardiff was a large figure, tall and coated in muscle, Breslin Jovanavich was more of a wall with legs, almost a literal anchor at center. But he had mobility that most of his species couldn't match, something he had trained hard to maintain even as his peers turned up their noses at the very idea of an big brown bear, a Russian one nonetheless, going toe to toe with the league's speed demons. He wasn't from the "old country" himself; only his name and his accent gave him away. The man was damn good but the showboats on the team rarely gave him any opportunities to prove it--Breslin had less time with the ball than anyone when Rick and Jeff were active. Third in the league for blocked shots was enough for most, but Breslin wanted to be perfect.

"It's fine, Breslin. Have a seat, tell me what's on your mind."

The bear nodded and sat, a bit carefully in a chair for someone not quite his size. "Spasibo, Coach Sumerstead. It is about this contest you have engineered for making players play better."

Pat nodded, leaning back in his swivel chair. "It's a little unusual, I know. I sincerely hope it doesn't make you uncomfortable--"

Breslin laughed, so deep Sumerstead could swear the walls vibrated. "It is not that. I am alright with offer of sex as reward for playing the best. Is not the contest..." The bear fumbled for words, and for the briefest moment Coach Pat thought it was his English failing him.

"It's the prize." The bear nodded slightly, eyes nervous, looking down as the much smaller cat put a hand on the back of his. "Don't you worry, Jovanavich. It's taken care of. The, ah, company providing our 'prizes' has more than just pretty women to offer and they've promised the utmost in discretion. If you can keep it under wraps, so can we."

The "big red" grizzly looked confused. "How did you..."

Sumerstead gave a little shrug and a smile, almost fatherly. "I didn't. You're not the only one on the squad who's not interested in the ladies, Breslin." The cat's smile curled up in the corners, the smug smirk of a secret he had hidden away. "Or have you not seen Li trying not to stare at Rick's dick?"

They both shared a laugh, a loud one, and then parted for the night.

The team decided, without talking to each other, that if the 'competition' for the prize started tomorrow then tonight was a last hurrah, the final feast before the gates of purgatory opened wide and they were all devoured whole. Well, at least one of them decided that, seeing as his relationship with inserting his penis into as many groupies as possible was second only to his time on the court scoring in the traditional fashion. After Sumerstead's pep talk they all went their own ways, heading to where-ever called them that night.

Leroi LaCroix, the Cajun fox who had dominated the boards in his prime, drove himself home. The days of having a private limo and a driver were behind him, resting in the pages of history with his uncanny ability to swipe the ball out of anyone's hands like a great red ninja. He couldn't even run half the time now and no one feared getting picked off when he came their way. Hell, it was hurting his ankles just to drive. Sumerstead read him the riot act nearly every night, complaining up and down that if the fox didn't tend to those ankles he'd end up a cripple before he turned around.

What did Leroi care, though, he thought to himself as he pulled into his garage and sat in the dark for a moment. He'd saved his money wisely and ten years in the league was more than enough to make him happy. So what if the young fans had forgotten who he was? What if he just rode the pine all game and didn't even put on a uniform?

He clutched his cane in his fingers. It was an embarrassment to him, a sign of weakness and frailty, and he refused to carry it outside of his house. Leroi LaCroix can still walk, dammit. The papers are just making things up to sell copies...

Rico Domingo was sitting in a bar, nursing his third drink of the evening, a cheap-ish beer that he definitely hadn't paid for. He and Jeff Gale had hit Bar Street with a vengeance, the same thing they did almost every night the team lost a game. Suffice to say every pub and tavern on the ten mile run knew them and their drinking habits intimately.

The differences between Jeff and Rico were rather obvious. The "Suave" line hadn't been given to the desert coyote as a joke--a lot of his salary went to keeping himself completely and totally immaculate at all possible times, with perfectly styled hair and expensive suits by designers people couldn't pronounce. It caught him attention and he bathed in the adulation it drew from all sides, all species, and all genders. Maybe he had a touch of an ego, but he backed it up by not being a complete asshole like that damned gryphon who took every opportunity to try and one-up him. Rico liked being eye-candy, simple as that, and he figured it you're a damn handsome bit of canine why shouldn't you show off? It got him free drinks and a bit more.

Jeff was the exact opposite to his slick-puppy partner. Where Rico wouldn't be caught dead in public not dressed to the nines, the mouse wore whatever was handy. Tonight, that meant an old pair of baggy jeans and a t-shirt from a team he'd played with in his early days, faded and a little worn around the seams with a logo that didn't mean anything to anyone in this state. Where the coyote had long, lean looks and stood tall over the crowd of women who all wanted a few seconds of his attention, the mouse disappeared into the crowd and mingled with the masses. And yet Jeff wasn't lacking in attention either, and for every phone number Domingo scored, the mouse did too. Apparently the women could see you even if you were only scraping five feet all if you cranked up the charm far enough.

And these two knew exactly the right way to carry themselves to ensure the women came to them like a plague. A wonderful plague they'd never get enough of.

Breslin Jovanavich arrived home later than the majority of his teammates after stopping to discuss the situation with his coach. It had been harder for him to 'mesh' with the majority of the players on the Malamutes, and not because of something like not understanding English or being so stereotypically Russian he couldn't understand why the others didn't run in the snow or enjoy a big bowl of borscht. Breslin may have carried a bit of an accent, sure, and ursines like himself weren't a common site in Hudsonville, that much was certain, but he'd never be mistaken for the stereotypical commie type from a bad 80's movie. His upbringing was just...different, more conservative than most of his peers, and it showed in most everything he did on the court and off. He just couldn't party and 'cut loose' like the others could--it felt wrong when he knew they were still losing. What was there to celebrate about?

The apartment he called home was strictly utilitarian, somewhere to store things and to rest when the time called for it. He owned a television only after being pressured constantly by others; the only thing it was used for was to watch basketball games and highlight tapes. There was no cable service. The bear had never owned a computer, never surfed the Internet, and had no interest in video games. Outside of a handful of books and perhaps a dozen CDs, his life was the game.

And that produced endless frustration within Breslin as he watched the Malamutes fall apart no matter what the coaching staff had tried. How so many talented players come together to somehow become less than the sum of their parts was something Breslin had to think about often when he came home to the silent apartment, undressed alone, and entered the bathroom that was just big enough for him to use without injuring himself.

The bear paused and examined himself in the bathroom mirror. He had recently turned 30, the point where many of his peers had started worrying about getting old and breaking own before being pushed out by hungry youngsters. But he was still The Big Red Bear, big and strong with a chest that could double as a wall if you needed one. He turned and flexed an arm, posing in the mirror in a rare moment of self-adulation as he let the muscles shift and swell. Half of it was his genetic nature; the rest was hours spent training outside of practice ensured that the "Big Red Bear" was far from flabby and never found that he was developing the saggy gut too many bears found themselves carrying around.

The question suddenly popped up in his mind and would absolutely not go away as he started at his reflection. When was the last time he'd brought someone home for the night?

Rick Cardiff was not a bundle of philosophical questions or wondering what he'd do in the future. He wasn't worried about money or his health. Really, the one they called Wondergryphon only had two modes that anyone knew about--on the court and off the court. He wasn't stupid or anything, far from it. But what he was full of himself. If ever a creature had fallen into the trap of buying into his own hype, it was Rick. He was an amazing ball player and no one would ever deny that he was one of the best players in the league, a talent that was really wasted on a lousy team like the Malamutes. But why hadn't he been traded up, then? There had to be demand for his imposing figure and amazing agility on the parquet.

There wasn't. The truth was no one wanted Rick Cardiff on their team--not even Hudsonville. He'd ended up there out of desperation by the owners of his old team to get his poisonous influence out of their locker rooms. 'Wondergryphon' destroyed team morale, infuriated fans, and drew more personal fouls than points. Players around him fought with him and with each other as he drove them to distraction with his showboat playing style. He couldn't even talk to the media without throwing a punch or propositioning the anchors. So away he went to the oubliette, a team where they could just forget about him. Maybe he'd learn some humility, or maybe he'd just go away. It didn't matter.

It didn't matter to Rick either. Even if he knew that about the machinations against him he couldn't be arsed to care. For Rick Cardiff, it was just coming up on midnight and he was the center of attention in the nightclub his private driver had suggested for tonight. He was still allowed in, so he must not have had a fight here or been caught with his pants somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. That probably wouldn't last the night, of course. He'd even recognized some of the security staff from other establishments he'd been rudely removed from in a drunken haze.

The two girls who had stumbled over to him on the floor had the same goals he did, a pair of buxom young things that had hands all over him as they did their best bump-and-grind on the dance floor. It was crowded and hot without a lot of room to breathe. But the two deer who 'danced' with him made it more than just a little tolerable, their plush breasts pushed against both his front and his back as hips swayed to an electronic beat.

"You girls dance awesome!" he'd managed to shout over the crowd noise during a low point in the song, clutching one in each of his broad palms, stroking over skirts that he knew full well didn't have panties underneath. They'd been more than happy to make sure he knew about it to anyone who asked nicely, which was probably most of the club by now.

Most people would have been surprised, maybe embarrassed when they felt thin fingers worm their way into loose slacks and clutch at the second biggest cock in the entire game of basketball (the creature it was attached to was number one), stroking it through a open zipper. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the booze, but everything seemed to be going just the way Rick liked it--right into his pants.

The blonde giggled lightly and pressed her lips to Rick's beak, her brunette companion joining in as the song wound down. "That's not all we're awesome at, birdy..."

"You wanna head up to the VIP, ladies?"

Dinner at the LaCroix household had been as delightful as always. If there was one thing Leroi was willing to spend his money on it was food--a man could live in a modest house, drive a modest car, and wear modern clothes but he should never skimp on the food. Maybe it wasn't the excess he'd enjoyed in the past, when endorsement deals meant he could expect to see paychecks with enough zeroes to blind the common man. He was glad, all things considered, that Mother LaCroix had raised him to enjoy the simpler things in life, because that meant it wasn't nearly so hard to consider the future days when balling was over and the money wasn't so easy to get.

But there was that one other thing that Mother LaCroix had always said was necessary to keep a heart strong and a soul bright in those days that might try it just a little bit. That thing was love, pure plain and simple. It was one of the things that separated Leroi from his teammates; those young bucks liked to go out on the town and see what bodies they could scare up to spend the night with. They'd get older, wiser, maybe a little bitter, and maybe they'd learn that there was more to living than pussy. He had found his happiness in Renette, a bobcat from near where he'd grown up. She'd been his everything since they were crazy teenagers crawling out of windows in the middle of night to go make love on the levee knowing full well their parents would scream bloody murder in the morning. They'd gotten married, had a daughter, and ended up with a picture-perfect life. Even when he was damned near a cripple she had stayed with him.

And she was with him now, underneath his body, wrapped in the tangled sheets and moaning out his name with every stroke of his maleness into her. He would never say Renette was old. She his queen, the most beautiful creature he'd laid eyes upon, capable of rousing up his inner animal with just a smile and a tilt of her hips, letting that bobtail flick over a rump that he had taken more than a shining to. If it wasn't for little Christina in the house, they wouldn't have bothered with the bedroom--as it was they barely made it, a line of clothes on the floor leading up the stairs. The two had been at each other for some time, the scent of sex powerful in the air around them, committing the nightly ritual that had been a part of their lives since the very beginning.

"Fuck, reynard, you always go so deep..." She was vulgar when they mated, all foul language and gutter-slang, and he loved to hear it. Sharp teeth pressed against a nipple, tugging it to the sharp refrain of yowls, feline spine arching until it might break. "Gimme everything, my fox. Fill me up."

He full well intended to, as often as his body would allow. The virtue of sex with an athlete, he had once told a friend, is the stamina. Renette was no sportswoman, but Leroi was, with toned legs and powerful lungs that let him thrust into his wife long after most men would have given up and rolled over to sleep. Rarely a night passed where they only went at each other once; tonight, he'd already given his seed to her twice, and this third would give her a warm afterglow that encouraged the most delightful dreams.

One hand slipped along the back of his head, under the long red hair that was something of a trademark of the Cajun Fox, and pulled his long muzzle close to hers into a kiss with enough heat to melt the glue from the wallpaper. Tongues intertwined and fingers curled into hair, Renette holding onto the sheets with a balled fist as she rode the crest of orgasm to the mountain peak, feeling the most amazing male she'd ever been with pour himself into her, marking her as his forever and ever.

"I...will never get tired of you, reynard." She liked calling him that when they made love, or as Leroi liked to call it, expressed that love. You can't make what already exists, he'd tell his blushing lover, and she'd just giggle. Still sheepish after ten years together. That was amazing to him. She was amazing to him.

Renette rolled onto her side and looked right into his face as he lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. "Something's the matter. An' don't you tell me it's nothing. You got them eyes what tell stories about you."

He knew better than put up a fight. Not against Renette, not after all these years together where she'd learned to pop his mind open like a book and scan the pages at her leisure. He told her about Sumerstead's plan to coax the team into playing better and all that entailed. She listened carefully the whole while, palm resting on the fox's chest, watching his eyes as they grew oddly sad.

"An' you don't like it? Didja say so?"

Leroi shook his head. "Wouldn't do no good. Sides, what am I, eh? I don't even put on my uniform no more. Next week they have me in da bleachers sellin' popcorn. Be way more useful dat way."

Renette scowled, giving the fox a soft slap on the chest with her palm. "Why you givin' up, fox? You think you too old to go out an' show them kids how ta play da game?"

"I cain't walk up the stairs an' you want me to go run them courts? Crazy woman. I love ya but you crazy."

As soon as he'd said it Leroi knew he'd slipped his tongue. Renette looked at him for a moment in anger, eyes drifting into sadness before she rolled over and tucked herself into the tussled sheets. She didn't have to say a thing anymore than he would have. It's hard to love someone who gives up on themselves no matter how hard you want to.

Maybe the idea of getting some tail as a reward wasn't going to be what mattered. Maybe it was just the idea of being out there that he needed to focus on. He could show those fresh-faced punks how a real man worked the floor. Not a ball was gonna be safe, not after he got done.

The Cajun Fox could bring the game again if he had to do it in a wheelchair. He'd guarantee it.

On the other side of town, far from personal affairs of the heart and soul, Jeff and Rico had gone their separate ways, though neither had gone very far from the other--if they listened very hard, they might even be able to hear the sounds their drinking buddy made, but that would require shifting their focus away from their conquests, 'lands' to be conquered that had names like Belinda or Sydney.

Rico's plunder was a fellow coyote named Ginger. He was sure it wasn't a real name, any realer than the breasts she'd crammed into a sheer top that bounced with every step she took across the barroom floor. It wasn't often that the thinner canines hung around in Hudsonville, and rarer still that one wandered his way poured into a pair of jeans tight enough that he could watch her pulse race as she talked to him over drinks. He didn't track them specifically, just took sips now and again to keep up the impression that he was slowly getting drunk. It was with no small amount of surprise and joy that he realized Ginger was doing the same, tossing her short black hair back out of her eyes as she spoke on topics that were far more advanced than the usual nattering that he expected from a conversation in a bar with a curvaceous canine companion at a modest bar in downtown Hudsonville. It was rather like a dream.

Now though that was the furthest thing from his mind as he traded saliva with the slender canine, her top tossed onto the front seat of Rico's car and jeans pushed to her ankles. He thanked whomever it was that had suggested this particular SUV for its surprising leg room--even with a seven foot tall basketball player and his liaison in full carnal rapport it was far from cramped. He'd have to send a letter to the manufacturer later and thank them. Maybe even send them a few photos.

As the pair made out messily, tongues exploring dry mouths, Rico worked to free himself of his imported suit before it got anything on it that he'd have difficulty explaining to his dry cleaners. He'd been hard for a good long while now, since the conversation with Ginger had shifted towards taboo subjects and the woman's hands had started tracing lines along his inseam, so it took a little help from the lovely lady-friend to shuck his trousers and boxers.

Ginger leaned back and examined her handiwork. Rico posed like the stud he felt like, arms spread wide across the back of the seat and smug grin plastered across his muzzle. The buttons on his shirt had been cut away by manicured nails, and there the man sat, toned chest arched up in pride and erection arched up in anticipation, a little bead trickling down the underside along the veins.

"Don't see too many 'yotes around here, my great grey beast," Ginger murmured, chewing on the tip of a fingernail. "Especially not ones as pretty as you." He could smell the arousal on her as she straddled his legs, leaning in to kiss the crown of his cock. "I want you to know, I don't always have sex with strangers in cars."

Rico laughed and leaned forward, pressing the tip of his finger to the woman's lips. "Shh, bello. Time is short." Despite his name, Domingo was from Arizona and spoke perhaps a dozen words, most of them only being useful for flirting with pretty women. He couldn't find a library in Mexico if you paid him. It worked like a charm most every time, and it was working now, the lady coyote suckling his fingertip between his lips in a most unimaginably lewd gesture, closing her eyes with a long sigh.

"You're right. We don't have all night, do we?" She rose up, stretching her legs and moving to set her knees next to her companion on the seat, straddling him with the long pink of his prick resting between her thighs as she wiggled to get comfortable. Rico cupped his palms on the presented posterior, kneading the soft flesh and making Ginger squirm deliciously against him as she reached down and clutched his cock, aiming it upwards, towards a sopping pussy that made his nose flare and his heart race. "So let's make this count."

Rico had a pithy response, the kind of one-liner that heroes dropped in the movies before beating the bad guy. The words never came out. They were sucked away by the feeling of snug warmth around his cock, two dripping wet canines meeting at the groin and slowly sinking in. The coyote male was not a monster between the thighs, but Ginger moaned in sheer delight at the feeling of being speared and spread around his prick nonetheless, hilting him with a shuddering gasp of breath before letting the beautiful agony subside.

Up she rose again, barely giving Rico time to catch his breath or enjoy the grip of a snug snatch around his length. These were strong thighs, stronger than his, and the girl attached to them was using that strength to her advantage. Each motion found her dragging away from the coyote's member before letting gravity drag her back down with a slap while every one of her curves bounced from the force. The suspension in the car even creaked a bit; anyone outside at that moment likely had no question as to what was going on inside. Thankfully there wasn't anyone around; Rico had had the foresight to drive to a closed restaurant--he didn't need video of this getting posted somewhere salacious.

Ginger was merciless in her fucking, digging her hands into Rico's shoulders for support as her fat backside bounced to a beat inside her head, grinding against his pelvis every time she hilted him deep inside her. "Spank me, baby!" she cried out. Rico was more than happy to comply, slamming one of his broad palms into her ass, making the flesh sway and the coyote moan and shiver in sheer delight. Sharp teeth bit into the nape of her neck and claws dug in against the floorboards as the male fought to give back as much as he got, pounding Ginger furiously in time to her bounces before finally lifting her up with a chest-deep growl and pushing her to the seat.

"Oh fuck! Someone had their Wheaties today!" Ginger cackle-moaned, arching her spine up sharply as Rico pounded at her, machine gun strokes buying his dick deeply with every thrust, the kind of thing that would leave bruises and red handprints under the fur when the girl woke up in the morning. He wasn't about to let her get away, not now, not when he was so close...

Ginger locked eyes with him, his feral gaze and her own sex-glazed expression standing in sharp contrast to each other. "Gimme a taste," she moaned, her jaw hanging slack and tongue lolling out the corner. Rico couldn't even build up the self-control to nod as he lifted away, drawing his meat out of her pussy with the loud slurp of fluids and wrapping his fast around the throbbing muscle. Faster and faster he pumped, the sound of a desperately wanking male mingling with Ginger fingering her own sodden twat, whining for his load...

He gave it to her with the shout of a male victorious, spattering her tawny cheeks with jets of pure white seed, strong and warm. Ginger swallowed as many as she could get between her lips, lifting up on her elbows to clean away the mixed fluids shining on Rico's dick, feeling it grow software as his lusts ebbed and he slowly but surely came down to earth.

The coyotes smirked at each other the way only their species could, just a little bit of teeth showing between thin lips.

"So," she asked. "Can I get some tickets?"

Jeff, on the other hand, was not having the same level of luck as his taller friend. Oh, he'd found a wonderful damsel who didn't even need to tilt her head down to talk to him. Yes, she was a bit less of a curvaceous wonder as that coyote girl he'd seen Rico leave with, but the possum still had a wonderful femininity to her, and she seemed very eager to talk to him for quite a while.

That was until she passed out from her seventh Long Island Iced Tea before her friends had hauled her away to a waiting cab. After that, she had been far less interesting, leaving the mouse alone in a section of the bar that by and large was ignoring him. He checked his watch and sighed; there were hours left in the night, sure, but he couldn't waste them all trying to get laid, not with Wensdale brewing up trouble for the morning drills. He wanted that sweet prize and no one was going to stand between him and slipping inside a tight piece of professional ass right in front of everyone.

He coughed and shook his head for a second. No reason to get all excited here in the middle of the bar, right? The mouse flumped back against his eat, swishing the last of his beer in the mug. "I suppose this is payback for schtupping that ferret in the showers," he sighed to no one in particular, looking up at the ceiling as if it'd have some kind of answer to provide. When nothing was forthcoming, he pushed his chair back and stretched his stiff back. No point in hanging around when all the good lays were long taken and likely already done smoking their post-orgasm cigarettes. Time to head home, after a quick trip to the john to send all this used beer back to the sewer system it probably originated from.

The bathrooms at Stormy's were nothing to harp on. They weren't immaculate or absolutely perfectly sparkling with someone there to wipe your butt for you. Nor were they the festering shitholes you see in movies with graffiti up every corner and possibly waste piled around like a day care center that ran out of diapers. No, it was just a place to take care of natural business, where you went in, you pissed, and went back to drinking. It was a damn simple process, and Jeff knew how to do it pretty well even when he was a little buzzed on beer, even remembering to wash his hands like a good little boy did.

What wasn't part of the routine was the girl who walked in behind him as he was finishing up that particular business at the urinal. Another time or maybe with a little more booze making his vision and his judgment all fuzzy he might not have paid any attention to the skunk who sashayed behind him, slipping an arm over his shoulder and stroking thin fingers down his chest. She smelled amazing against the weak odor of beer and cleaning products, some sort of flowery perfume climbing up into his nostrils and making his head wobble just a bit more than the beer already had. The gentle pressure of a bustline and the sound of tail swaying slowly behind her only added to the mystique, and when soft fingers wrapped around his member and held it while he finished, Jeff's mind skipped a few beats.

"The fourth stall. Listen for the whistle. Wait patiently." The soft palm gave its catch a few shakes then tucked it carefully into the jeans. And then she was gone, headed out of the men's restroom before anyone took more notice than they should. Jeff didn't breathe for a moment, watching those metronome hips sway under the question-mark of a grand striped tail. Whoever she was, the sleek vinyl mini-dress did her more than a few favors and left positively nothing to the imagination.

Jeff had to shake the hell out of his mind. Girls like that didn't show up at bars. That was either a club girl or a professional, and not the kind Sumerstead had signed up. That had to be a hooker, just had to be. But this was Stormy's, and Stormy didn't let call girls past the door, not ones that obvious. This was a good neighborhood, too. Vice rolled Bar Street every night to make sure the pimps didn't ruin the place for the party-goers and such-like.

Then it hit Jeff like a hammer to the groin, and the mouse was sitting in the fourth stall like he'd been chased in there by the biggest, meanest cat in the business.

She hadn't asked for money first.

Seconds passed like minutes, waiting on that damned skunk to come back. People came, people went, people did their business and left. But no one stayed and definitely no one whistled. Jeff wasn't sure quite what he was in for, waiting there on a toilet like he was having the most terrible digestive issues in the history of the hangover. Was he being set up? Was this some of prank where he'd be caught on camera doing something terrible with some ugly thing from his nightmares?

The whistle cut through his analysis like a bullet from the blue, making him jump and bang his elbow against the pipes behind him. He nursed the sore spot for a second before a tapping sound drew his eyes towards a small ring in the stall wall, plugged up with something round. The plug popped free--a glory hole? In Stormy's? Would wonders never cease! Jeff shifted up to his feet, looking around for any signs of a hidden camera or someone spying on him before leaning down to look into the hole.

"New at this, honey?" There was a little giggle from the other side, an eye appearing for the briefest of moments to wink at the mouse. "Or are you just nervous? I won't bite, I promise. Just slide yourself on in, and let Little Miss Sunshine do all the work." The face disappeared, leaving nothing but the empty space around her in the stall and the unmistakable feeling of impatience.

This wasn't Jeff's first time in this particular situation, not at all--a horny young man will find his way to let go of that 'enthusiasm' just about any way he can. It'd been a very long time, though; it was the kind of thing a kid did, not a professional athlete who had girls dripping off him most nights. Then again, why turn down an inviting mouth?

"Getting cold feet? Don't you think I'm pretty?"

"Come on, Jeffy-boy. Stop thinking and get to work." In a hurried hustle more common to the fumbling, unsteady steps of a teenage virgin about to get his first sampling of pussy. The half-hardness he'd been tucking away in those frayed jeans flopped out, landing against the denim with a soft "paf" sound, and the mouse gave it a quick stroke and sighed happily, feeling that warmth in his hand, adrenaline kicking in to help off the beer haze. He gave himself a smug little grin, watching that dark pink meat surge in his grip. Nothing to write home about if you're one of the statues who run up and down the league courts all day long, but when you're talking about a five-foot-nothing squeaker, well, standards change. He'd sure never had any complaints, and the appreciative sigh from the other side of the stall wall certainly didn't diminish his ego any.

Whoever this lovely little "Sunshine" was, he had to appreciate her dedication to the task at hand, or mouth as the case might be. The soft surface of a tongue drew itself along the crown, coaxing blood up into the bulbous bit and urging it to rise higher. The strokes were light and fleeting, teasing things that made Jeff's hands ball into fists, pressing his groin up against the cold plastic-metal-whatever-it-was of the divider. Sunshine was the quintessential cocktease; each lap of her tongue or stroke of her softly furred fingers was followed with nothing but the chilled air of the restroom, making his hips shiver and eyes roll. Just when he was afraid she'd left him hanging there dripping on the tiles, she'd come back at him just a little harder than before, sharp teeth dragging themselves down the full length of his manhood, all sorts of pricking and prodding before the great divide opened up and swallowed him whole. The sensation of mouth was positively exquisite after minutes of torturous teasing, the moist warmth of Sunshine's maw damn near setting him off right then and there. Jeff steeled himself, thanking Wensdale for dragging his sorry ass into the weight room day after day--if not for that training, he'd be one sad mouse who'd blown his load way earlier than he wanted.

Sunshine wasn't making it easy though, not with the smooth bobbing of that head, the tap of a cold button nose against his pelvis, the pressure of her throat against his cockhead, and those fingers squeezing at the base with every stroke...it was maddening. All he could think about is how she had to look, down on her knees over there with him deep past soft lips, and how much he wanted to fuck her and fuck her hard.

There was a shuffling in front of him, the sound of a body moving. "Let me stretch my knees, sweetie-mouse," the skunk murmured, her voice a bit muffled by the wall between them. The fingertips on his cock weren't muted at all though, and the feeling of latex rolling down the length gave him pause. The girl assuaged all those fears and quickly, squeezing the base of Jeff's member like a hug. "It's nothing personal, honey. Just don't want a scare when the morning comes." He wouldn't have argued that point even if the words would come out of his dry mouth--he wasn't gonna be a father anytime soon, not if he had his way.

"So...what...now...?" He wanted to see the other side of that wall so badly. Just watching the shadows move around the floor was keeping his imagination going at dangerous speeds, all sorts of scenarios and possibilities playing on an endless loop, keeping that erection hard as steel even as he waited impatiently for the payoff to all his patience.

"What now?" There was a laugh like music, high and happy, followed by the ruffle of fabric. Jeff's eyes caught motion by his feet and something brushed his toes. There wasn't any reason to bend down even if he could have with his prick slotted in the hole. He knew the sight of panties when he saw them, and he knew damned well what that little silver packet next to them meant.

"Right now, mister mouse, there's a spot under my tail that needs your personal attention." Every single word poured forth like a honey-soaked moan, thick with lust, the kind of seductive tones that left puddles on the floor when everything was done. You'd need a mop to deal with the mess. Jeff had never been quite as aroused as he was that very moment--it was like losing his virginity all over again, every nerve so wound up he might just explode in a shower of jizz and testosterone if he didn't get an outlet soon.

Thank the gods of sex he had one, and she was so hot he could smell the pure sex rolling off her body even if she wasn't right there with him right now. The girl was a freak, the kind you didn't just find hanging around bars every night. But looking gift whores in the mouth was a good way to ensure you didn't get your nut off. Jeff took a deep breath and leaned back for a second, easing himself out the hole carefully, trying hard not to lose control just yet. Not when there was so much left to do.

It wasn't possible to see Sunshine move more than just a little bit through that little keyhole view the glory hole provided to him, but it was enough for his libido and his imagination to get together and keep the adrenaline running so hard he might blow a blood vessel if this took too much longer. Jeff sent a prayer up to whoever was watching him right now and thanked whoever powered horny women and steered them in his direction when that ass backed itself up against the partition, plastic creaking a bit under the strain of the weight against it. The skunk gave him a wink, the kind that doesn't use your eyeballs, luring her one-hour-stand to get his fuck on, an engraved invitation that was sealed with a kiss.

Jeff grabbed himself in one hand and lined up the purple head of his dick with the pucker he'd been presented. "Hope you've got a good grip on something, babe." Big talk from a little guy and he knew it, but when you're dick-to-ass with a beautiful creature your ego sometimes gets a little bit out of control. Sunshine didn't care or if she did she didn't say so, swaying her hips in out and out anticipation. Jeff couldn't help but smirk to himself as he gave that first hard thrust, planting sneakered feet on the cold tiles of the stall for traction as the meat sank home.

He'd been right--Sunshine was lubed up, spreading like jam as he pushed inside that snug little tailhole, pushing it open and earning himself a long moan from the skunk on the other side. If anyone was in there with them they weren't going to miss that sound if they had any kind of hearing at all, and if the right asshole wanted to have his way this liaison was going to come to a crashing halt when the barback came through the door. This was no virgin backside he'd found himself fucking, taking half his length with only the barest indication of resistance.

Sunshine giggled again, lovely high voice echoing off the tiles, the sound twisted around gasps of breath. "That's f-fucking nice...gonna...need you to work for the rest..." Without warning, the skunk put those glutes into good use and clenched herself tight around the mouse-dick worming into her. What had been smooth as silk was now a fight even with the thick lube smeared on the outside of the rubber and Jeff had to stop for a second to get a better footing. There wasn't much to hold on to--he wasn't tall enough to grab the top of the stall divider, the toilet was in the wrong place...

Sneakers squeaked against the tiles, adding to the sort of obscene music the pair were making as the male in stall four pulled himself free of Sunshine's asshole and reeled back to make another go at it. It was a natural pattern, one that happened very minute of every day somewhere on the planet if you looked hard enough--something was fucking something else, though not every one of them could claim to have his six and a half inches of tube steak inside the greased-up rear entry of a slutty skunk, one who'd even brought herself to him rather than forcing him through the rigmarole Rico had needed to take that coyote hottie home. And he was going to give this girl everything he could as a token of appreciation, a purely animalistic rutting that would leave her breathless, sticky, and possibly hospitalized.

The next thrust was something to behold, more powerful than a male Jeff's size would seem to be capable of, burying his entire length inside Sunshine with a bruising slap against the partition. Oh what he wouldn't give to feel that soft fur against him, the warmth bathing down his ballsac, anything but the cold textured surface of the partition. By the time he was done pounding, that surface might just melt from the heat, thrust after thrust growing in speed and strength. Sunshine yelled with every single hit to her asshole, crying out for more, wailing like a cat that'd been left out in the rain as she was stretched and pounded. How many times had she come already? He didn't know, but he knew damn good and well she had just from the sound of her voice and the feel of muscles fluttering around his cock, strong enough to cut through that condom completely and hit him straight at the core of his masculinity. Every muscle was tensed up hard to hold back the tide, his abs like washboards, heart pounding...

But it was only going to last so long. The beer, the heat, the time, the strain of keeping Sunshine's ass filled with jackhammer thrusts from his pride and joy, they all added up to enough strain on one male mouse to push him over the edge and beyond. It was a good crash, though, the kind that ends a prime evening of purely feral fucking. The condom flooded with jizz, shot after shot filling the tip and spattering around Jeff's cock, hormonal euphoria masking sore muscles and aching joints. The afterglow was amazing, a magnificent reward that made the long night completely worth it.

Jeff felt the rubber being peeled away from his dick, the sharply cooler air flooding in as the insulation was replaced. Softly, something wiped away at the spunk plastered to his steadily shriveling cock--a wetnap?

"Someone planned ahead," he said, chuckling softly to himself before his prick was returned to him, clean as the moment it'd been pulled free from his jeans.

Sunshine smiled, or at least he assumed she had. "It would be rude of me to send you home all sticky," she sang to him before sliding the plug back into the hole. "Our little secret, okay?"

Jeff smirked and nodded. "Sure, no problem." He definitely wasn't going to squeal about a thing that good...

He heard the other stall open and a few footsteps, but they didn't get far. "Sweetie-mouse, can you hand me my panties? I just can't quite reach them."

"I was hoping to take them home as a trophy, but I'll just take your number instead." Jeff popped the stall door open, wincing at the more direct light--how long had they been in there? The place stank like sweat and beer, and he was suddenly aware of how sore his legs were after straddling a hole in the wall for the better part of an hour. He had to hope that Wensdale was going to be just a little bit light on the running drills...

As Sunshine walked out of the adjacent stall, she took the sheer underthings from her short-term paramour's fingers with a little bow in of her head. "Thank you, Mr. Gale, for a wonderful evening together." The skunk leaned in and kissed Jeff gently on the cheek, her breath smelling faintly of mouthwash--she really did come prepared for these sort of occasions.

"You're very welcome. You watch me play?"

She nodded with a wide smile. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time. I don't know much about basketball, but I know you're a very handsome man, and I do love watching you move."

Sunshine took a step back, adjusting her skin-tight skirts up over her hips, letting that fine backside sway as she moved. Jeff smiled in appreciation at lovely toned legs, draped in immaculately trimmed fur, white stripes leading up to the subtle curves of a palmable ass that he just been inside. It was a wonderful display. But then Jeff's eyes went wide and his jaw hung slack as he stared. The skunk either didn't notice or didn't care.

Sunshine was better endowed than Jeff was, by an inch or two at least.

She--he tucked his member into his underwear with practiced ease, sliding it carefully to hide the tell-tale bulge he pulled the silks back into place then adjusted his skirt back into place. Playful brown eyes caught Jeff's face and Sunshine giggled madly, stepping closer to the mouse, slipping one arm around his waist while the other stroked under his chin before closing Jeff's jaw with a soft clack.

"This is the men's room, sweetie-mouse." Once again the mephit giggled and kissed Jeff on the cheek, sliding something into his jeans pocket. "Call me. I'll be your one-girl cheering section."

The door shut behind him. Jeff took a breath and ran his fingers through his hair, looking at the small plastic card. A picture, a name, a number, and not a single indication that he'd just slipped the sausage to a...what would you call that?

The mouse shrugged. He'd done worse. For now, he really needed to get home and shower.

Breslin sat in his apartment. Dinner had been simple as always, perhaps a bit heavy on the garlic. Perhaps a bit heavy on the alcohol as well but he was a large bear and Russian to boot. A bottle of whatever this had been would do no more to him than a fist would do to a brick wall. He would insist he was perfectly sober as he sat on his bed, watching the lights from outside dance along the darkened walls.

He was denying reality, of course. That's what sad and lonely people did when they were left to their own devices. While it was undeniably true that Breslin Jovanavich was the biggest player in the league, he hadn't exactly walked into the role just because of his size. In most eyes, bears were the antithesis of what the league looked for in a professional player--slow and burly, built for blunt force. They were the brutes meant for football or rugby or maybe hockey if he could push himself up to their expected speed. But not basketball. Hoop was the sport of the tall boys, the slim ones who came to the court wrapped in tight lean muscle that gave them the electric reflexes and fantastic agility that the fans came to see. In the school leagues it hadn't been an issue, when it was still all for fun and the coaches didn't care too much. But the college scouts had laughed at his face as the "Big Red Bear" struggled through college games. The players got smaller and sleeker while he stayed exactly the same as he'd always been: the brick wall that was so easy to juke around it had become a joke in the papers. Everyone and everything said to give up and move on.

Only his mother stood with him. But that was enough. She told him with her stern smile but nurturing voice that if he wanted it, if he worked for it, he could defy the nature of his species and prove all the laughing voices wrong. He'd be fast--maybe not as fast as the horses and birds that could blow the numbers off a stopwatch. He'd be agile--not quite as nimble as the cats and foxes who could flick through defenders like they were walking down the street. No matter what, he'd still be strong, inside and out.

By his senior year, the bear had made it to the draft. Scouts had taken notice of Breslin and his ability to keep up with his peers on the floor. His tenacity was catching attention as he lost weight and became something the business had never seen before: a bear that could move like no other. It got him attention. The pundits talked about the upcoming draft and how he might be the newest thing since sliced bread. Breslin Jovanovich would be the first of a new breed of b-ball superstars.

It hadn't really happened. For all he'd poured into going against his nature, he was still slower than the average. The professional players were even faster and slicker than the college opponents he'd strained to keep up with. His best effort earned him stalemates, and that first season ended with a whimper. The only award they handed him was Disappointment of the Year. He was traded around like a bad penny, each team unsure exactly how to use him, until he handed over to the misfit squad that was Hudsonville.

Defeat and derision did nothing to Breslin Jovanovich. No other player on the team poured himself into every single minute he played, and slowly any and every distraction was purged. There was nothing to his life outside of the game anymore and it gnawed at him to not even have that for much longer. His body would betray him before too long, giving into its nature and growing thick and ponderous. And eventually, he knew someone would reveal his homosexuality to the media. Even in these progressive times, it would be the death knell to an inauspicious career.

Breslin sat up against the wall, thinking back to days gone by. The last year of college play had been the most amazing time of his life. Those were the games where the press and the experts talked about him in sweeping hyperbole. He had a fan club, interviews, even talk about naming a shoe after him. They were heady times indeed.

More than all the acclaim and praise, though, he had his skink. Not a pet by any stretch of the imagination, Charlie was everything that Breslin wasn't: small, slender, and most of all outgoing, never found without his garish clothing and screaming pink hair. Breslin recalled nights partying, hanging out with other students and reveling in his sudden fame. They loved each other, the fey lizard and the burly bear, even if they looked like something out of a bad situation comedy when they were together. As much as Breslin's play was the talk of the campus, so too was his best friend and constant companion.

Some of the talk was in hushed whispers, about how their relationship was more than just as close friends, rumors of the pair spending nights alone, possibly even having sex. Breslin chuckled a little and rolled a palm over his belly, thinking to himself how right they really were. Charlie was beautiful and insatiable. The bear often wondered how someone so small could be full of hormones and still have room for blood; more than once lizard had needed to be coaxed into holding out until they got back to Breslin's apartment or at least somewhere with a semblance of privacy. Usually he succeeded.

Memories bubbled up slowly through the alcoholic haze as Breslin cupped his fingers over his groin, letting the warm glow of the liquor mingle with the nostalgia. In his mind, it was New Year's Eve, halfway through the term, and the celebration was in full swing as everyone waited for the ball to drop. The champagne and harder beverages had been flowing liberally for hours and as one would expect with a campus full of randy young adults there was debauchery to be found in abundance. Charlie and Breslin had found their way to a bedroom--whose he could not properly remember--and the pair had found each other's arms, pressed tightly together as they planted sloppy kisses on the other's muzzle.

"You're such a big beauty," Charlie whispered, rolling his soft palms down the bruin's chest, perched on Breslin's lap in nothing but the skin he'd come into the world with. The lizard practically worshipped those muscles even as they grew leaner and tighter; more than a night had been spent stroking over biceps, pectorals, calves and abdominals, tracing slim fingers over the lines that hid beneath a thick pelt before moving on to more intimate pastures, and that remembered night had been no different. "My big, warm teddy bear..."

The words made Breslin shiver, feeling his manhood swell and rise towards the ceiling, thicker than most men could fit their fingers easily around and pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Breslin didn't show off nearly as much as Rick did--he liked to be more than the sum of his genitals, even if he would have blown the doors off the gryphon if they'd gone one-on-one.

The fantasy continued, the bear shutting his eyes and pumping his grip slowly, letting the feelings build up. Charlie poured everything into pleasuring "his" bruin at every opportunity, and that wintry night hadn't been an exception. Thin lips wrapped snuggly around the broad glans and suckled away the drips of pre-come as they dripped, the lizard-boi putting the flat blue of his tongue to grand use, leaving the proud red of his lover's manhood shining in the light that crept through the window. People assumed that Charlie was like a chameleon with a long rubbery tongue that would have been right at home in the porn business. Then again, most of the students here on campus didn't know what a "skink" was, either, and more than a few thought Breslin the word was Russian for skunk. It made them both laugh every time it happened.

But little Charlie would never be content just to stretch his jaws around his teddy bear's cock and swallow that salty flavor, snout buried in Breslin's pubic hair. Before long, the slim creature was off his knees and standing, his thick tail swishing behind him in anticipation.

"I am always afraid I will hurt you," the larger male started to say, but a soft finger against his lips silenced him immediately.

"Hush." No more words were necessary--every possible question would result in the very same response. Charlie turned himself about, padding silently across the cheap carpeting of the bedroom. Breslin had to admire how his slim hips swayed, tail moving in a perfect counterpoint, creating a two-stage motion that never failed to drive the bear's arousal to the peak. It was obvious they both enjoyed it--Charlie's own cock bobbed in the air as he moved, smaller and a pale shade of green to match his skin. He was showing off and they both knew it, working his lover into a frenzy that he would enjoy being on the receiving end for as long as it lasted.

Big hands grabbed feminine hips and pulled them back towards him brusquely, dragging the laughing lizard out of his 'performance' suddenly, Charlie's back pressed tightly against a broadly muscled chest. There were no words exchanged; only the bear's deep growls broke up the sounds of their breathing. Charlie pushed his hips outward, rolling Breslin's fat prick between his thighs, one more tease before the best part of the night began.

The skink rose up in the air, thighs spread instinctively as he was adjusted, putting up no resistance to being worked like clay into what his lover wanted, the naturally slickened cockhead pressing at the rounded pucker usually hidden underneath a tail and between two cheeks that drew the attention of everyone when they swayed to a silent beat in tight shorts. The push against his tailhole was slight but the sensation was like fire, making the lizard shiver from the peaks of his head down to the very bottom of his being. Face turned to meet face, soft eyes over a panting mouth begging Breslin to use him, abuse him, but to please not leave him wanting for much longer.

Flesh yielded to the steadily increasing force of Breslin's intruder, the tight ring of muscle opening up to let the pillar of muscle inside his ass. To the casual observer it would have looked practically impossible, something the width of a soda can sliding into a body that by all accounts should have cracked under the strain. But Charlie had proven time and again that quite the opposite was true, arching his spine and moaning in pure bliss as his rump was penetrated quite thoroughly by his burly bruin companion.

Together they sat, connected in the most intimate of fashions. One held his breath while the familiar tinges of pain faded away under the caress of hormones; the other let the warmth rush over his groin, rolling his head back at the grip of muscles around his member. Charlie was tight and had never been anything but, even after months of being stuffed full by cocks that would make many strong men shudder.

Breslin pressed his muzzle to the back of Charlie's head, breathing in his lover's scent as they sat connected, as close to being one as possible. Slowly, surely, Charlie rose, pulling himself away from the comforting lap with a shuddering gasp of breath. Breslin's fingers clenched tighter on his hips but the skink would not be convinced to slow down, pressing his feet against the bed to give him just that little bit of additional leverage he needed to begin the carnal ride.

It was bliss for the two young men, pure and undiluted ecstasy, shared between lovers. The sound of panting breath mingled with slapping flesh as Charlie rose and fell, slickened cock passing through his backside again and again, a little easier with each attempt. Brown fingers grasped at a jade erection, clutching it possessively and stroking over its length to reciprocate the pleasures given. Minutes passed and the cadence grew more and more harried, their passionate cries and animalistic growls building with every thrust and twist of sweaty hips. It was too much too bear for the bear; finally he gave a bellow that would certainly get him in trouble with his neighbors, blasting thick jism into Charlie's waiting backside, the lizard's head rolling back on his long neck as his own prick spattered his belly with white streaks. It had been brief and perhaps clumsy, but neither one cared a whit.

The skink exhaled slowly, letting his slight chest rise and fall as muscles relaxed slowly, hormones making the experience of over-exertion something akin to intoxication. Charlie turned back, pressing his lips to Breslin, feeling warm breath from each panting breath.

"I love you, Breslin Jovanovich."

The present-day Breslin lay back on his bad, legs spread as he pumped furiously at his cock, thick hips lifting up above the sheets as his climax grew closer. The memory was vivid, riddled with hints of scent and taste even after all those years. Just the thought of intimacy with Charlie was enough to drive his libido to levels it rarely saw in these lonely days, and Breslin found himself crying out his former lover's name as he came, the lazy arcs of come landing in any direction, smearing between his fingers and down along his wrist.

And he cried as the memories continued no matter how much he begged them to stop. He had wanted Charlie to be with him, and for those first months he had. But the time apart was hard to deal with, nor was being pushed aside. The league just isn't ready for us to be together, he was told. And so he waited watching the wives travel with their loved ones while he fretted away his youth and his future until it became too much to bear, and...he was gone in a way no power on earth would ever undo. All that were left were the memories, the tears, and endless inexpressible regret.

Perhaps Sumerstead's plan was just as valid for Breslin as for the others, if for entirely different reasons. In stark contrast to his teammates, he had lost focus on anything but the game and he suffered for it. Tired eyes turned to the ceiling. Was this kind of a second chance?

There was no way it would slip past him, not again.

Rick Cardiff was a show-off. That was knowledge as common as 'the sky is blue' or 'the Malamutes are a terrible basketball team.' If there were ever an opportunity to demonstrate what was better about him than his peers--whether it was true or not--there'd be no time wasted before the gryphon was up and at the task. His ego had taken as many bruises as his body had from pointless stunts and fist fights that had gone completely pear-shaped. The challenge Rick enjoyed more than any other though was proving his unrivaled masculinity, whether that meant flexing the physique he'd earned through countless hours in the gym and a strict food regimen or having a dick measuring contest between whatever poor sod had insisted his dangly bits were longer than the Wondergryph's. Cardiff was so eager to whip his manhood out it'd become something of a running joke with the broadcast team that you could expect to have to cut away from "foul balls" at least once per game. The fans ate it up, though, especially the women for obvious reasons.

At that exact moment in time he had his hands full of two of that exact kind of woman, keeping them on target as both slathered his surging cock in saliva. From a distance, it looked like the cervines were worshipping Rick's groin, down on their knees in reverence of the dark brown blessing that stood from the athlete's slacks. There wasn't any church where prayers sounded like these though, the dull thud of the music from the floor below doing nothing to mask the soft slurping of thick lips over even thicker flesh between panting breaths. It was a carnal race, Blondie and Brunette (he hadn't bothered getting their names) trying to work the stud attached to this member into a lather. They were the sort of sluts who wandered clubs just like this one, strutting about the dance floor in loose skirts and tight tops, flashing bare snatch or generous breasts gifted by the touch of science to anyone who asked nicely enough. Bouncers weren't thrilled about it but they turned a blind eye because, well, it was Rick Cardiff. No one complained about the free show and at least he was considerate enough to not have sex on the dance floor...

"Mmm...hey, Blondie, you really love that dick, don'tcha?" It was something of a compliment, one of the best ones he would give a woman as she went down on him with absolute gusto. The two girls were practically fighting over him now, grabbing for a bit of that shaft or a taste of the head, the blonde winning handily and leaving Brunette pouting a little as she tongued Rick's softly feathered balls as a consolation prize.

"Hey, baby..." Rick motioned with one hand, coaxing the raven-haired deer to her feet, much to the satisfaction of Blonde, who promptly wrapped her lips around the glans and suckled. Brunette looked a little confused, shivering as a palm ran up the length of her thigh and over her plump backside, tugging a fat cheek in his fingers as he pulled the girl closer.

"Don't think the Wondergryph forgot about you." A thick arm swept around Brunette's hips and lifted her up, completely impractical shoes scraping against the leather surface of the couch as she worked to get some balance back. She was going to ask what he was doing, but the gryphon answered the question for her with a flick of his tongue against the cervine's snatch, quick and light, teasing that little slit with rapid fire laps. Brunette shuddered and swayed, spreading her thighs to let the pointed tip of Rick's tongue slide up into her pussy. That lingual muscle may not have been long or thick, but it was fast and agile, sliding sideways and flicking at the walls inside, gathering honey better than any bee could ever hope to have.

Blondie was taking her turn to be jealous, her fingers crammed against her snatch under the rolled-up hem of her club dress. Sure, Rick's cock was a delicious treat and something she wanted from the minute she saw it bounce along his thigh every time he moved. But watching her sister get her pussy worked over was insulting--what did Brunette have that she didn't? Why did that fat whore get to feel those big hands spanking her nasty saggy ass? The deer huffed and let Rick's dick fall out of her mouth, a rivulet of saliva and pre-come dripping on the white shag carpet of the VIP lounge. He didn't even notice when she scowled, his face blocked by her sister's blobby gut.

Brunette didn't know or care what was going down on the floor. Blondie had always been competitive about this sort of thing--the girl never shared toys or boys even when there was plenty to go around. It was hard for her to care, though, not with a pair of fingers as thick as her wrist pounding her pussy until she cried out in delicious agony. Between those fingers and the pressure of Rick's tongue over her clit, Brunette could barely hold herself up right, thighs matted with honey, the muscles of her thighs shivering as she tried to not fall over. And then, with a sudden rush of cold air-conditioned air, those blissful feelings disappeared. Slowly Brunette's eyes opened and focused, her head turning to the side. She sighed softly to herself as she felt Rick move her to the side, cold couch leather replacing hot gryphon tongue.

"You bitch," Brunette said to her sister, words dripping with pure vitriol, watching Blonde slide up onto the couch, resting her back against the cool white leathers and hiking her legs high up into the air, two fingers spreading her pussy wide open in an open invitation to take what he wanted. Brunette rolled her eyes at the display, running her hands down Rick's arm to try and get his attention back. She hadn't come and wanted to so fucking bad, but she couldn't compete with a fucking billboard like that.

And Rick couldn't resist it. He was up and on top of that plush body in a heartbeat, fingers tugging perky nipples as he pressed the slick head of his cock against the deer's snatch. "Gonna make you scream," he whispered in her ear, watching it flatten into bottle-blonde hair. Rick gave a quick glance around the room, ensuring he was the positive center of everyone's attention. He was the show, the superstar, the man everyone wanted to be doing the women everyone wanted. Maybe he wasn't the only one getting his rocks off in the darkened room; he could hear the muffled sounds of pleasure, whether it was alone or in pairs, and it made his chest swell to know that no matter what anyone said or thought, it was his body and performance that drove their arousal.

Blondie was loose, her pussy as far from virgin territory as he was from modest. Rick didn't care in the least--to his endowment it was still snug. He could tell from the way she writhed and dug her long fingernails into the couch that the girl hadn't been stuffed in some time, not this way, and definitely not in the way that required second after second of deliciously slow pushing. "Thank you can take me?" he growled at the cervine, feeling inch after throbbing inch sink inside that pink canal, the attached slut squealing as the pillar of muscle pushed her pelvis in ways it hadn't gone before, not in a fucking long time. The first six inches were enough to leave Blondie seeing stars and practically squirting on the couch. The gryph got as much of himself into that bitch as he could, fingers clutching her ass like a pair of plush handles that gave him the leverage he needed to pull back and start to properly start pounding her into unconsciousness.

Brunette was not about to just sit there and frig herself, not when a beautiful beast of a man was right there in front of her, his swollen balls swinging between muscular thighs with every piston stroke he fired into Blondie. Brunette bit her lip, watching his tight ass flex under, reaching out to pull those slacks down just a little further and parting the curtains so she could really enjoy the show. The slinky creature pushed up on her knees, coming up behind Rick, trying not to disturb the pair and their frenzied coupling, grabbing herself a slut's-eye-view of that gorgeous cock as it plowed her sister raw, the swollen mounds of her pussy slick with fluid. The jealous deer signed softly and worked fingers into her own slit, lifting her muzzle to press her painted lips against Rick's scrotum, lapping slowly over the swollen orbs and the musky feathers. Up her tongue traveled, finding the base of the gryphon's cock, slathering the portions that wouldn't fit inside Blondie's usually gaping twat, savoring the rich gravy the pair churned out with every stroke. The deer couldn't see it but she could definitely feel Rick's appreciation as he continued to drive the point home in thundering slams of his hips.

Rick had found heaven in two women he didn't even know the names of, wearing nothing much more than his unbuttoned silk shirt over his chiseled chest, his professionally tailored slacks hanging off an ankle, spattered with stains that would never quite come out. They'd always smell like his dick and deer pussy. He made enough money to not worry about it. "Damn you bitches crazy," he panted, rolling another throbbing inch into Blondie's pussy against intense resistance, inching himself back out again until the brown head hung there, a string of sticky stuff hanging between the puffy folds and his dick.

"I got an idea." The gryphon lifted himself up and gave a grin right at the raven-haired deer that had both his nuts wedged into her cheeks. "Yo, girl, get on top of her." Her reaction was priceless, like he'd asked her to do the nastiest thing he could come up with. Rick gave her a quirked eyebrow in return, running his fingers over Blondie's puss slowly to make sure she kept shivering. "You want dick or not, girl? I ain't waitin'." Her eyes went just a little bit wider and she nodded, letting go of the feathery sack and slipping out from between those titan-thighs.

"Now that's what I'm fuckin' talkin' about," he rumbled, watching with obvious delight as the two cervines joined each other, almost comical fake breasts flattened against the other's while they tried to get comfortable. Rick had the best view in the house, two deliciously puffy pussies waving in his direction, hungry for dick. And he had dick to provide, more than enough for any slutty girl who wandered up in this club. Brunette sucked in her breath tight as the broad crown pressed itself against her slit, arching her spine and grinding down against Blondie as the first inch speared her, another behind it and then another.

Brunette was in rapture. Slight muscles tensed up and her brain grew hazy with the euphoria of rough sex, yelping when Rick's palm against her hip made her rump sway from the force. The stinging heat disappeared suddenly as the member was pulled free with an audible slurp then slammed roughly into Blondie's twat, giving the well-used deer a number of thrusts to ensure she wasn't left out cold. Back and forth he went, up and down, penetrating the girls back and forth--neither one went left wanting for fulfillment for more than a few moments.

"Don't you ignore each other now, ladies." It wasn't a request--it was a command, a direction that could cost them more pleasure if they didn't take it into consideration. "I know you sluts ain't strangers to girls." Rick figured it'd only take a little urging before he'd get himself a little bit of a show along with his meal of two fine fucking deer pussies.

He wasn't wrong. Red lips met and pressed tightly together, the kisses sloppy and wet with tongues rolling over flat teeth. It wasn't a loving embrace but a lustful one, the kind you make when the only thought on your mind is that orgasm that's just over the horizon. For as much as he paraded his ego around like a preening peacock Rick could attest he was a good lover or at the very least damn fine in the sack, with a couple of rules that he tried his damndest to never break. Some of them were simple, like never fall in love with the slut on your jock and don't ever make promises you don't want to keep. Most importantly, though, was the girl always comes first. If there were more than one of 'em--and quite often there were--that didn't change anything, and if she didn't come neither did he. That didn't prove to be problem too damned often.

Every stroke now was switching between holes on the two shaggy club girls rolling on the couch underneath him, slim fingers yanking at the other's breasts or running through long hair and over soft ears. The gryphon had a rhythm, a sort of pornographic cadence that took him up the orifice stack with one-minded dedication. Assholes were in the mix now too, each puckered star sucking his cockhead in without delay, spreading around his meat-spear and sending the girls screaming into each other's face. It was a chorus line of moans, grunts, and keening cries following the tempo set by the wet slaps of cock against whatever hole he was moving into, the sound getting louder and louder...

Finally the dam broke under the assault of the self-proclaimed wondergryphon, both bottle-dyed women rolling off the couch as he pulled away the last time, shuddering in each other's grip as waves of pleasure crashed over them with more force than they could handle. The room swam, lights dimmed, and sounds echoed like the walls were closing in on them. Rick let them go, watching in barely restrained satisfaction as he watched his handiwork--two sodden, sweaty, shuddering sluts, half dressed, their stockings torn and shoes halfway across the room.

"And now time for the coop-dee-grassy." Rick stood, taloned feet to either side of both Brunette and Blondie as they struggled to get a little breath back in their lungs. That majestic prick bobbed over their heads, angry and swollen with blood as a fist clamped on the base, squeezing a few more thick beads of pre-come. The lounge echoed with the sound of his strokes, fast and furious, eager to give these women the blessing that only a virile male like him could grant: his spunk.

The great crown flared and the gryphon let the flow rip, spraying both his conquests down with jet after jet of semen, painting soft tan fur and heaving breasts with ropes of thick white warmth, swollen balls churning up enough to positively soak these two sluts who had figured that somehow they could handle The Wondergryph and his equipment.

There Rick Cardiff stood for a moment, reveling in his 'victory', standing there in just his shirt with his dripping prick held in both hands. "Now that? That is what you call a fuck, girls. Call me later when you can stand up." He knew they would, and he'd probably ignore them. Never let the girls think you're in love with them and always keep 'em wanting more of your dick.

Rick grabbed his pants and shoes, turning when he felt a tap at his shoulder. Club security was there, not looking the slightest bit pleased as the broadly muscled bull surveyed the situation around him.

"Yo, hombre. What's up? You gonna bounce me? You know who I am?" Rick was fearless. Even if he got thrown out by security, he'd already taken care of business, so what did he care?

Bovine nostrils flared around a big brass ring, wincing at the thick stink of sex in the air, burly arms crossed over a chest wider than the gryphon's by a long shot. "No."

"Then what's your beef, beef?"

'Beef' gestured upwards with his chin. "We got cameras in here." There was a knock at the door to the lounge. "You got about thirty seconds to grab your pants and run, bird. And doesn't fucking call me that again."

"So someone watched me be a bigger man that he'll ever be. Was it you? You get off on that shit?" Rick raised an eyeridge and poked 'Beef' in the chest. "Rick Cardiff doesn't run unless he's on the court. I'm gonna strut out of here like the superstar I am. So move aside, hamburger, and let me get dressed."

"Friend, I'm trying to help you out here. You are in deeper shit than you realize. Don't make me regret sticking my neck out."

"Oh fuck yo' steroid-poppin' ass, man. Only thing I been in deep tonight is these two fine bitches."

The banging at the door got louder, and 'Beef' shrugged with a shake of his head. "Don't say I didn't warn you, feathers."

Suddenly the doors burst open and a buck flanked by another half-dozen massive guys in the same shirt as 'Beef' to either side. The elder deer was positively fuming, eyes wide and hands clenched into fists of rage.

Rick laughed it off. "What, you mad you didn't get none? I'm sure these sluts'll be up for another round in a few minutes, if you don't mind stretched out sloppy seconds." He tapped Blondie with a talon. "Yo, bitch, you alive?"

'Beef' turned and whispered to Rick. "That's the owner."

The Wondergryphon's face fell. "Aw hell naw."

"Yup. You just fucked his daughters cross-eyed in front of him."

The media would have an utter field day on reports of Rick Cardiff tearing out of a popular nightspot almost completely naked, barely making it to his private car before the entire platoon of security guards on his tail caught up with him. They couldn't reprint the string of firey profanity club owner Vincent Markov was shouting at the top of his multi-millionaire lungs, but whatever The Wondergryphon had done, it was definitely not popular with everyone...

Somewhere in the halls of Hudsonville Arena, a woman only known as Taffy to people outside of 'professional' circles sat in an office chair, tapping idly the keys, waiting for this outdated computer to get off its ass and do something. She was the very definition of a buxom lass, modestly tall but bristling with the kind of curvature that made brains break down and sputter to a halt at the curb.

"Why don't you ever upgrade this thing?" she asked with a sigh as the hourglass turned itself over for the tenth time. "This is some kind of wacky plan you've come up with. It's like something out of a terrible movie." There was a muffled sound, and the rabbit giggled, shifting in her seat. "Sorry, I should let you get some air."

Pat Sumerstead raised his head about desktop, licking over his damp face, purring raggedly as he rested against the completely naked rabbit. "It doesn't matter. Unless those rejects somehow get to the finals after losing half the season, the team's being moved up to Canada--new location, new name, all new players, and I get a fat check for my time." The cat ran his tongue over his cheeks then looked up in mild confusion. "How do you manage to work on a spreadsheet while someone's going down on you?"

"It's all experience, sweetheart. Now you get back to work." Taffy pushed his head back down, giggling madly as a rather skilled tongue went back the task at muzzle, lapping against her mound as the doe hushed the worried little voice telling her this was all wrong somehow...