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No Control

By H. A. Kirsch

Copyright 2009

This story is unedited, and involves Zale Sterling, from "One Year". It also contains hardcore

bondage, leather and rubber play, sounding, breath control, watersports, and some other surprises.

---

So here's a typical one of my nights. I hang out downstairs at the club, and sometimes I can pick

something up right away. It's actually not as easy as it sounds, because - I'm told this by like

everyone - I look like I work there. I mean like a waiter or something, not the other kind of

working, which is totally true because I _do_ work there. I hang out with some friends, sometimes I

go out and have fun on the town a bit, since Carl or someone will text me if he has any business.

Maybe I just go up to one of the store rooms and practice a little bit, no one's gonna hear a guitar

over the dark throb of faggot fuck-club music. Then it's back up to my room to wait and see if

anyone's gonna come up. Rinse and repeat.

---

Someone knocked on the door, and I went to open it. It was some sweaty human guy, kind of

sunken-cheeked, long face, tousled hair. He had on a black fishnet shirt and squeaky PVC pants,

knee-high strapped up New Rocks, fingerless driving gloves. He looked like a model. I vaguely

recognized him from down in the club a little earlier. He smelled like liquor but he didn't have

that lopsided half-flush that meant he was gonna faceplant onto my floor when I opened the door.

"Hey, are you Zale?"

I unchained the door and let him in. "Uh-huh-"

He was on me in a second, wiry arms grabbing around me, face against mine. His eyes closed,

black-painted lips pouted out, then parted, tongue coming for mine. Okay, that's cool. I sunk my

chest against his, arms around his back, and gave his mouth a horse-lipping. He made some kind of

grunt into my mouth as tongues met up, but he managed not to just grind at me. He actually had a

little skill there, sucking on my lips, tonguing at them gently, pulling back like a tease whenever

I tried to push into his mouth. Then he was nosing and rubbing against my neck. Human guys always do

that, go figure, I mean it's a fucking animal thing to do.

"Didn't know you'd be wearing gear," he said. "Awesome." His hands slid along my biker jacket,

fingered the lapels, and then he started to kiss it. Sometimes, I thought that was really hot, and

sometimes I just thought it was kind of weird. This guy was shameless, so I thought it was on the

hot side. His eyes turned up at me, big and black, just pools of pupil. Figured, that was pretty

much everyone on a typical Friday night, rolling like logs.

Unnamed human guy slid himself down until he was on his knees, pants creaking a little as he mouthed

all over my crotch. I had on a pair of leather codpiece pants, knee-high riding boots, leather biker

jacket, long gauntlet gloves. Despite that, I didn't really feel very dominant. I just loved the hug

of leather, the smell, the sound of it, and people's reactions when they saw a zebra-pony in gear

with a big, horsey bulge. This human guy was all over that bulge, he was sucking the leather like he

was going to unsnap it with his mouth. This is where I would have asked him for some money, except I

knew he was escorted up to my room by one of the bouncers, and my share was already sitting in a

lockbox somewhere.

Watching him slurp and suck and rub his face was hot, but it was mostly a reflex. This guy was blown

out of his mind. When you're both fucked up, it's one thing, but playing the straight guy just

reminds you how stupid someone rolling can look. He unsnapped the cod and I didn't even get to see

my dick flop out; it went right into his mouth. Tight, hot, and very enthusiastic. His cheeks caved

in when he pulled off, his lips wrenched at my dickflesh, gross slurps coming out around the head.

Humans really suck dick. Humans and horses, and the rest is just popsicle-licking from the dog

crowd. This guy really wanted to suck me, but he was way too messed up. After a few minutes, his

teeth dragged and I pushed his head off.

"Whoa, sorry, sorry, hey, you wanna fuck me now? You wanna fuck me? I wanna come so bad with a

horse-dick in my ass, some bad-ass stud.." To demonstrate that he wanted to get boned, he basically

rolled backwards and lifted his boots, then pulled them off and shimmied out of his plastic pants.

Totally shaved, not even one of those Hitler moustaches. Boyish lack of fat, probably thanks to all

the fucking E and Meth and Ritalin and whatever. Really nice dick, big enough that it didn't have

that little flap of skin over the head even when hard, not all over-cut like some guys used to be.

All the porn I had when I was a teenager - which was mostly old stuff my parents had - always had

these guys with perfect horse-dicks. Only a horse should have a horse dick, not a skinbag.

To demonstrate that he was a kinky shit, or maybe just because he was confused, Skinbag put his

boots back on. Fishnet, gloves, boots, and a nice sweaty hairless set of club thighs and dick. I

walked over to my bed and laid down. "You want to get fucked? I'm lazy. Horses are lazy. How about

you fuck yourself on my dick?" I propped myself up with some pillows, applied some black leather to

my black dick, waggled it around. His black-holes stared at it, moving back and forth as the flare

wobbled, like a housecat watching a piece of string. "It's right there," I said, nodding my snout

over towards the nightstand to the pump bottle of lube. I love those pump bottles. Nothing says "I

like sex" like a pushing a lever for your slick like you do for ketchup at a restaurant. Skinbag -

that's what I'm gonna call him - went over and bent over, then shot it right at his anus. Then he

splatted some on a hand and came over to me, gave me a few pulls to grease it up. That was nice.

Good at a handjob, no lockjaw teeth scraping like when he was blowing me.

He climbed up onto me and straddled over my cock, fed it up into his ass, and sat down. He had to be

on viagra, because his ass was just a bit looser and his dick was hard as granite. You don't get

boners on that raver crack shit. He moaned and swooned and sank down, boots tromped right to my

sides. I played around with the leather, feeling those goth-boy buckles and the big chunky heels.

Kind of neat. His hole was nice, too, and he had some strength to him. He could milk it in and lift

up, thighs straining, sweat-shined skin bulging with his quads. A pony ride was just the ticket with

this guy, because I had no interest in fucking him. He wanted to ride and lean back and get that

prostate hit; if I bent him over like a dog and gave him a pounding, he would have just grunted a

lot and shot on my bed.

He really went for the prostate work. He grabbed my knees and leaned back, asshole squeezing a

little harder, mouth gaping open muscles working under that gray haze of a shirt. It was kind of...

interesting. I'd have to come, and I wasn't quite sure how that was going to work out, because I

just wasn't really feeling it. It's hard to fake an orgasm when your're bareback and blow it in some

guy. You would be surprised how many guys like to loosen up afterwards and shit some come out, 'Oh

I'm so dirty!'. At least how many guys who come around _my_ neck of the woods.

Turns out I wouldn't have to worry about how to get off, because Skinbag started moaning and

yelping, then throttled his cock. He didn't aim it at his own body, he aimed right at me. All that

zebra-pony dickhead at his little gland had him squirting like, like, you know at a diner when you

get a bottle of mayo and it's like this plastic squeeze thing like the ketchup? Like that. Just a

big, long, white-cream spurt all over my chest. Oh shit. I stared at it, more landing next to it,

then a third, and then it started splattering onto itself. I had my coat open to show off the

mottled gray and black there, and my pecs gained a slick mess. I huffed and brayed and kicked up

into him and totally lost it, flooding the guy's asshole. He pulled off, grinning at me, milking a

little more onto my chest as my last shot hit him with a slap on his ass.

He didn't bother to clean his dick off, or wipe his hole. He just stumbled around, boots off and

pants on, boots back on, dick stuffed inside. He was still hard as a rock, probably from that little

blue pill. He didn't talk, just fished out a few bills and handed them towards the prone horsey on

the bed, still dazed from having his chest whitewashed. I started wiping at it with a hand,

spreading it around. "Nice," he said, still holding the bills out. I leaned forward and took the

bills in my mouth. "Ohhhh, lettuce for the horsey. Hey man, catch you later," he said, to the door

as he blundered out.

Lettuce for the horsey. You know, I don't know why I do that. Humans are fucked up. We're what,

three or four generations in and they'll still want to give me sugar cubes, lettuce, carrots,

apples, pet my mane, all that shit. Hey, it got me forty bucks. That's a big tip.

So yeah, that's a typical night. Just rinse and repeat maybe four times, five or six if it's all

gonna be blowjobs and handjobs. You'd think that'd be a lot faster but damn, some guys need a belt

sander down there.

---

That particular night, Skinbag was my last. I was beat. I ended up going to a diner after I cleaned

up, all that gear still on. There was this place down the street, Jake's, and it was a real

old-school dive. Metal counters making this big U, a rim of booths around the outside. You either

sat at the counter or you sat in a booth with someone, often a stranger if the counter was full up.

Unlike most divey places, this one was full of faggot weirdasses. I mean usually it's bums or people

who are nutjobs, but here, it was all the people who spilled over from The Pit after they ran out of

fuel or when it closed at 2.

Some guys would even come in fully geared up, and not just in leather-daddy stuff. We're talking

rubber diving suits, inflateable fake tits - why the hell would a gay guy want breasts? - you name

it. Plus, they make some killer vegetarian stuff. The chef's this crazy dude who swears at everyone;

they keep him in the back and the music cranked up during the day. I was tired and hungry and needed

some comfort food. What's comfort food for a zebra-pony? Chinese fried oatmeal. It's like fried

rice, except it's oatmeal. I'm serious.

So I was sitting there, perched on a stool, and I looked over. There was this fox guy, bigger than

_me_, and he was in some crazy rubber gear. Black rubber shirt, red rubber harness, red rubber

chemical gauntlets, black sailor-front pants, red rubber riding boots. For that matter, he was a

reverse fox. He had this red mohawk and a red rim around his snout right behind the nose, and his

charcoal fur was tinged dusky at the tips. He was eating chicken wings. With a fork.

"Hey, don't I know you?" He said, turning over to look at me.

"Uh..." by the time I finished making the sound, he moved to the stool right next to mine. He looked

vaguely familiar.

"You work at that place!" He put a forkful of chicken-stuff in his mouth. Knife and fork for chicken

wings...

"Yeah, I work at The Pit," I said. "What of it?"

"You're not a tough guy, you're just dressed like one," he said. "I'm Jasek."

Devoid of any more of my bizzare asian mashup dish, I turned to the fox guy. "Zale. And you're

right. So what, are you not a kinky weirdo, you're just dressed like one?"

Jasek laughed. Despite being big for a fox, he still had a high voice. "Oh hell no, I'm messed up.

So what, you work upstairs, right? That must be why we never see each other. I'm down in the fucking

catacombs."

"You know, it's funny, I never go down there. I feel like I should, I'm always getting these leather

fetish guys sent up. I've heard it can get kinda weird, though. I'm a little.. uh, easily spooked."

That was true, but with an addendum I didn't want to offer this fox guy. I put my gloved hand

through my mane and he smiled. I twisted my upper body a little to curve my back and ruff my chest

out, and he smiled wider.

"Yeah, it can get messed up. So you're a companion? I'm kinda like... not really like that. I'm kind

of an assistant, and I take care of all the gear and stuff. It's kind of a second job, I'm a

freelance programmer." Jasek dug into another chicken wing.

"Uh, so, why are you eating wings with a knife and fork? I just gotta ask. It's like eating pizza

with a knife and fork." I pushed my plate forward, and one of the waiters yanked it away without

even making eye contact. Sometimes I wondered if you could fuck in the diner and get away with it.

Jasek grinned, and held up one of his gauntleted hands, flexed the fingers with a squeak. "You can't

get oil on this stuff. It'll wreck it. I mean these aren't that expensive, but still." He finished

the last wing, then leaned over. "I really love spicy stuff. Should I?" He looked at the plate, then

at me.

"You could take them off?" That got a shake of his head and a smile. "Oh, well, I guess not, then.

Uh. Should you lick it up?" I looked at the plate. It was smeared with red buffalo sauce mixed with

white bleu cheese. "Sure. Like they're gonna give a shit, just less of a dirty plate to clean."

Jasek put his muzzle to the plate, eyes half-lidded, and started to lap it up. He could have done it

pure canid, just big sloppy licks. He did it slow and careful, deliberate. I knew what he was trying

to do. He even got a smear of white on his muzzle. His cat-eyes looked over at me. "Oops."

"You're a slut," I said, and got out some money. Hey, what do you know, that skinbag was paying for

my dinner.

"Are you going back to the club? I could show you the catacombs." Jasek did the same as me. In fact,

he tried to imitate me, gauntleted hand matched with gauntleted hand, both offering money. The same

waiter took the money, then looked at me. "It's even, keep the change," the fox said, for me.

"Well, I kind of live there..." I said, sliding off the stool. Jasek joined me as I headed out of

the diner. What a pair, zebra-pony in black leather, slightly oversized fox in black and red rubber.

"So hey, are you some kind of weird fox? You're awfully big." I would put him at about six-two.

He shrugged. "I dunno, I just come big for some reason. Silver fox. I just dye my fur. People would

think I was trying to look like that guy from that video game, but he was a wolf. So I changed it.

Besides, red's a cool color." No one out at that time of night gave either of us a second thought,

even though Jasek had a wicked erection. We went back to The Pit, both keying in since it was after

close, then went straight for the back stairs. We went down to the dance floor in the basement, then

went for the sub-basement.

The Pit was in a weird old building. I think the story was that it was some kind of pumping station,

I don't know for what. Gas? Water? Shit? It was way old, from back when the town was a factory town

in the mid-twentieth. The main floor had the bar and back room, the upstairs had offices, then the

inn rooms, then the brothel rooms - where I lived - and then the penthouse with Carl's apartment.

Carl was the owner guy, big German Shepherd. The basement had the dance floor and another bar, and a

chill-out room. The Catacombs were the sub-basement. I'd been down in there just once, when they had

a plumbing problem upstairs and it had the only working john. The catacombs had bouncers all the

time, because there was a limit to how many people could go in. Fire code or something. Dank little

hallways, some rooms that were almost like closets, then a few big ones. One of them still had a ton

of weird machinery in it, which I guess were the pump things and pipes. The place looked horrible

and run down, but it smelled only of disinfectant, and was well-lit when one actually hit all the

lights. Big flat panel screens kind of worked into the concrete walls, for watching porn on. Tons of

shelving in a lot of the rooms, an endless series of weird toys and bondage equipment. Hawk had a

lot of weird shit, but some of this stuff was _medical_. There was one room, which Jasek called The

Theater, which was... an operating theater.

"So, you wanna play around a little?" Jasek said, standing under one of the caged-bulbs in the

hallway. "I uh, I haven't come all night. Since yesterday, actually. I'm not a licensed guy like

you, so I'm not allowed to get off on the job. And I kind of like edging."

I'd been pretty tired when I hit Jake's, but with food in me, a little more vigor welled up. Maybe

I'd just needed a snack. Skinbag hadn't been very fulfilling; I only blew a load because he creamed

on my chest. That'll do it every time. "Sure. Why not? You're cute."

"_I'm_ cute?" Jasek laughed, and led me into one of the smaller rooms. It was really compact; one

wall had metal storage lockers up to as far as I could reach, while the other had a barely-padded

prison shelf bed. The room wasn't any bigger than the bed, a square. All kinds of strange hooks and

whatnot came out of the walls, and a suspension thing hung from the ceiling.

"Jesus, this is weird, all these meathooks and stuff."

"Yeah, this room is for claustrophobes. Some people get off on that. I just cleaned it out earlier,

that's why I picked it. The others are dirty, they're gonna get it tomorrow. So you like this

outfit? You've been looking at me for the last half hour."

I never really 'got over' the weirdness of kink, even gay stuff. Guys kissing, fucking, putting on

leather, boot licking, rubber, spanking, it always kind of surprised me each time. This fox guy was

decked out, so I kept looking at him. "Yeah. That rubber stuff's neat. I don't think I've really

ever worn any. Isn't it a pain to get on?"

Jasek shrugged. "Well, it's kind of a pain, but it's sort of a ritual, you know?" He opened one of

the lockers. "Here, I got something we can both put on. I mean two somethings. Lessee..." he dug

around inside. All I could see was rubber; a drawer slid out and he rooted through it. "It's not

really clothing so it's not all talcy and weird and stuff."

I sat on the bed, put a boot up. Jasek was pretty friendly, warm, a kind of nice guy. I didn't think

he'd pull out something too weird. He held out two black rubber.. "What's that?"

"Cock sheathes! Here, you want this one, I think," he said, and handed me the one that was

significantly larger. It was shaped in general like a cock, thick enough rubber that it looked like

it'd stand up to abuse, a big sac for the balls, a fair opening at the base. It didn't have any kind

of opening at the head-end. His was smaller, a little more rigid, and it had a tube coming off the

end. The tip of the tube was gently rounded-off. It had a different texture, almost a little rough.

I took the big one and looked at it. "Here, you gotta lube up or it's not going on," he said, and

tapped at a thing on the wall. It was like my lube bottle, except in a big holder, like something

from a bathroom. I pushed at it and it splurted into my hand. "No no, like squirt it inside." I held

the sheath up and put a few pumps in it, then squished it around. The sound make me chuckle, a

little embarrassed. That twinge of weird, you know?

Jasek lubed his up, then watched as I put mine on. It was a little tricky; the stuff was stretchy,

but stronger than I thought. At first, I wasn't sure I'd get it on my balls, but after a good

stretch, it hugged down around them and my horsedick slid up inside. Oh, it was nice. It was also a

little tight, especially at the balls, and the opening worked like a cockring. It was a bit longer

than my dick. "Here, lemme... you gotta get the air out, for the best uh, feel," the rubber-fox

said, and grabbed my cock. I flinched a bit, but he was pretty rough with it, squeezing and milking

the air bubble out. It squeaked and made a rude fart, and I laughed again. Then, the part that hung

off the end was flat against itself. I touched at my cock, stroked a little; the rubber moved back

and forth, cockhead filling out the material, then drawing back. The little bit of suction was a

nice thrill. I pumped harder, and it made a rude slapping sound.

"Hey, that's neat, it's.. it's kinda loud," I said, tugging a few more times. Jasek beamed, and his

hidden cock swelled against his pants. He took himself out and started fooling with his own sheath.

The first thing he did was invert it. "Wait, what... "

Once he had it inverted, he lubed it up inside again. That tube was on the inside now, pointing down

in from the head. "Uh, so, you ever uh, been sounded? I came up with this myself. Like I had this

fetish shop make this just for-AH, rrfh," he grunted, as he started trying to put the sheath on. His

teeth chattered and he stamped a booted foot at the floor, hands grappling with the rubber opening.

He already had a cockring on, which made it easier to go on. Jasek had a nice dick, uncut and thick,

almost like Skinbag's but a little more... adult. His chest shuddered under his harness and shirt,

rubber squeaking and creaking. He looked severely pained, muzzle open and snarled, tail lashing

around behind him, and finally the ball-sac hugged around his own orbs. He backed up against the

lockers and took a few deep breaths. The display had me a little freaked out; I realized I was

pressed up back against the wall as I sat on that bed, and my cock had sagged a bit. I palmed my

mane and leaned forward.

"That.. that tube, it went inside?" I asked, and he stepped forward, breath catching. I looked at

his swollen erection, a little leftover space at the end like with mine, which he milked out. It

looked painful. I mean, I like having my dick beat, but that's not on the inside. Jasek approached

me, then straddled over onto my lap. That was... I put my arms around him, and the fox sighed hard,

drool forming on his lips, ears splayed a little and dark inside. His cock slid up against mine and

he almost shook.

"Mmm-hmm. It feels.. it feels... you can't imagine how it feels, if you've never... and, and I can

come through it. Zale? Zale, you're so hot, you're the hottest.. zebra? I've seen. You're so, I want

to, I want to get fucked by you, but I want to see you come in that thing... oh god, I'm so pushy,

I'm sorry," he chuckled, body writhing against me. It made a racket, all that rubber against

leather, squeaking and creaking.

"You're, you're something else yourself," I said, grinning at the over-lusted fox. He leaned back,

perched on my thighs.

"Go on, make me.. make me come. You can, you can do it however you like, I mean you can suck... but

that lube stuff's kind of weird... or you can, you know, jack me. Don't be shy. Really, it's not,

it's not _painful_." His cock throbbed in that tortuous sheath. I reached for it and grasped around

the rubber, then slowly milked it back and forth. Jasek looked like he was going to pass out, back

arching, chest straining in that harness rubber, hands grabbing around at anything they could find.

He didn't reciprocate with me, which was fine, because I was kind of focused on what it had to feel

like for him. I did it slowly, and he cried out and moaned and had a fit. A little faster, and he

actually sobered up, grunting and stiffening under his leathers. I could feel him tensing it,

staving off an orgasm or working himself inside. "I.. I have a plug in right now.. that's why I'm

so..."

A plug? Oh. Jesus, this guy was a slut. I wouldn't walk around town with a fucking buttplug in my

ass! "Wow. You love this, huh?"

He screamed. Foxes and cats and rabbits can make the worst sounds. Minks too, but there aren't a lot

of minks. Something about skeletal problems. This was a real terrible blood-curdling evisceration

scream, and I completely wigged out. I was trying to get away from him, hands right off. Then I saw

his cock twitching in that sheath, his own hand clutching at it and jerking. Spunk started

splattering out, and I thought it would just kind of dribble out of the rubber sheath's uh, exit.

No, it shot, blasting me in the chest, sticky gouts that stuck in the fur like gel. After the last

spurt came out, he took a shaking hand and pulled the sheath off, barking as it stretched off his

balls. Another bark as the tube came out, then a big stuttering sigh.

Meanwhile, I stared at my chest. Twice in one night, and this one was such a gloppy load. "Ohhh,

ohh, it's all over your chest," he said, and instead of trying to clean it up, started pushing it

around with his rubber-gloved hand. I stared, my cock throbbing in that rubber housing. My chest

started feeling the cooling effects of the wet mess, his hand massaging the spunk into the fur,

staring down at it with a dazed, post-orgasmic glassy-eyed look. I stared at my cock in that sheath,

the rubber loosening and tightening up as he milked it over my cock, the wet slaps and squelches

coming from it. It made a handjob so ridiculously noisy, but it was so hot, disgusting in that

erotic way that's so hard to put your finger on. And my chest, god, my chest, I could smell that

musky stench coming off my body heat, feel the fur tightening, saw Jasek's smug grin as he tormented

me. My orgasm snuck up, just like before, and that extra grasp from the sheath made me see spots. I

could watch as he held it tight, the rubber pulsating as spunk flooded into the little bit at the

end, sucked out of my dick as he pulled his gloved hand up.

It was so goddamn messy, when he took it off. White jizz and lube slime all over my leathers, which

the fox dutifully cleaned up. Then we went our separate ways, me riding the service elevator to the

third floor, Jasek heading out the front. I was worried that he'd be all over me, but he had no

problems saying goodbye, even was a little cheery. He had fun, I had fun, and both of us were spent.

It was hard getting that rubber smell off my dick, though.

---

The next day, I got a phone call shortly after waking up. "Hello, is this Zale Sterling?"

That was a bad sign. Anyone who uses your full name is some sort of official. "Yeah, this is." My

cell said, 'Harley Benson.'. Who the hell is Harley Benson?

"Mr. Sterling, someone passed me your name and number. I'd like to set up a meeting with you, if you

have time."

"Sure. Do you want my address? I can-"

"I'd like you to meet me at the Bell Tower Hotel, perhaps at seven thirty? I might have to finish up

a few things at the firm."

The Bell Tower? Holy shit, that was big money. "Sure, I think that'll work." Maybe this Harley

Benson guy had the wrong number? Well, he had my name, but I generally don't go somewhere else to

meet with people any more. Streetwalking is less than escort service is less than brothel work at a

fetish club. At the club, safety is a panic button and a grizzly bear away. Streetwalking, in a

motel that charges by the minute? You better carry a gun. Escort's in the middle, usually fat guys

or people with behavior problems.

"Wear something nice, or the doorman may give you a problem. You'll be coming up to see Jason Menck

in suite 305."

"Alright, seven thirty it is."

"See you soon, Mr. Sterling." Click. Boy, was that creepy. The guy sounded one hundred and fifteen

percent professional. It wasn't just that put on voice some guys like to use when talking to John

Smith Who Isn't In India because their cable went out. This was that voice you get when you go to

Dale Carnegie seminars and learn how to Win Friends and Pretend You Care About People. I had an

instant mental picture of who was on the other end of the line. At the same time, I had no idea who

it belonged to, save that they were a hybrid. You can always tell a hybrid by voice. The ones whose

mommy didn't teach them manners have this kind of slurred growl, and the best ennunciators still

have the hard throat-generated M's and tongue-slap P's and T's. Horses are kind of the exception,

but you can still tell.

I decided to go get some coffee and a snack to wake up with, by way of a hot shower first. This

Benson guy wanted me to wear nice clothes, so I put on a little cologne - a very little, and I'll be

honest, it's this grassy musk called Stableboy that smells like leather and hay! - and went for nice

clothes. I almost always wore trashy clothes. Not trashy like gross, but trashy as in hopelessly out

of style. We're talking Billy Idol or Axl Rose. I couldn't imagine he'd expect actual formal attire;

I'm a fucking prostitute and we weren't going to a dinner party. I decided on a slinky black club

shirt, a slate leather vintage blazer, designer indigo jeans, and a pair of black snake cowboy

boots. I could eat anywhere that didn't require a tie, I didn't mismatch with my blue-tinted mohawk,

and I felt sexy in the shirt.

And who did I find at the coffee shop, but Jasek! He was as leathered up as a biker, and in fact

probably had ridden one in considering he had a helmet with him. Leather perfecto jacket, padded

black and red sport-bike riding pants, knee-high harness boots, black and red armored riding gloves

still on as he sipped at something noxiously minty and chocolatey. I got my vegan chai and sat down.

"Hey, you're that fox."

"Hey, you're that zebra-thing. Nice outfit. You look sharp. A little Don Johnson, though." Jasek was

reading the paper on one of the readers the shop had. He totally looked at my boots as I sat there

and propped one on a knee. That kind of attention deserved a palm through my mohawk. He sniffed and

grinned. "Wow, you smell like a horse."

"Thanks. Hey, thanks for last night. That was neat. Never done that. The 'combs are fucking creepy

though. It's like one of those video games where you kill alien zombie monsters." I eyed his reader.

"Hey, does that thing do the net?"

The fox slurped from his drink and spun the table-chained reader over towards me. "Have at it. Yeah,

it's kinda weird down there sometimes. Like if your mood gets messed up... and it's not really

noise-proof. You'd think it would be, but the air vent things really carry it for some reason. So

what're you doing out here? Just chilling? I never see you in here."

"Oh, I usually go to another place. I'm on my way over to The Bell Tower. Seeing a client."

Jasek lit up and leaned forward. Meanwhile, I attempted to find out who Harley Benson was. It was

extremely easy, because he was one of the partners for some business consulting firm in town. As in,

his name was in the company name. Benson, Blake, and Crawford. There he was, apparently ordered by

the names in the company title. Lion, german shepherd, wolf. Benson was a handsome-ass lion, with a

carefully trimmed mane and an expression smack between calm and smug. The dog in the middle, who I

assumed was Blake, looked awfully familiar.

"A client, eh? Oooh. Must be well off, if he's meeting you there. You probably can't get a room

there unless you know someone. That's where all the famous guys stay when they're coming through

town. You could be boning him on a pillow where some RnB start's pussy overflowed."

I winced. "Nice image. Yeah, he looks like a real breadwinner. I don't really go out and meet people

lately. Kinda risky."

"I kinda was wondering about that. I don't really know any prostitutes, like I don't really interact

a lot at work I guess. I mean do people pick you off a menu like at Denny's?"

I laughed. "Well, you know, hah, kind of! There's this little questionnaire. They match you up. Or

you can just request someone in particular, they have some glamour uh and action shots. You totally

gotta get out of the dungeons, The Pit can be cool. Once you get up into the inn rooms, you can meet

neat guys in the lounges. Less of that creepy shit in the back room, whatever." I worked my way

through the chai, then looked back at the reader. "Oh, crap. I gotta get out of here. I'm not sure

what happens if I'm late."

"No problem," Jasek said, grinning at me as he lifted up his drink.

I got up and rushed off, finishing my drink on the the way towards the door. Off to the hotel, then

inside to the desk. Not only did they tell me where to find this Jason Menck, but the bellhop walked

me up there. Now that was a head-trip. The place was all red carpet with oriental trim, and the

bellhop was actually in the proper uniform and white gloves.

The bellhop led me to the room, bowed, and then went back down to the office. I knocked on the deep

red door, then was about to go for another round when it unchained and pulled open. There he was,

the same lion from that website. Rich burgundy mane, just barely kept in line with care. Creamy,

tawny fur, trimmed carefully around the thick leonine muzzle. He was big and regal in person, suit

almost too small, cutting sharp edges around his wide-chested lion build, slacks almost filled by

his thighs. The slacks weren't even pleated, the crotch a left-dressed triple bulge. He topped me by

a clear foot of height, and I had those nice cowboy boots on. "Come in," he said, pulling the door

back. I stepped in and he shut it behind me, then flipped the "do not disturb" latch as he locked

it.

He didn't even say his name or ask me mine. He simply stepped past me, dress shoe heels thumping the

deep red carpet, body twisting and settling back. His hands slapped to his thighs, tawny fur swathed

in black lambskin driving gloves. I stared, as the hands moved to the crotch, wasting no time in

pulling the top button and then the zip. Underneath, a snap-free cotton jock, which he popped and

tucked aside. Then he stood up, half-hard uncut dick dropping out to dangle over a pair of jumbo

eggs. The lion pulled out of his shoes, then lost the pants and jock, still wearing his blazer and

dress shirt, still wearing his fucking _tie_. His hands moved to the arms of the chair, leather

wrapping carefully around the carved-wood arm, leather-padded arm.

Harley didn't say anything, and I didn't need to hear anything. I stepped up and then crouched down,

not even taking the leather coat off. Oh god, he'd already come that day, the stench so overpowering

that I let out a hot huff and drooped my head. He must've known what the huff was for, because he

opened his mouth.

"I had a meeting earlier. All I could think about was what you're about to do. You come

well-recommended."

I pictured him jacking off in the bathroom, grunting and snarling to himself, clutching a hand over

his mouth - a leather-gloved hand - so people would only think he was straining on the john. He

barely looked at me as he sat there, back straight, cock slowly filling up, shoulders back, foreskin

slipping back, and it was so wet inside. I looked at him and his eyes looked down. Oh god, oh god, I

just sunk my mouth over that head, lips pushing the skin back, tongue wiping that musky glans, head

tugging back to lip-pull the foreskin back over. He liked that, grunting and swelling harder in my

mouth. I downed deep and gagged on the head, then pulled back, repeating until excess drool left his

balls slick.

I didn't look, I didn't even open my eyes, I just sucked and mouthed and swallowed and played

rearing pony with my head. I didn't have to look, I knew exactly what he looked like, regal on the

chair, half-undressed, proud muzzle up as he received satisfaction from a filthy pony for hire-

"Don't finish me," he said, and I looked up, let his cockhead slip plump from my lips. Fuck, he was

using one of those fucking Blackberry email phone things! I don't know what look went over my face.

He slid the device away into a jacket pocket, then those gloved hands came for my face. I had half a

mind to pull away, but then the warm leather slid over my spit-wet chin and cradled me, and I

couldn't. "Mr. Sterling, we're going to move to that sofa, and you're going to take off every piece

of your carefully-selected outfit, then ride me."

I think I might have said, "Yes Sir," but I don't know. I remember getting up, taking off my

clothes, dully watching him as he came and assumed a similar position on the sofa. He loosened his

tie, then took it off, swinging the blazer off, then the dress shirt. I didn't want that spit going

to waste and straddled over onto him, and then... and then I don't remember him entering me, just

that he sat back and enjoyed it, and I had to move, and I loved moving, riding back and working on

him, listening to the firm grunts that escaped his muzzle, milking and clenching and trying to turn

those deep lion sounds into a roar of come.

Instead, I came, braying and clutching back at his bare, muscular thighs. I shot hard, and I

remember hearing it splat against something, and then I was burning with afterglow and staring at

Harley. His chest had the perfect lion ruff at the pecs, blended from wild into the short trim of

the fur, and now it was streaked with come. Up on his muzzle, a big white streak on his black lip. I

leaned forward, almost mashing my bare chest into his, but he held me hard. "I came on you," I said,

and I knew I sounded pitiful. I leaned in and lipped at the salty mess, then started to lick it off

his lip. His muzzle parted, thick rough tongue coming out and tangling with mine, and he rocked and

pushed and that groan sputtered into my mouth. I could feel him shoot, the jets were so hot and

firm, and then he pulled me off the kiss. "How much?"

I sat there, still impaled, oblivious. Maybe he asked again. "Oh. Three hundred," I said, "For

that." I climbed off, cock leaving me, the embarrassing wet ooze going down my thigh reminding me

that he was big. He got up and grasped his wallet from his slacks, then counted it out. Unlike that

skinbag, he didn't offer it to my mouth. He just offered the bills, nicely fanned, in that

snug-gloved hand. I took them and he dressed, and it was just like that. Nothing more said, until he

headed out, dropping the keys on the foyer table for the suite.

"Jason Menck has this room until tomorrow morning, but they'll take the keys from anyone." Then he

was out the door, and I just stared at the knob until I saw spots.

---

Harley called me a few days later, on a Saturday. When I saw his name on my phone, I wasn't sure if

I wanted to answer, or let it go to VM. I got a funny tingly sensation inside, like I wanted to jump

out of my skin. I answered.

"Mr. Sterling," he started. "I enjoyed our time together." His voice was the big-cat equivalent of a

purr, kind of like a growl. It sounded husky over the phone connection.

I get that sometimes, usually from creeps. It's why I prefer this club stuff, where people get

screened first. "Oh, hi! I'm glad you had a fun time." Maybe I should have told him that I ripped

him off. It was really a mistake, I wasn't trying, I just blurted out the first number that came to

mind.

"You're very attractive in leather. My friend didn't pass that along, he just told me that he'd

heard of a wonderful zebra cross who would help me relax. Work's been hard, I had to leave so fast

for a dinner meeting."

Oh no, static cling. "Well, I'll be honest, I really started wearing it as a punk. I used to be in a

band."

"I'd like to see you again. Now that I'm not going off to meetings after enjoying your company... do

you have a place in mind?"

"Well," I drew it out as if I had to think about it. "I work for this club, actually, called The

Pit. It's... it's really kind of, an acquired taste. But I live upstairs, it's really kind of nice.

If you come to the doorman and mention that you're going to see me, he'll have you come around the

back so you don't see guys getting whipped and sounded on stage and stuff like that. I'll let them

know you're coming. Just give me a time."

"Eight. I like evenings," Harley said.

"Eight it is."

"Be well," he said, and hung up. Ohhhhh, I squirmed around on the bed, let out a nicker - I try to

avoid it since it's loud, but I couldn't help it. Oh god, he was coming over again, the huge lion! I

called down to the guys in the queue, who handle all the stuff for companions, let them know he was

coming. Then out I went for my morning run. He called me in the morning. Who calls a whore in the

morning?

Saturdays are, ironically, the most boring day of the week for me. You'd be surprised how many guys

want to mess around on weekdays for a lunch break. On the weekend, everyone's hungover from the

night before and waking up at two, three o'clock. After my workout, I sat down for a little

composition. I was working on an album, and the hours evaporated as I tried to create one of those

prog-rock keyboard guitar combo lines from hell. Guitar, no sweat. I can out-play Yngwie with teeth,

Hendrix-style. Keyboard? Yeah, that's what was taking so long. I wasn't really feeling the emotion,

but I had to get the whole thing out, I had to empty it out of my head.

After some dinner and a little time in the bathroom to freshen up in all the right places, I put on

a pair of silky slate boxers and waited around. I think that when my clock ticked over to eight, the

knock at the door came at the exact same time. I got up and went over to peek out the peephole; yep,

it was Harley. Same outfit, too. Navy suit, white shirt, red tie, gray slacks, black dress shoes,

and those italian driving gloves.

I opened the door, and Harley stepped in past me without saying a word. He waited until I closed and

locked it, before he looked at me and frowned. "I was expecting...." he said, eyes scanning me up

and down. I was getting hard, cock filling out my boxers, and the silky fabric didn't help.

I had no idea what he meant, and gave him a dumb blond look. He started to talk and I jinxed. "Oh,

well, you said you liked it. I figured that you'd like to see me put it _on_."

He gave the slightest of nods, and that frown turned into... a cat look, which was better than a

frown. Harley started inspecting my apartment. It was really one big studio room, but I put up a big

blanket-made divider between the part with the bed, and the living kitchen dining whatever part. He

peeked behind the curtain, then went to look in the bathroom. He sniffed. I could hear it, like that

big drop-jawwed ass-sniffing that cats do. He circled back, then sat down on my sofa, gloved hands

crossed in his lap as he leaned forward. That suit strained a little, thanks to his broad shoulders.

Tailoring for lions must be hard. "Well, then I suggest you do that."

I couldn't tell if the attitude was a put-on, or if this was Harley Benson. I guess business

consulting required an unflappable attitude. I turned and disappeared behind the blanket, then

started rooting things out... from under my sheets. I had the whole thing laid out. I skinned the

blanket barrier back, then slid my boxer shorts off, facing away from Harley. I could hear him take

a deep breath. First, leather chaps, snug enough that I had to smooth them on a bit. Next, the

boots, a pair of fancy cowboy ones that were all square toed and flat-topped, real tall. Another

deep breath from the lion. Leather motorcycle jacket, which I zipped up right to the pecs - guys

love that. They don't want to see it go all the way up, that's for actually _riding_ a motorcycle.

Besides, it was a little tight, I'd gotten the jacket before I worked out hard. Long riding gloves,

the flare-cuff kind, which I had to fiddle with to get on. I flipped the collar up, then turned

around and clomped over to Harley, making a big half-circle towards my desk before approaching him.

His muzzle twitched, and those gloved hands spread out onto his thighs. I didn't need more of an

invitation. I just sauntered over, lifted a boot onto the sofa, took it off and kneeled down around

his lap. Just like before, except no cock speared my ass. He was still very dressed. Harley's face

twitched again, and I realized he was trying to keep it straight. Those gloved hands lifted and

started to feel me. Up my sides, down my sides, up the back, down the back. Down to my boots, and

that twitch started to break, muzzle parting so he could pant, then up my leather jacket. His hands

grabbed onto the lapels with a creak. "I've never met anyone like you," he said, voice a deep

rumble, almost a whisper. Then his big muzzle pushed into mine, rough tongue against my lips, then

inside.

I was so hard, and I couldn't help but push back, finally struggling from the kiss. "No, I'm going

to ruin your shirt," he said.

"Get up. I'll take it off," and I slid off his lap, stood and backed up, one hand on my cock to keep

it from just waving around. I had a little bit of burlesque in me when I'd put on the leathers, but

Harley had only stoicism as he stood and stripped. Once again, the gloves didn't come off, but

everything else did. This time, instead of a fabric jock, he had a smooth, and very pouch-y, leather

one. Nothing flashy, no stripes or studs or those fish scale metal things that leather-daddies like.

Just smooth, glossy black leather. "Three hundred dollars is expensive. This time, I'm going to fuck

your mouth full, as well as your ass."

So many words from him, but oh god, I sank right onto my knees. This lion was something else, cold

and massive and hard and stinking of sex. Even with that jock - especially because of that warm,

black leather - I could tell he'd gotten off earlier. Once, twice, I'm not sure. After a point I

guess it doesn't get worse. He didn't have to tell me to lean forward and start kissing at that jock

pouch; I could figure that out on my own. Wet black lips, a few presses of tongue at choice points,

then the suck of a kiss or two. I couldn't help but touch it as well, gliding leather over leather,

spreading my spit to my fingers as I made a wet mess of the jock and then slurped it back off. I

started to move to the snaps at the corners of the pouch, to help remove them so that Harley Benson

could simply stand there and enjoy his hard-earned cash. Instead, his gloved hands came down and

touched mine, moved them off the pouch. Heart pounding, I lowered mine down to my waist, as his came

to my face, stroking the features, stroking the _stripes_, fingering through my blue-tipped mohawk,

but keeping my head away. "Ask me to take it off."

"Please," I said, eyes fixated on the broad, naked tawny chest and its ruddy ruff of mane. "Please,

take it off for me," I breathed, hands lifting up and touching at his, sliding along the leatherclad

backs of fingers, over the little ruff of fur that stuck up through the vent in the leather, up the

hard tendons of his forearms. Then I let go, kneeling with my gloved hands hanging off my lapels,

absently feeling at the jacket, at how I desperately wanted to open it if only for a breeze of cool

air on my chest.

Harley withdrew his hands and thumbed at the leather pouch, tugged at the corners, then finally

popped two of the snaps. His hand snatched up the leather and pulled the other off with one motion,

then tossed the jock behind him. His cock flared, foreskin snugging over the mushroomed, glistening

head. Soon it curved upwards slightly, bobbing with the pump of its owner's heart. "You don't need

to ask for what's next. Do it." His gloved fingers circled his balls, gave a tug and a shake to

them, then left as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

I reached up and let my fingers take the place of his, stroking and tugging at the heavy, fleshy

orbs. That got him immensely hard, growling and huffing as his skin slid back and exposed the

head... into my mouth. I followed over the flesh, tongue gliding on it, thick lips mashing down

against the shaft and sliding back off. Knowing how to work that flesh, I drew his skin forward and

stuffed my tongue inside, swirled the head before I pulled free. His balls pulled up again and

again, and I kept fighting them down, eyes sometimes lifting to see what the lion was doing. He was

standing there, arms crossed, thick muzzle tilted right down at me. I wanted him to touch my face

and call me names and pull my head, but oh well.

I was just pulling off the head, lips surrounding it in a wet kiss, when Harley let out a hard

grunt. Hot salt flooded against my lips and spurted into my mouth. I sucked him in, then pushed his

cock out, spunk smeared all over the shaft. He snarled again and stuffed back inside, the head

nudging my throat, firing right down in. I gagged and swallowed, not even tasting more than that

first spurt. He drew back, one last shot flooding out into my mouth, and then his cock pulled free.

Some guys start slacking off right away, but not this cat - he looked like he was ready to pop

again.

"Stand up."

I did, leather squeaking a little, cock flexing as it waggled out between the firm wrapping of the

chaps. Harley took my face in his gloved hands, stroked and cradled, and I wanted to melt. He leaned

down, muzzle closer and closer, parting and then meeting mine. Tongue, rough and hot, wet and

probing, swirling around in my mouth, licking up his own come. He pulled back, tongue exposed, a

streak of spunk on it as he pulled it in and swallowed.

Harley moved me around, gloved hands pulling at my motorcycle jacket, took me along as he went to

the side of my bed and pumped some lube into a gloved palm, then smeared it over his still-turgid

shaft. Part of me wanted him to order me around, while part of me wanted to anticipate his desire

and be ready. I wasn't exactly sure what he wanted - apart from my ass - but I took a guess and

crouched onto the bed, boot toes hung over the edge, body folded up and hunched over.

The lion came up behind me and bent over, driving gloves grabbing at my booted ankles. My ankles? I

looked back, watched him caress the leather, then grip on. He leaned further, chest tightening, abs

compacting, and then he stuck it in. That sounds unerotic, but that's how he did it - he just pushed

forward and mashed the swollen head right inside. It hurt, a hard ache inside, the hot burn of rude

penetration, but it also felt so _good_. His cock was nicely shaped, thick, and he knew how to move

so that all the guts went along for the ride. That offers the best prostate stimulation if you're

not sitting on it and leaning back.

The authoritarian cat pumped forward, body thumping against mine, his cockhead punching up through

the second ring and making me hang my jaw open. Now there was too much awe, and I almost felt numb,

like some leathery toy for him to play with. He thrusted deep, to the hilt again and again, randomly

pulling back to let my asshole kiss over his dickhead again with the wet squish of flesh into flesh.

Then he spoke.

"One of my partners told me about you," he said, voice deep and dark with lust, punctuated by the

sound of hard breathing. "He said you would be a perfect fit for me. Make yourself come for me, or I

won't stop."

Then he went back to the hard thrusting, stiff and machine-like, the only concession being his

gloved hands roaming over random parts of me. Never my cock. I had a sudden flashback to a previous

marathon fucking session, one that had lasted over an hour, and I felt panic crawl up my throat.

Harley must've felt it too, because he growled and pushed harder through my clenching hole.

I decided that I couldn't take the abuse he could give out, didn't want to take that kind of abuse

_again_, and pulled out a horsey trick. Thwarted studs will stand in a field and slap their dickhead

against their belly and chest until they shoot. Well, it turns out that works on hybrids, or at

least me. I lifted up onto my hands, arms locked, and started tensing my cock. Soon I had a little

buck to my hips, the head swinging up and smacking my leather jacket. It didn't take long before I

was grunting and nickering, ropes of come spurting out onto my leathers, firing off ... across the

bed! I even heard one of them clear the other side and land with a smack on the floor.

I felt the hard pushes of a climax, then the dull grunt as Harley let his second load off into me.

The lion stopped moving for a moment, then pulled back. This time, his cock drooped. I turned around

and smeared a gloved hand through the mess on my chest, humiliated and unable to glean my little

twinge of excitement from it. The lion just stood there, cock drooping, maned head regarding me. His

cock was a mess, dripping come onto the floor. So I leaned down and sucked it clean, until he

swatted me off with a clap of leather to my face. I just pulled back and swallowed.

Harley stepped over to his clothes and put them back on, cock bundled up in its leather home, then

slid into slacks. He took his wallet out and came over to me. "I wasn't going to pay you," he said.

"Until you sucked me clean. That's worth a little extra." He counted out only seventy dollars and

set it on my nightstand. Wasn't going to pay? Wasn't going to pay? Technically he paid the house fee

already but you just don't get away without a (big) tip.

He didn't say goodbye; he just left. What a fucking asshole.

---

I was right in the middle of mixing a song - I was working on an album at the time - when someone

knocked on my door. It was mid-evening, and on my day off, so I had no idea who it was. I opened the

door and found Jasek standing there. Nude. "Wow, I'm glad I opted for same-day delivery of my fox!"

"Hey Zale. What's up?" The inverted fox leaned against the door frame. "Hey, did you see that lion

guy again?"

I stepped back from the door and Jasek invited himself in. Fine with me, I was approaching that

stage where you think so hard about something that it stops making sense. Like when you think about

a word like 'field' and suddenly it's spelled wrong no matter what. Except with me, it was the sound

of a stupid kick drum. Recording an album by yourself is fucking hard. Anyway. "Did you realize

you're naked?"

Jasek looked down, grinned, then tossed himself onto my bed. That was kind of precocious for having

met me twice. "Oh yeah, I was gonna change but I wanted to come grab you first. So you totally saw

that lion again because you're not telling me about it. Is he into something weird like inflatable

tits or pool toys or something?"

Pool toys? "No, he's into leather, a little. And he's a jerk." I closed up my studio stuff and

wandered around my apartment, ending up staring down at the prostrate fox. He gave me a grin and a

look between the legs. Black silk boxers. I'm one of those guys.

"What kind of jerk? There's the kind you punch, the kind like Bill Murray..." Jasek rolled once,

then sat up. Despite being kind of big for a fox, he had that small-critter energy. He didn't go for

my cock, so I figured he wasn't coming over for a quickie.

"Maybe more like a byronic hero," I said. "And yes, it's normal for whores to know who Byron is, I

didn't drop out of high school. So what's up? I mean, you're grabbing me, right? Why am I being

grabbed?"

"If you're busy, it's not a problem, I just thought I'd see if you wanted to hang out. Maybe watch

people do weird stuff downstairs. Or something." Jasek was being cool about it. He wasn't even hard,

although he had one of those always-plump pieces. "This guy I know, Kyle, might be coming over to do

stuff, too."

"Kyle, huh?" I vaguely knew a Kyle, or thought I did. "Well, okay. I'm not doing anything important.

Should I play dress up?"

Jasek shook his head, stood up, slid an arm around my shoulders. "Nah, I think I can take care of

that. I have a big locker downstairs with some fun stuff. It oughta fit you, it kind of collects

things left behind or whatever."

He wasn't hard, but I started to fill up at the thought of doing something different. I let him lead

me out of my apartment and down the hallway, to the complete disinterest of anyone milling around.

Either someone recognized me as a whore going off with someone sure to be another trick, or they

assumed I was paying up. It was early enough in the evening that it was the first crowd if that,

hardcore people who trawled the club for a constant stream of sex. We entered the freight elevator

at the very back of the building and stood around in the 25-watt light. "I feel like I'm cattle in

this thing," Jasek said, shifting between his feet. His cock and balls swayed in front, tail swayed

in back. I couldn't get over the colors, the unexpectedness of red where black should be and vice

versa. He was very well built, but the coloration made you focus on his hands and feet and somehow

that made him look quite thick.

"That's why they call it a meat market," I said, and turned to pull the door back open. As soon as I

got the inner gate down and pulled up on the outer, someone almost walked right in. A german

shepherd just about to flick a joint into a trash can. A big one, just the right amount of brawn and

scruff, deep mahogany on the face, almost butterscotch before his shirt covered it up. A wife

beater, with dog tags dangling in front. Fingerless leather gloves on his big hands, battered

digital camos on his legs, combat boots up to his calves. Were those come stains on his pants?

Didn't shake it before he stepped back from the urinal? Holy shit.

"Well howdy there, I was gonna come right up. Some ass said you were upstairs with the whores," the

dog said, grunting after every few words, finally coughing outright. "Guess I don't need to bother.

Hey, now don't I know you?" He looked right at me.

He looked really, really familiar. "Well I-"

The shepherd pushed past me and gave Jasek a big bro hug around the shoulders, then led us out. "Big

gaggle of guys hangin' around in the freezer. Oughta put on a little show, us three. I'm all baked

like a roll, good for all night. Who's your friend?"

"That's Zale," the fox said, and the shepherd got another few paces and stopped dead. "Huh?"

"Awwww shit, I'm a dumb-ass. Course it is! I was at your birthday party," the dog said, huge toothy

grin on his charcoal snout. I didn't know what he was talking about and probably looked blank. "An'

I hooked you up with that big ol' lion I work with." The dog was stoned for sure, eyes burning red

and dopey-grinned, but he still moved at an annoying pace. The Catacombs were actually larger than

the rest of the building - they extended below the rear alley and under the building behind - but we

were already punching through the middle.

I didn't really know what he was talking about - freezer? - but the lion! Now I knew who this dog

was. He was one of Harley's partners at that Important Business that he worked at. The Birthday

Party thing wasn't clicking; I hadn't had a birthday party since I was eight, and I cried at it.

Everyone does that at least once, someone told me. I was kind of stuck in between my musical mindset

and the daunting prospect of doing something depraved, and there just wasn't room for memory.

Luckily, this dog guy was pretty intent on getting us to a particular place and fast. We pushed

through the various groups of people milling about, clad in weird configurations of leather and

rubber and uniforms and even a couple in herp suits, and entered a huge room that...

Oh shit, it was a morgue! A wall of stainless steel doors, and it was alarmingly cold. Not

uncomfortably, just a big change from the people-heat of the rest of the place. "What the hell?" I

didn't want to go in and balked. Jasek had to come around behind me and push.

"Easy boy, it ain't what it looks like," the dog said. He fumbled in his pocket for something and

produced a plastic punch card. He stuffed it into a slot next to one of the metal door handles and

it clacked, then he pulled it open. No body was inside; instead, it looked like the inside of a big

upscale gym locker. He had some various gear in there that I only saw for a second before he closed

it up. "This messed-up fox here was big on gettin' it all done in metal."

"Yep," Jasek said, and took another card from the dog, opening a second locker. His was even more

full, packed to the brim with rubber gear. "Here, lemme find something for you," he said, and

started rummaging.

"Name's Kyle," the dog said, and stuck out a hand. I gave him a shake; he had a real powerful yank

to his. "I definitely met you at that party thing, was there with some other buddies. That wolf guy,

Hawk is it? Got you all kinds of leather gear stuff, right? Then that cat took some pics of you

while we were screwin' around. That was somethin'. That wolf's got a screw loose, lemme say that. I

got a few screws loose too, but he's, he's like real dark inside. I'm jus' a big ass-hole."

Oh, that birthday party. I felt like someone had dropped an ice cube down my nonexistant shirt. "Oh

yeah. I remember that," I said, and hoped that'd be it for the topic. It was; Jasek interrupted Kyle

by turning around and approaching me with an armful of stuff, all shimmery black rubber. The only

obvious things were a pair of boots - fireman's boots? Waders? I wasn't sure. The rest made a

quivering, black-glossy pile in his arms.

"Here, this oughta fit. If anything it'll be a little snug. Don't try putting on the stuff yet,

lemme..." He offloaded the gear into my grasp and went back to the locker. "You'll think this is

nuts, but you gotta powder the hell out of your fur." He added a bottle of talc to the top of the

pile.

Dumbfounded, I looked down at the gear, then sat down on a nearby bench. The room smelled funny,

musky and rank like piss, cut through with the stench of cock, cock, cock, semen, cock. There was a

splat on the benchtop, and I made sure not to put the gear on top of it. "Is this the freezer?" I

said, starting to look at the items Jasek had given me. Rubber tank-top, really long rubber gloves,

a rubber jockstrap with emphasis on the pouch portion, rubber bar chaps, and those huge boots.

"Yeeahp," Kyle said, hands on his hips. "An' that crowd moved on. Well shit. They were really

workin' each other in here. Wanted to freak y'all out. Y'all bein' you, that fox ain't freaked out

by a damn thing. Mike there prolly wants to get abducted by aliens or some shit. Oh, so you gotta

squirt that powder stuff on you. Do those gloves last or you ain't gonna get anything else on

right."

I picked up the talc and looked at it. It had one of those twist-valve caps, like baby powder. I

opened it and puffed it all over my torso, then spread it around, paling my fur. "You know, I've

never really thought about wearing this stuff," I said, and went for the tank top first. It was like

putting on a shirt... a shirt that stuck to you. And stank like rubber. It was really pretty

heavy-duty, and didn't quite want to stretch like I expected. Instead of making my muscles look all

shrink-wrapped, it squashed the short furs down and looked tight and restraining, but it felt kinda

neat. And it smelled. Holy shit, this rubber stuff smelled.

Next up, the jock. That was easy to put on, and boy, it was nice having my junk cradled in stretchy

rubber. It looked so lewd; there would be no way I could go outside wearing it. The line of my glans

showed up through it as my dick curved and fit in. And when I started getting a little hard, it

stretched to a point. The chaps required more powder, and barely stretched, converting my legs into

muscle-bulged tubes of black. The boots were thigh-high and felt neat going on, solid black rubber

with only a yellow line around the sole seam.

"Turn 'em down, like you're a pirate," Kyle suggested, and I followed the order, inverting the

rubber. They weren't lined with anything except more rubber, and with them folded down, they did

have a swashbuckler look. I stood up and clomped around, listening to all the squeaks and slaps as

the boot cuffs slapped my legs. This was total gear fetish. I could get into it, in a kind of

scared, cautious way. Jasek came over and took the gloves, then almost ran them inside out and

rolled them up. He then took the talc and squirted my arms, hands spreading it.

"Okay, stick 'em in," he said, and I did. The rubber wasn't as thick as the shirt and fit snug

around my hands; he unrolled the arm parts, and soon I had black rubber up almost to my elbow. He

gave me a few indian burns, air squeaking out. "Wow. Wow wow wow that's nice, you look awesome. Now

we gotta clean you up and shine you up."

Shine? The two grabbed a towel and wet it, then mopped residual talc off the gear and my chest and

upper arms. Next came a bottle of something, which they spread around and massaged into the gear,

then buffed off with another towel. The rubber darkened to ink black and shined up. "Hey, that's

pretty cool," I mumbled, looking down at myself.

"You two go have some fun, I gotta gear up. It's gonna take a lil' while," Jasek said, and sat

himself down on the bench next to me. He gave my leg a pat. "Don't worry, Kyle won't let anything

stupid happen to you."

"Sure," I said, and nodded, patting his hand with a rubbery hand. I didn't believe him, but at the

same time, didn't want to create a fuss. I stood up and Kyle came over, offering me a pat to the

shoulder. We left the room and entered the main hallway, then headed for one of the big gathering

rooms. I had been trying to prepare myself for what I was going to get into - I'd really never been

down to the catacombs when full of people in the whole year or so I'd been at The Pit - but thinking

is one thing and doing is totally another.

Up in the main bar, you can sit in the front and have a decent experience if you're not into hard

shit. Hang out at the bar for some staring contents, go in the back room for a blowjob, go down to

the dance floor in the basement to do E and sweat a lot, go way upstairs and pay for some sex or

rent a room, but if you go into the catacombs... you'll see some crazy human guy with his dick

turned purple from a cockring and inflatable horns getting shocked by some electrical thing while

three other guys point and egg him on. Just as I came in, the guy unloaded with a kind of gurgling

scream, and then a fourth came up with a towel to coddle him. Now this was in a room meant for

mingling and getting drinks from the satellite bar, not one of the play rooms.

The three gawkers were wolf, wolf, and horse. The horse was a big one, a midnight black something or

other - you'd think I would know my horses, right? - and he looked ready to kick and fuck ass.

Leather driving harness, studded gauntlets, gleaming leather gloves, and.. hoof chaps. The wolves

were garden-variety timber wolves, one in biker gear, the other in nazi gear and smoking a

disgustingly large cigar. Once the inflatable horn guy was led off into another room, I was the most

interesting thing there.

"Nice!" "Hey, he needs hooves just like you, Clark!" "Don't horses give good suckjobs? Get him over

here and find out!"

"Don't you be all afraid, pony-boy," Kyle said, patting me on the shoulder. "Jus' go say hi."

I took a few steps forward and the three formed a half-circle in front of me, drinks in hand. Going

and seeing hi meant them all approaching me, and since two of them were wolves, I backed right back

up. Wolves gave me the creeps ever since that one guy had accosted me and squirreled me away in his

house. I viewed them all as the same, which was an assholish thing to do, but I think I might have

been mad at myself for letting him. With two of them backing me up - and the horse not trying to

shoo them away - I wondered if I had the nerve to make chitchat and just move on. They had drinks in

hand, so that was a plus, although the horse dispensed with his in a couple of gulps.

If the two wolves had names, I never heard them. They might have said them, but all I heard were the

growls and chuffs and creaks of leather gear. I looked around the group as they backed me down, and

saw a third wolf show up. It was the guy who'd led off the spent human. He actually looked pretty

average, battered jeans and a denim jacket, orange roughout leather work boots and similar deerskin

gloves. He could have been some kind of construction worker, maybe. Until he took his dick out.

They all took their dicks out.

"Hey, guys, that's a nice meat counter you're makin' there," I offered.

The newcomer pushed his gloved hand forward and gave me a pet to the snout. "Ain't ponies supposed

to be all vegetarian an' shit?" The one downside to Lainsville was that it was surrounded by enough

rural land that everyone talked like a hick. I expected his other hand to come up, but it didn't. It

was holding something.

"Well, y-"

"So how come you're all so into sucking dick?" Before I answered, the others started up. "Hey, he's

got stripes, maybe he's a zebra too." "Guess his ma got around!" "Hey, we should go find a lion, I

bet that'd be a great match up!"

I wished I had a lion. After Mr. Construction Worker started touching me, the other three got in on

the act and soon I was not only being groped but turned around and flat-out inspected. The actual

act wasn't that bad, since I wasn't entirely naked and the rubber gear did make me feel sexy. But

they kept talking, and it was all about me, and all about how I was just some pony toy who'd

wandered into their lives. No, they wandered into _my_ job, sort of, maybe if you thought about it a

certain way.

I realized that Kyle was gone at the same time I realized what Construction Wolf was holding. Mitts.

Padded leather mitts with heavy locking wristcuffs. When I was facing the wall, as gloved fingers

went all over my ass, I felt the wolf's muzzle touch my ear. "You wanna get mitted up? Don't worry,

we ain't gonna use the padlocks." He was surprisingly tender. I guess I nodded because he started

putting them on. They weren't the big ball kind or horse hoof mitts or anything like that. They were

just like a thumbless mitten. As soon as my hand was inside, more hands grabbed the mitt and latched

it shut, scuttling the padlocks somewhere else. Then, all those gloved hands closed up each mitt,

folding it over so I was making a fist inside. It felt a lot like I could grab at stuff, and so I

tried, reaching back and picking Biker Wolf's fly as a test.

I couldn't open it, and worse, that wolf decided to return the favor. Where I had useless hands, he

had fine leather gloves over working fingers. He had my jockstrap unhooked and removed, then handled

my cock. I almost said I was on duty, but I wasn't, and I just couldn't really move away.

"I got an idea," Construction wolf said. When he unzipped, I turned around and leaned back against

the wall. Construction wolf was opening his fly. "You hold that thing for me, I'm gonna cream in it.

Then you all are gonna cream in it after. Shouldn't have a hard time with this pretty pony standing

here, all rubbered up for a messy night." He didn't really have a long dick, but it was fat and made

a mess of precum everywhere as he grunted and pumped with that rough-leathered hand. He didn't take

long, either, grunting and snorting and making a... he didn't really shoot that much either. Lots of

grunts and snarls and stomping his foot, but only five or sex sticky splats.

Nazi Wolf was next, but instead of jerking his dick - and it was a nice, big tool - he grabbed his

nuts and jacked _them_ off. I'd never seen anyone do that before. He made sounds like it hurt, but

he was done faster than Construction Wolf and about half of the mess splatted out onto the floor as

the next in line held the jock for him. My jock. Well, Jasek's. Biker wolf took about five minutes,

and endured a constant series of jibes from the others about it. In fact, I don't think he could

shoot unless they were calling him "no-nuts" or "you so young, you shoot blanks or something?" He

had a black dick and nuts the size of racquetballs, and shot sticky glops like the Construction

Wolf.

"Now you're gonna whack me off," Clark - the horse - said to me. "And yeah, you're gonna keep those

mitts on. Just do what you can, I'll finish up easy just for you." Somehow, being involved made me

feel a little better. Plus, Clark was a big stud. I liked big studs, unless they were wolves.

Yes sir, I didn't say, and kneeled down on the floor, boot heels up against the wall. I lifted up my

mitted hands and grappled with Clark's dick, helping coax it up. He didn't wear anything to hide it,

but he did have a heavy cockring behind his balls. He was hard in seconds, and extremely hard. I

could kind of get a grip on it, if I mashed my hands against the flared shaft, and he certainly

liked it. The stallion stood there, arms crossed over his big chest, legs tensed from standing on

those hooves, and his cock practically spit at me.

"Get the damn thing in front of my dick!" He bellowed, face turning into that of a crazed horse, and

the Biker Wolf held the rubber pouch in place. The stud shot so hard that it made a very lewd

splattering sound, and the force of his load scooted a little of the existing contents over the

edge, to drool down the rubber and the wolf's fingers. "Okay, pony, time to lead you down to the

water-hole."

I must've looked scared - I felt kind of numb inside - because Construction Wolf and Biker wolf had

to hold me back against the wall. Nazi wolf took control of the rubber jock pouch, while Clark gave

me a few loving pets to the head and then squeezed at my jaw. I opened up and crossed my eyes as the

pouch came closer and closer. I expected one of them to tell me to lean down and lick at it, but

Nazi Wolf just tilted it and mashed it right into my face. Quite a bit of the mess smeared into my

fur, or went into my mouth... and it was all cold and disgusting! Musky and foul and just about the

worst come you could imagine. Fucking carnivores. At least that wolf who kidnapped me had eaten a

lot of fruit, sometimes. Nazi Wolf wasn't careful, just forceful, and I would say the majority of

the four loads ended up slopping out the underside of the jock pouch and all over my neck and chest.

Nazi Wolf then stretched the jock's strap around my head, attaching it onto my face like it was one

of those surgical masks. One of my nostrils cleared it and let me breathe the stink of rubber and

come.

"Aww shit, look at _that_. I'm gonna take a picture," Construction wolf said, then dug out a trendy

cell phone. The phone's flash shined on me, then he preserved the moment with an electronic bleep.

The three wolves then started chattering amongst each other and left me to kneel there, covered in

spunk. I looked around the room, only seeing one or two people give me a moment's look as they

passed through.

That, and Clark. He reached down and removed the pouch from my face. "Well, pony-boy, what you got

t'say for yourself?"

I thought for a moment. I really wanted to go lie down somewhere nice and quiet and not in the

Catacombs. Make no mistake, having that much come dumped down my front had me wanting to shoot off,

except it also had me feeling more disgusting than usual. There was no money exchange, no pretense.

Kyle was supposed to take me around and have fun with me, but he deserted me and left me at the whim

of three wolves and a horse two and a half times my size. Of all the people I'd run into so far -

including Jasek, who was nowhere to be seen, dammnit - Clark was turning out the best. So, after I

thought for a second, while he patiently waited, I said the truth. "I really gotta piss."

He laughed, and put a hand down on my head. "Well now, c'mon, I wanna show you somethin' real

messed-up, an' let you water the plants all at once." He helped me up, smearing the leftovers from

that jock all over my shoulder, and led me out of the room. Down the main hallway, he jogged into an

unmarked room. It was dim inside, all black paint and black traction concrete. A regular industrial

toilet sat at one side, and a sink and urinal at the other. The urinal was attached to a weird

little wall area that stuck out from one side and faced the door. The room smelled of piss. Clark

drew the slide latch and gave me a pat on the shoulder. "Go on, pony, do your business."

I was half hard and it was difficult to maneuver my dick with the damn mitts on. Instead of offering

to take them off, Clark just stepped behind me and moved them away, then leaned down and held my

shaft. I felt like a little kid and couldn't start it up. "Uh, I can't, I can't do it when you're

touching me," I said. Instead of saying something mean, the black stallion just let go and let me

stand there alone. Something was wrong about the bathroom, and I couldn't put my finger on it. I

looked around, at the strange way a partition came out, over my shoulder at the toilet that didn't

have a puddle of water in it.. and then I started up.

Once I was done, I swatted at the flusher with my mitted hand and nothing happened. "Hey, it's

busted! Are you gonna, are you gonna," I said, looking at the pool of yellow in the urinal, then

back at Clark. "You know, put my face in it? I don't really do that kind of stuff..." Now I knew

what was so strange: the sound. There was a sound, kind of like one of those sound machines you use

to add white noise. It sounded vaguely like surf. I had a mini fridge that did the same thing, and

in the middle of the night, I sometimes thought someone else was in the room, breathing.

"Naw, I ain't like that. You're a nice boy, you don't need too much crazy stuff on you right now.

Got enough wolf an' horse come for a mess. In fact, lemme go clean off that thing for you," the stud

said, and clopped over to the sink. I had to say, the hooves were a nice touch. They made him sound

like a real horse, and made him a little taller. He ran the water and cleaned off the jock pouch,

then picked up some paper towel and came over to wipe me off. "Go on an' stand on the handle a bit,

sometimes you gotta do that."

I put my mitt on it and pushed it down, then kept it on. After about three seconds, the water

slurped down into the drain and gurgled. Then coughed, a sputtering sound coming back up. I let go

of the handle and heard a sound like someone taking a huge inhale, then a wet splash and a groan.

"What the hell?" I looked back over at Clark. "No, I'm serious, what the hell was that?"

Over by the edge of the urinal-holding partition, water started to creep out from underneath what I

had thought was a utility closet door. It flowed over to a floor drain near the sink and trickled

down in. I couldn't help my curiosity and went over, crouched, and sniffed. Piss! My piss, for that

matter. I looked at the utility closet door and opened it up. Inside was a... "Holy shit, holy

shit!"

"Pony, meet Mutt," Clark said, hand on my shoulder. I tried to back away, but the horse was strong

enough that he kept me in place. The 'dog' in the closet let out a muffled ruff. He wasn't really a

dog, at least I don't think so. His head had some kind of elaborate leather dog thing on it, but all

that really showed were scooped leather ears that stuck up straight. The rest of his face was

covered by a heavy-duty full face gas mask, with a rubber hose leading off to the wall of the

closet. It fit where the bottom of the urinal was on the outside, screwed onto a short metal pipe.

There was some kind of lever and a valve, but it was hard to see inside the dark space. The

dog-person was crouched and shackled up, shackled in place to the floor and wearing immense heavy

clodhopper boots, rubber chaps, rubber everything for that matter. His mitted hands, just like mine,

were cross-chained so that they were held up for a perpetual begging. His whole front, all the black

rubber suit and harness, was wet.

I looked between the dog-person and Clark. I didn't really know what to think, and laughed. Then I

stared. "This is nuts. This is so nuts. Did I just, did I pee.. ?"

"Lemme show you. Mutt, here goes," the stud said, then stepped over in front of the urinal. Mutt

made a sound that was a bad imitation of a dog whimper and struggled at his bonds.

"I don't think he likes being in there," I said, standing up and backing away. The sink caught me

right under my butt and I scooted to the side. It was Clark's turn to laugh.

"Ain't you one of the whores from upstairs, Pony? I heard of you, like you're part zebra or

somethin'. You've never seen pup-play before?" Clark didn't have any trouble starting up; he pissed

like, uhm, a racehorse.

I kept looking between him and Mutt. I knew what was going to happen, but I couldn't really believe

it was going to happen. A leather bar is one thing. A guy in a rubber suit, dog ears, and a mask

shackled in a closet ready to drink piss? That's a little extreme. "Well, not really, no. I don't

come down here. I just made friends with this guy while I was having a late night snack, and-"

"Shit, shit, it's gonna overflow!" Clark said. I took a cautious step forward, and he was right.

Normal urinals just drain, but this one... "You do watersports, Pony?" I paused and he kept going.

"Look you got all kinds of rubber shit on you, get over here!"

I stepped over and Clark turned, lancing me with a stream of horse piss. While I was wearing rubber,

I wasn't wearing _all_ rubber. "Fuck! I'm gonna smell like a bathroom all night!"

"You could get all sprayed off. 'Sides half the guys here probably get harder when they smell a ripe

stud," the stallion said, squeezing out his last. It hit my calves, against the folded-down rubber,

and ran off onto my boot toes. "Okay, bottoms up! You go pay attention to Mutt there."

Clark mashed the flush handle down, and nothing happened. That's because Mutt was exhaling. When he

reversed and inhaled, something in his gas mask went slap and the air hose bobbed like it was

suddenly heavy. He shook and rattled the chains, paused and... swallowed? Then exhaled hard. Piss

and air sprayed out of the mask's bottom-facing vent and splashed all over the dog-man's rubber suit

and crotch. Another gulp of air and a deep gurgle from the urinal, followed by another splattering

rush of piss. Mutt growled and ruffed, then sat there panting.

"See? Ain't nothin' too weird. Dog's been doin' this for years. Why we put this sucker in like this.

Puppy won't choke or anything, just gets a salty drink and sprays it on himself like that," Clark

said, stepping away from the urinal and wetting some more paper towels. He mopped me off while the

dog sat there. "Lookit him. Look! Aww ain't that cute."

I hadn't really noticed that Mutt had his cock exposed, since it was wrapped in one of those black

rubber sheaths that Jasek was fond of and hard to see. But now that the dog was panting and jostling

himself around, the swollen length was pretty obvious. "Huh. Uh, guess he likes it."

"Bet he wants to cream on your leg, but he ain't been a good enough dog yet," Clark said, stepping

away from me and patting the rubber pup on the head. "C'mon you, get you out in some fresher air,"

the horse said, and walked me out of the bathroom.

"Well that's where you ran off to!" someone yelled, and I turned around. Coming down the hallway was

Kyle and.. someone. Black and red rubber, anatomic gas mask, some kind of hood under it. It wasn't

just a regular rubber suit, or clothing like the stuff I had on. It was totally crazy shit, like

something out of a movie. Molded to make muscles show, heavy gauntlets made of deep red rubber,

knee-high harness boots made of similar material, a big codpiece straining with an erection. All he

needed was a cape. The gas mask was canine and dark-eyed but I couldn't quite place it... until I

recognized the red stripe up the head.

"Kyle? And... you gotta be kidding, is that?" I said, stopping like a deer in headlights. The

rubber-clad figure unhooked the gas mask, and there wrapped in a vulpine-issue scuba faceless hood

was Jasek.

"Sorry it took so long, this thing's a pain to get put into. It's not stretchy like that stuff," he

said, cradling the mask on his forearm. It reminded me of something and I stared at it. "You like

this thing? This is a pretty sweet outfit. It's a modified version of the first Tim Burton Batman

outfit. I worked with a couple of guys on it... I actually helped make it," the fox beamed. He

shifted on his heels while he talked about it. But it wasn't Batman that it was reminding me of. It

was Hawk, the wolf who kept me at his house, when he would wear his wolf helmet mask whatever thing.

"No, it's cool, uh," I said, and realized my hands were still in mitts. Kyle wagged his tail, and

Jasek just smirked. "I kinda got these put on me. I guess they aren't locked on, but," I said, and

walked up to the pair.

Instead of helping me, they just grinned and motioned for me to come along. "Well that's just fine,

'cuz we're gonna go and do some heavy-ass scene and I figured you might wanna watch. Got a second

chair in there you can sit on, an' I'll hook you up to a milker."

"Oh, I'm not a cow," I said, before I even registered it. Kyle almost doubled over laughing. "Oh,

uh, wow. That could be, interesting. So what's this scene?"

"He's gonna tie me down to a gyno chair and fuck around with my dick-"

"An' maybe a lil' breath control," Kyle added in.

I took a deep breath. "Honestly, after having my face shoved in four guys' worth of come and pissing

into a urinal that flushed into a puppy man's gas mask," I exhaled. The two stopped and looked, as

if I was gonna bail. "It's not like things are gonna get that much weirder. Yeah, sure,"

---

The dog and fox took me into one of the private rooms at the far end, which apparently are usually

booked in advance. Someone had cancelled. The room was about as big as a family living room, and

quite packed with stuff. A few heavy-duty industrial cabinets, some kind of hoist in the middle, and

two serious... chairs. One of them looked kind of like a dentist's chair, but where those give you a

foot rest, this gave you two with stirrups that would splay you apart. The chair also had heavy

restraint straps dangling off it, and some sort of control for tilting it. The other chair was a

straight-backed wooden job festoned with hooks, rings, and brackets for attaching things... and

whoever sat in it.

I got the tall-back chair, and Jasek got the crazy doctor's shit. I also got tied up. "Wait, I

didn't, I mean I thought you were gonna.. milk me?" I looked around for anything that could be a

'milking machine'. I didn't really find any. Kyle milled around, grabbing at buckles and fixing my

legs in place. Then, he took one arm over to a chair arm and strapped it down. "Wait, wait!"

"Oh calm your stripey ass down," Kyle gruffed, petting at my latex-enclosed forearm, then offering a

fatherly slap. "Sometimes if you go off more 'n once, you start thrashin' an' yellin'. But if you're

all bottled up, it's a big ol' thrill. You don't like somethin', you just say 'basketball', or you

say three hard grunts real fast-like."

"Basketball?"

"Uh-huh. You think of one good reason why we'd say that word right about now?" I thought and shook

my head. "That's why you call it a safe-word, then. You got that?" Jasek gave him a thumb's up and I

nodded.

"Good. Now I'm gonna give you a chew toy, next," Kyle said, and retrieved a large black ball gag. It

had grooves running from one strap end to the other. I brought it up and nestled it against my lips.

I didn't really want to be gagged, but at the same time, I had some kind of weird instinct to open

my mouth for it. The grooves made it easy to bite down on the ball, which was nice, because it was

enormous. Kyle actually had to pull my jaw apart to get my teeth fitted down into a groove. I chewed

at the ball and grunted, then tested all the bonds. Not really that tight, but completely effective.

I started getting hard, mostly from the excitement part of fear. "That's a good lil' hoss," Kyle

said, and patted my jaw. When he got farther away, I saw a huge tent in his camos.

I hadn't been tied up for a while, and the feelings came over real unexpectedly, twinging through

every finger as I realized that I wasn't going anywhere unless I grunted three times in a row. Jasek

received the same treatment, with the addition of something intended to keep his booted feet in the

stirrups. Watching myself get tied up was boring, but watching someone else was interesting, if

creepy. Kyle seemed to be fairly loud, I guess thanks to being stoned, but while strapping the fox

in place he was silent. Jasek's mask went back on, and then the dog went over to the cabinets. He

got out his own, a military-issue canine one that fit over most of his head. He got it into place,

air hose strapped to the muzzle and dangling down by his neck. Sometimes, when he exhaled, it made

this fluttering fart sound in the hose.

"Now, see here, Zale. First, we gotta go see if this fox is receptive," the dog said loudly, voice

resonating in the mask. Receptive? I assumed he was receptive, since it seemed to be his whole idea.

Kyle stomped over to Jasek and removed the fox's codpiece, and wouldn't you know it, the fox was

barely hard. Kyle fondled the bound fox's shaft for a moment, to masked groans and twitches from the

strapped-down Jasek. I guess he was just relaxed, because his cock quickly filled up to its hard

curve. Kyle worked the foreskin harder and harder, until I could hear it from across the room and

Jasek was arching his back, head rolling side to side. The dog stopped and the fox settled, just

panting in his mask.

"Now, and you keep watchin' pony, we gotta tenderize that meat a lil'." Kyle slid his belt out of

its loops and then clutched it in one gloved hand by the buckle. I squirmed where I sat, assuming

the worst, and getting it. The dog used the belt like a whip, lashing it and snapping his hand back,

making the very tip - a metal flashy piece - snap against the fox's dickhead. Over, and over, and

over, until the fox wasn't just screaming, but what sounded like sobbing. Kyle stopped and reached

up to pet the fox's hidden face, and Jasek _nuzzled_ him. When the dog's gasmasked face turned to

me, he gruffed. "Look at that, pony likes seein' that kind of thing!". I mumbled behind my gag and

tried to suck up some spit from my lips, but it just dripped onto my rubber tank-top.

"Now that he's tender, we gotta stuff him good," Kyle said, and made his way to the cabinets. First

up, elbow-length black rubber gloves. The kind you wear if you're going to dip your hands into acid.

The dog fooled around with them and made a few squeaks, one hand dropping to his crotch to play with

himself through his tented pants. Next, some kind of brown stuff that he squirted on the gloves,

wiped around, and then toweled off. It smelled like a doctor's office. Third, this weird tube thing

that looked like a metal corrugated bendy straw, kinda like those things you get in your Super Big

Slurp from the convenience store. At one end, it had a sort of oval bulb with smoothed little holes.

The dog came over to show it to me, huffing in his mask like he was going to pass out. "You see

this?" He said, tapping the bulb. "In case he's gonna squirt. Don't want it all backin' up in

there." Aside from the holes, the whole thing was hollow and the ridges were very rounded. It made a

very relaxed 'J'.

I had no idea what he was holding. Maybe in the back of my mind I did, but not really. When Kyle

mentioned squirting, I felt confused. The thing was some kind of straw, I swore, like it would go in

the mask? What's that have to do with...

The dog got out a bottle of lube and went over to Jasek, then nudged the squirter tip against the

fox's cock. He squirted lube _inside_, to the fox's squirming yowl, then massaged the shaft. Oh no.

Oh shit no. The dog then showed the fox the metal thing, and started toying the oblong end into

Jasek's pisshole. The fox fought at his restraints, pleading sounds coming out of his mask, and that

swollen erection sank to a floppy thing in the dog's rubberclad fingers. The oblong bit went in, and

was halfway in, then was totally in. Then more and more, the curve disappearing, then a third of the

shaft, half of it, then only three or four inches stuck out. Jasek sounded like he was dying, and I

totally could guess just where that oblong bit was inside.

I couldn't stop being hard, but I couldn't stop being freaked out. Sure, Jasek said he wanted to do

this, but that didn't change the sounds that came out of him, nor did it change the fact that no one

banged on the door. The fox was _loud_, even in that mask. After a few moments, he quieted down,

body struggling constantly under all the black and red rubber, breathing so hard I thought he was

going to faint or something. I kept telling myself that if I wasn't tied down, I would be out of

there. I could have been making money, but instead, I got to watch some guy play army doctor with

BatFox.

Somewhere in all of this worried sitting, dick waggling around, I must've made some kind of weird

noise. It was probably just a throat squeak, which I get now and then, but I bet it sounded funny

with my mouth gagged. Jasek said something I couldn't hear, then repeated it with Kyle down close to

the fox. The dog then unstrapped the fox's gas mask and slid it off, condensation dripping onto the

damp black facefur. Jasek looked my way and grinned.

"Hey," he said, then swallowed. And swallowed again. "You doin' okay over there? You look kinda

green."

"Naaah ahmm ihlllh raaaahh," I said. Despite the ball's size, knowing that it had ridges made me

think that I could somehow open my jaws a little. Nope. "Ahm ohhhayh."

"Well that's a good thing, 'cuz we ain't even got to the good parts. Jus' warmin' that fox up. See,

lookit, he's so happy with that thing stuffed up in there," Kyle yelled behind the mask, from the

other side of the room. He was busy getting something huge out of the metal cabinets, that I

couldn't quite see. I looked over at Jasek, and saw the fox's face swoon.

"It's, wow, it's sliding in a little more," Jasek said, head slumping back against its pad as he

uttered a relieved groan. I guess he was right, I mean I thought the metal tube thing - the sound?

is that it? - maybe was a little longer, maybe. Was it supposed to go in more? Then an arc of yellow

came out of the end of it and pattered on the fox's chest. Another guttural, in-heat moan of relief,

another arc of piss. Then a little splat onto the abs, then just a trickle down the shaft.

Kyle dragged something over towards me. It seemed heavy, because he grunted more than usual in his

own mask. Unlike the fox, his stayed on. "Well I hope you're all drained out, stripes. You take a

leak in here an' it's gonna get all screwed up. It ain't a _real_ milker." The dog picked something

up and stood. There it was, a nondescript black box with a sort of faux leather covering and a hose

coming out of it. The dog's rubber-gloved hand held a big tube which was open at one end and clear.

Inside was this weird rubber sort of stretchy thing that was glued on to the inside of the cylinder

about four fifths maybe down, hollow in the middle out to the end part. The hose both went to the

end and to the meat of the tube, with a little metal thing in between. The other hand swiped up a

big squirt bottle of something and hosed my cock with it, then brought the tube over. He slathered

his hand around my cock, and that liquid was the slickest lube I've ever felt. "Now you jus' relax,

stud. This sucker - hah! - is gonna take care of you an' make sure you feel all good."

The dog toed at something on the box and it started to whirr. I expected a really loud sound, but it

just purred like a motor. The tube-hose-contraption, on the other hand, started to throb and pulsate

inside. This was totally freaky. Holy shit, it was gonna milk me. I sagged a bit while he was

holding it after slicking me up, but the closer that thing got to my dick, the harder I got. He

stuffed the head into the cylinder and slid it down until air farted out of it. Then, each one of

those pulsations sucked it down towards my balls, each counter-pulsation pushed it up off. The dog

toed a little more and soon it was bouncing about two inches on my dick. It didn't go past about

halfway. Kyle pulled some kind of rack over the chair, a chain swinging from the end of it, which he

affixed to the sucker so it would ride my cock and not fall off.

It felt a little less than I expected. It was like a very sterile blow, like some guy who just

drapes his lips around you. Humans do that sometimes, like they think it's super sensitive because

it's big. No, not really. Kyle reached down to the box and turned something, and the slow pulsation

sped up maybe four times? Oh god. Oh fucking everything! I groaned and brayed into the gag and Kyle

slowed it down, watching me until I started to sag, the moment of over-thrill turning to boredom. He

nudged it up a little, then left me there, cylinder bobbing up and down.

While the dog dug around in the cabinets a bit more, I tried to understand how the stupid thing felt

on me. If I really focused, I started to get close, but then I'd open my eyes and remember where I

was and it'd back off. I wanted to start talking around the gag and try to enunciate that I just

wanted my dick smacked until I unloaded, and then sent off to bed. It was definitely unique, the

thing not only sucking onto my cock and pushing off, but actually _sucking_ on the head. I tried

fucking into it, but the speed Kyle had dialed in just made it too hard to keep up.

Then I ignored it totally, because Kyle was really going to turn the freak factor up. First, the

mask went back onto Jasek's face. I kind of missed seeing him, fur poofed up and matted at the same

time, face stuffed out into the open from that weird open-faced hood. It made things look kind of

okay, like he was having fun with a foot-long rippled metal fucking tube shoved up his goddamn cock.

Next, out came a Magic Wand. Girls love those things because they're so powerful, you can shove them

in at your G-spot from over your whatsits bone. Yeah. Guys love them because they can be used to

grind on your dickhead, which is a terrifyingly good feeling.

Kyle just went over and turned it on, buzzing like a welding machine, and spanked the fox's sounded

cock with it. The fox heaved and yelled, chest rising up as Kyle did it a couple more times. Then,

the dog pulled the sound out, and I could totally hear the oblong thing go through the fox's

prostate as his howl of pain? pleasure? turned into a burble of overstimulation. Once it was out a

few more inches, he put it back in by using the blurry head of the vibrator, bringing another scream

out of Jasek. This one tapered off as the fox started shaking like he was having a seizure. I went

soft, but the fox relaxed as soon as Kyle removed the vibrator.

Minus the shaking, it was actually kind of hot. I imagined what it had to feel like, and suddenly I

wanted to come really, really bad. I just couldn't. Still, it was freaky, because the fox made such

awful sounds. It was about another minute, as Kyle blundered around for more toys, until I realized

that foxes always made a racket. Horses are quiet, they just bray. Foxes scream, minks scream,

wolves don't actually howl and just grunt, purring cats can wail, tigers can blow your hearing out

with a roar. Still, he was gas-masked and tied down and cock-fucked by fucking plumbing, and I was

getting the robot blowjob from purgatory. That's what it's like when you're not baptised; you get

your dick sucked all you want, but it just doesn't matter if you come or not.

Time for more freak factor, as the dog came up with some rubber things in his hand, a kind of

shapeless thing and a corrugated hose for the mask. Two hoses. Wait, three... I guess air goes in

two holes on the mask and out another, so yeah, three. Where the hoses joined, another piece stuck

out, and then a black rubber bag dangled. The dog swung over another one of those rack things and

suspended the bag just like it was my dick-sucker. He said something to Jasek that I couldn't hear,

then the fox heaved his chest up. Kyle screwed the other two hoses in and the fox exhaled, filling

up the bag. It looked like something out of a hospital, like one of those machines that breathes for

you, and that was it. Softened right up like I'd seen an old lady's drooping asshole or something.

The dog put a cap on something on the hose, and then when Jasek inhaled, the bag sucked right up

flat.

Okay, really soft. So soft it fell right out of the milker. The tube swung back and forth in front

of me, pulsating and dribbling precum onto my rubber-clad thighs. Kyle spotted me and let go of

Jasek without even looking over his shoulder to see if the fox was okay. The dog came over and

handled my cock, stuffed it into the milker, but it fell right back out. "Well shit, I guess we

gotta strap you up a lil' more," he said, and went over to the cabinets. No rummaging this time; he

came right back with a crazy-looking cockring. It snapped together with this sort of oblong thing at

one edge. He came and hefted my dick and balls, then snapped it in place. As soon as he got it

tightened up, I guess the force pushed on the oblong part because it started buzzing right into my

taint. That, and the dog's clenching gloved hands, had me filling up a bit. "C'mon, you hurry up

there an' get hard," he said, and slapped me. Oh. "Hurry up, or that fox is gonna have some kinda

problem!" Slap. I slobbered around the ball gag and was throbbing and veined in just a few more

heartbeats. He stuffed the milker over me and turned it up. Not faster, but _harder_. Now, it was

good.

Except it _wasn't_ good, because as good as the sucking thing was, I was still tied to a chair

watching a fox... suffocate. Jasek's breathing grew faster and faster, and I guess air was leaking

out of the whole mess somewhere because there was less and less to fill that bag. Soon it was

smacking shut and he was grunting. Out came three grunts and Kyle stomped over, snatching the bag

off its mounting with a swat. Jasek gasped and grunted, slowly calming down.

"I think you gotta fiddle with the mask a bit," the fox said, and Kyle nodded. The dog set himself

to adjusting all the five straps holding it on to Jasek's face, while I set about wondering if I was

actually awake. It could be a dream. Dog urinal wolf facial milking fox freaky-shit hospital

anaesthesia shit? That's about right for a dream. I once had a dream where I ate someone's anus.

Like a hot dog. And then we talked about philosophy on a beach. On one hand, this was very messed

up, and dangerous. What if Kyle was too fucked up - was he really fucked up still? - and passed out

or tripped and bashed into something? What would happen to the fox? I would have to sit there and

watch him...

Oh, soft again. Not quite soft enough, as the motherfucking sucking machine kept going and going and

going. I see, so the fox tapped out just because everything wasn't working right! Once the dog

hooked that bag up again, the fox was breathing his own air, faster and faster. This time, the dog

took that thing to the vulpine's dick, buzzing at the shaft, the balls, and drawing a muted scream

out when he pushed the vibrator head at the sound. How on earth could anyone like that, choking like

that?! And he just got worse and worse, until he was barking like a dog, yanking at the chair hard

enough to shake it, then finally screaming to take it off. Take it off, dog, take it off! Son of a

bitch I'm gonna kill you stupid ass for trying to kill him, but all I really did was drool and

slobber on myself as I got vibrated and sucked.

Kyle snatched the bag off and Jasek whooped in air, howling and sputtering as he went from

suffocated to oxygenated. As he swooned and made an almost sobbing sound, Kyle pulled the metal tube

on out. It took about fifteen seconds to get it out, and Jasek coughed and sputtered. Kyle then

crushed the fox's dickhead with the vibrator's head and Jasek's sounds turned into the rhythmic

yells of someone firing off. I'll shit you not, he shot over his head and clear across the room,

hard enough to hit the wall with a splat that _I_ could hear. The rest hosed him in the masked face

as he cried and sobbed, then lay there twitching. The dog removed the vibrator and then came over to

me.

Well, at least he got off. The dog came over and took the milker off. "Now why the hell ain't you

come yet? You forget?" SLAP! Oh my god. Not this. Not this. God at least it was my dick, if it was

my ass, and if he hit me until I came, I'd cry like a little girl and turn pink. He went and grabbed

his belt, then came over and made it into a choke collar. Soft, soft! Then he just wrapped it around

the root of my balls and snugged it up tight, a second cockring. He pulled hard and I felt like I

had to... but then his rubbery hand beat at my dickhead. "God-damn horses. Standin' around in the

field, hittin' their dicks up on their ribcage till they shoot off." Slap! Slap! Right on top of the

head, and I brayed into the gag enough that spit sneezed out the sides of my mouth and left spatter

on the dog's gas mask.

Next, it was a flogger. No, shit, it wasn't just a flogger, I thought it was this cute slapper that

I've seen before, it's like a pocket ass paddle. No, it was HEAVY, it was so heavy, it was like

being clubbed. He did it slow, it was like a punch. Fast, and it was so awful. I couldn't see, all I

saw was purple and spots and he pulled so hard on my balls. I brayed and gurgled around my tongue

and beat my head on the back of the chair, and I went off so hard I actually blacked out for a

second. When I came around, body feeling like that THX movie intro noise sounds, Kyle's face was in

front of me and splattered with come. The fox's face had streaks, but the dog's gas mask looked like

someone had just slopped him with a jar of mayo. He stood there and unbuckled it, then took it off

with a grunt. Inside, his fur was matted up, eyes bleary red.

"Well shiiiiiiiiiieet! Look at this god-damn mess!" He said, and walked over to Jasek. The fox

lifted his head up, then laughed inside the mask. Then, I guess Kyle let me out and I don't really

remember what happened after that. I was real tired when I got undone and pulled out of that chair.

I remember sitting in The Freezer, with Jasek and Kyle helping pull off my rubber gear. I remember

putting my boxers on, and standing in the elevator to go upstairs, reeking of sex. I remember seeing

some guys up in the lounge, waiting to meet some of their tricks and staring at me, all sweaty and

wet and come-stained and wafting off a cloud of come and rubber.

I locked the door, deadbolted it, chained it, then cranked the AC up and buried myself in a

comforter in bed. I kept seeing the fox thrashing, harder and harder by the second, but I didn't

hear the screams.

---

I'd gone to bed at ten, which was about six hours earlier than usual. I ended up awake at five in

the morning, intentionally watching infomercials on TV to instill my faith in humanity. By seven, I

was stir crazy and my apartment window aimed right east. I felt awful, like I had to stay in bed,

like I wouldn't be good for anything if I got out of it. It wasn't night time, it wasn't time to go

put on something sexy and meet someone and get dicked in the ass and cummed on and paid off. It was

the morning and I'd watched some dog in army gear and a gas mask smother a fox in a bat-suit while a

machine tried to drain my nuts. I felt like a piece of meat with eyeballs. Sometimes, I felt like

meat, but in a good way. This was not a good way.

Then I got antsy and couldn't sit still. It got so bad that I threw on running shorts, grabbed my

shoes and tied my keys into the laces, and took off. I normally liked to run through the city. Not

sure why, it was just how I did it. I liked weaving around traffic and pedestrians, tearing down

alleyways and getting in the occasional jump over junk or bums. Instead of my normal route, I just

took off. For about half an hour, I didn't realize where I was going until I didn't know where I'd

ended up. I took what I thought would be a little shortcut across a block, and blew right into the

nature area at the end of town.

Okay, the nature area was good. It was natural, and I was a horse. A zebra, and they'd just done the

controlled burn in the 'savannah' that I trotted through. Now I just needed a lion. As soon as that

thought came up, the wind came right out of my sails and I hobbled to a stop. My shins burned and I

felt like I was going to cough up sand. Someone pattered out a trail behind me and overtook me. I

looked up to see a blur of red and black in spandex shorts and tank, fancy Spring-Step runners and a

sweatband. Red and black.

We recognized each other at about the same time. Jasek slowed down, trotted in place as he looked

back at me. I just stood there, panting, bent over with my hands on my thighs. The fox came back to

me, still trotting in place. "Wow, Zale. What're you doing out here?"

Out here? "Don't.. wait up... I'm all out," I said. Instead of waving and taking off, the fox

stopped his trot and started to stretch. "I'm just out for a run."

Jasek spotted something up ahead and took off towards it. I followed behind as he went down a little

trail that led to a secluded park bench by the side of a pond. I sat down, while he kept stretching.

"Well, this is kind of a long way off from where you live. Did you take the bus?"

I shook my head. Was it a long way? Yeah, it was a good hour's walk, half an hour worth of a run.

"No, I just... ran." I should have been mimicking the inverted fox, but the bench seemed to

magnetically attract my ass. That, and I felt so overworked that I was already as limber as a

puddle.

"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry about last night."

So fucking awkward. I didn't really know what to say but I didn't want to tick off the minutes.

"Well, you didn't do anything. I mean, you didn't do anything, you were... you know..."

Jasek stopped his stretching and sat down, quite close to me. I didn't really want someone close,

not really him at least, but talking loudly about stuff like this in a park? Someone's kids were

gonna bust in through the woods any second, I knew it. He put his arm on my shoulders. "Kyle's kind

of pushy. He knows what he's doing, but if you give him an inch, he'll sell you on the whole

yardstick."

"So you like that?"

"What, him being pushy? He's kind of a jerk sometimes. You can really tell he's just in it for his

own dick if you get to know him a little. If you tell him to do something he doesn't like, he just

ignores you. But, well, he's hot, I guess," the fox said. I looked over at his spandex shorts, at

the lump swelling in there. Give me a break.

"I knew someone like that," I said. "I felt kind of used by that mutt last night. Like he just

wanted an audience and figured I wouldn't make a fuss. I guess that's why I got all down and slunk

off." I didn't really want to have this conversation, but my legs hurt so much, I didn't want to get

up.

"You did come," Jasek said, in a quiet voice near my ear.

"Because he, he," and I couldn't really counter _that_.

"So you like that?" The fox took my words and gave them back. "You look beat up. You're really gonna

have to take the bus back."

"I don't have any money," I said. "I got mugged while running once. Luckily, he was interested in my

sport wallet so I threw it at him and just kept running."

"I don't live very far. If you want to go crash at my place, no big deal. I won't do anything weird.

I promise."

I wanted water and a hot soak so much, I would have gone with anyone. We got up off the bench and I

limped along behind the fox.

---

Jasek lived in a nice little suburb that had sprung up on the far side of the nature area. Instead

of big arched ceilings and multi-purpose yoga rooms, the houses were all 'cozy'. That's another

word for 'cramped as shit'. His was the biggest on the block, and only because it had been doubled

in size with an addition that didn't quite match the rest of the house. It was nothing like the

house that wolf lived in. The fox was obviously a bachelor, as he didn't quite keep the place

spotless and his furniture was not only utilitarian, but completely unmatched. For someone who was

so into crazy gear play, there wasn't a leather piece of furniture in the whole house.

To his credit, the bathroom was far beyond nice. Instead of a shower, there was a big whirlpool

bathtub. In addition to a toilet, a fucking _bidet_. Either he was a hedonist, OCD about keeping his

pants free of skid marks... ahh, there's the enema attachment. He set a hot bath for me and I

climbed in, sat with my knees up in the swirling, burbling, near-scalding water. Then, he left me

alone.

Somewhere in the back of my head, a voice told me that sitting in hot water with possible shin

splints wasn't a good idea. A much louder voice told me that I was a slut and you know me, I had to

listen to that one. How was a slut? Jasek and I had casual conversation and kinky sex, sort of. Kyle

had met me twice, and on both occasions, I was used as a toy. Everyone pays me for sex. I lived with

a wolf for a year, because he walked up and told me to. Three wolves came on me...

"Are you okay?" Jasek said, peeking his red-ringed nose through the door. "I don't hear any

splashing."

"You can come in, I'm fine. I'm just sore and I didn't really sleep," I said. I lazily grabbed for a

soap bar and scrubbed. Jasek came in and sat on the closed toilet. He had boxer shorts with some

kind of symbol on it. I leaned over a little closer. "Is that the Klingon logo thing?" I pointed a

wet black finger at one of the markings.

"And that's Star Fleet, that's United Federation of Planets, Romulan, uh, some of the others are

kind of... man even I don't know them," he said, looking down at his shorts. They did a bad job

covering him up; his cock flopped out, and he tucked it back in.

"You're a huge nerd," I said, and sank back to hold my legs, rub the aching shins. "Star Trek boxer

shorts. Next you're going to tell me you have a princess Leia costume. Like the one she wore when

Jabba was keeping her."

Jasek laughed. "No, because I don't cross-dress. You just confused Star Trek and Star Wars."

"No I didn't. Name someone who likes one and not the other. Hating one and liking the other doesn't

count. Nerd hate is like the sincerest flattery."

"What do you know about nerds?" He asked. It sounded kind of like a jackass question, but he sounded

sincere. Come to think of it, in the short few days I'd known him, Jasek never said anything with a

tone of voice that wasn't placidly cheerful.

"I didn't have any friends as a kid. I was a band geek but I had tantrums so even they made fun of

me. So, you know, I turned to other stuff. Then I became a punk, joined a band, lost all my money,

and now I'm a whore!" I swirled the water around and stretched out. Jasek watched my cock stick up

out of the water for a few seconds, then went back to looking at my face. That's the Gay Dodge. Gay

guys hanging out together try to be all nonchalant when seeing a dick, but really, you have to try

hard to ignore it.

"Oh," he said. "I used to be one of those fat kids with broken glasses. I sat on them all the time.

I just didn't, you know, go do anything. It was all in my head. Kinda comfortable in there.

Actually, I was really depressed for a long time. I knew I was different... hah. Oh god, that sounds

dumb."

I shook my head. "Trust me. Nothing you've said sounds dumb yet. You should hear what people tell

me." Jasek wanted to tell me his life story, and I wanted to sit in his bathtub. It was a perfect

match.

"Well, I was depressed because I wasn't athletic and awkward, and because I had really strong

feelings about weird stuff. I remember watching Alien, and the Alien made me feel tingly. And that

thing that came out of the egg onto that guy's face? I thought that made me tingly, too. I was just

a kid... I dunno, maybe 3rd grade?"

I nodded, but really, 3rd grade? That movie is really fucking violent. That facehugger thing is

_not_ sexy. It's an alien that rapes your lungs and grows babies in you. How is that erotic?

"Or Aliens, at the beginning when Ripley's in cold sleep, with the guy coming to get her in that

kind of haz mat outfit? I remember jerking off to that when my parents weren't home, after they'd

rented the movie. Listening to him breathe. And.. it really bothered me. I remember telling someone

at school and he wouldn't talk to me any more, and so I kept it to myself. So that was me, buried in

sci-fi magazines and then the internet, and once I got out of college I was just some fat fox

working for a startup."

I nodded and stretched in the bath, then started to soap up. Might as well get clean. After a few

scrubs, I paused. "Wait, so you were fat? Are you kidding?" Jasek was anything but fat. A little

thick, but it might have been the plush fur. Definitely muscular.

He laughed. "Well not like cankle fat. But yeah, I was real pudgy and squishy and all that."

"What'd you do, have a midlife crisis?" Now it was time to soap up my dick. Jasek looked for a

moment, then went back to watching my face.

"No, no, I... well, I guess I got a crush on this guy who lived upstairs in my apartment building.

He's this real weird cougar, he's Polish like me, but really Polish. Like he's actually from Poland,

with the accent and everything. I can't really put my finger on what it was that I liked, and this

was way back when he was just this angry young man working a shit job. But I wanted him, and I

wanted him to _notice_ me. So I started working out. And, I started feeling better, and realized

I'd been depressed, and it was like this thing was off me and I was free."

Polish cougar. "Huh. Did it... did it work out?"

Jasek stood up and paced a little. "Oh, well, not really, but it didn't not work out. I didn't

really want a relationship, I just wanted weird stuff. And Tomasz hated everything, including me in

a way, and I felt funny when I accepted that. But we still talk and, stuff."

Tomasz. I knew that name.

"Well anyway, you can finish up... just let me know when you wanna get outta here. I'll toss you on

my bike and take you back."

Tomasz tomasz tomasz tomasz.. "Sure. Thanks for letting me fill your bathtub with whore pony," I

said, arching my back and rising out of the water in a display. He laughed and walked out.

"Any time."

Tomasz tomasz angry cougar Polish - shit! My 'birthday party'! Hawk, Kyle, some huge horse, some big

tiger guy I think, someone else, and then Tomasz the photographer cougar. Tomasz Dusic, the guy

whose huge prints of Mapplethorpe-esque debauchery decorated the inside of The Pit. Tomasz Dusic,

the taker of the huge set of photos of myself being humiliated and ejaculated on at my own birthday

party that were strung up while I was tortured by that wolf!

Any ill will towards Kyle and Jasek melted. Jasek was nice, Kyle was a jerk, but Hawk... Hawk was a

freak. He had motivations I never understood. He used me and treated me like dirt, only to let me

sleep in his bed the next day. Hawk made me realize I had to be a prostitute because I was willing

to sit around in a fucked-up stranger's house for a year without even trying to leave once!

I stopped soaping up. Aren't you supposed to feel filthy when you're used, like you can't get clean?

I felt filthy, but I didn't even want to bother cleaning it off. I shut off the tub's endless

whirring burble and drained it, then grabbed a towel and mashed my face into it, letting out a

post-bath toweling bray. Do other guys do that? I always bray into a nice, soft towel. I'm totally a

freak.

Imagine my surprise when I found my running outfit all nice and clean. I guess I'd been in the bath

a long time, staring at my toes or something. Jasek had washed and dried the shirt, shorts, socks. I

dressed and went looking for the fox. As I passed a doorway in the hall, Jasek popped out of the

opposite side. "Hey, want to see something cool? I mean it's weird, but it's cool too."

"Weird like Ripley's Believe it or Not?, or weird like last night?"

Instead of looking hurt, he just looked up and to the left. "Weird like nerd."

"Oh, why not? I'm a captive audience. Weird out on me, man." I leaned on the wall as Jasek went to

open the door.

"So someone bought this house and wanted to make it into a duplex to rent out the other half, but it

was really weird, like the addition is all fucked up and doesn't match. So I have kind of two living

rooms, two kitchens, etc. What do you do with two living rooms? I live by myself. Easy. You make a

shrine."

A shrine. As the fox _unlocked_ the door, I had second thoughts. I'd watched him nearly suffocate,

and heard him tell me that he got a boner watching a facehugger squirt out of its egg and smash into

some guy's face. With my luck there would be-

The room he opened must've been the living room in that weird addition, since it was huge. And

cavernous, all black-painted walls, ceiling, and black-stained floor. He smacked the lights on and

little pricks of hot light lit up the contents, from those little fixtures museums use. It wasn't

really a shrine. It was a display room. On display: costumes. Movie costumes. Sci-fi movie costumes.

How fitting that the first one I saw was a xenomorph. "Holy shit."

"You can even touch stuff. You're not a toddler, you won't break anything."

I guessed that he put the xenomorph outfit right across from the door so whoever went in would see

it first. I stepped in and slowly walked around. "I can't believe you have this stuff."

"The Xeno's actually a statue sort of. It's not a costume. It's from a promotion. Lemme give you the

nerd test. What are they all?"

I don't want to take a nerd test. "Oh geez. Well, uh, let's see... the alien, that one's an old

Cylon, that's a Stormtrooper, that's a Borg, that's a Cardassian-"

"Wow, you recognize a _cardassian_?"

"I grew up watching Star Trek, dude! Man, what is all this stuff? You have all these costumes?

Because?" There were two Darth Vaders. One was authentic, and the other was canid. There was also a

real replica Batman outfit, the human variety which wouldn't have fit the fox.

Jasek stepped in and looked proud. "Well, some of them I wear sometimes. Some of them I can't

because they're not the right size. I mean I collect this stuff." He ended up between the canid

Darth Vader and the Batman outfit. "That thing I had the other night is a headless Batman outfit I

had made. That probably gets the most use since it's... meant for that kind of thing." Jasek put his

arms around the mannequine-filled shoulders of the two outfits. This was weird, but not as weird as

watching him get strangled by stoned-ass army dog. The fox beamed, like he was waiting for a photo

op. I happened to look down, and he was hard as a rock inside his nerd shorts. I expected him to do

something like start licking at the chest form on the Batman costume, but he just disengaged and

came back over to me.

"I thought I was kinky for getting fucked in a faggy biker outfit. Hey, so I think I oughta get

back. I am about 120 percent sure I'm gonna lose business if I'm not around today. It's always a

cycle, maybe three days empty and then wham." I shifted on my feet. I wanted to move, but every time

I did, it hurt.

"Oh sure, lemme gear up and find my other helmet," the fox said, and hurried out of the room. I

followed, then wandered around into his living room. Jasek's sofa was decent, and his coffee table

was piled with stuff. A great selection of reading: vintage sci-fi mags, motorcycle mags, and

Underworld. I thumbed through the latter. Whoa, scuba gear, inflatable tits, and a fake guillotine

in the same shot. Was I missing something? Was that how sex really worked these days, combining

random-ass things together and creating some ur-fetish that was so totally messed up that it was hot

because you didn't know what else to think?

Jasek came into the living room with the thud of boot heels. I expected the motorcycle gear he'd

been wearing the other day, perfecto jacket and riding pants, harness boots and long gloves, and he

didn't disappoint. Under each arm was a helmet, one of them open-faced while the other was

full-head. "Here you go. Now if we crash, you might get your snout messed up, but you gotta have

these things custom-made," he said, and handed over the black helmet. I took it and put it on; it

smelled kind of musky inside. Not like the fox did weird shit with it, just like someone's sweaty

head. I guessed he had a lot of friends come over for a ride. "Oh, and I'll be careful. I mean,

seeing as you don't have any gear."

"Damn, I knew I forgot something," I said, trying to buckle the helmet on. He motioned for me to

follow and we went out to the garage. He had a nice bike, a fancy Ducati. Halfway between crotch

rocket and those loud-ass Harleys that investment bankers buy. He turned it over, and I didn't go

deaf. Nice. "So uh, what do I do? Do I just sit and hold on?"

"There's a belt if you want, but yeah, you basically just hold on," he said, and patted the double

seat. I straddled onto the purring bike and indeed, there was a kind of strappy harness thing. I

didn't really want to mess with it. Besides, I was wholly unprepared for how satisfying it was to

have a heavy, rumbling machine wedged between my legs. I leaned forward and fed my arms around the

helmeted vulpine, and his voice crackled in my _ear_. "I got this little radio thing, by the way, so

you can hear me say stuff. Anyway, congrats! You get to ride a fox today. And off we go.."

He opened the garage door and we took off. I lifted my feet up and wasn't sure where to put them,

but when I went to put them back down, there were two pegs. I'll be so honest, I clutched to Jasek

like he was floating and I was about to drown. I don't think I bothered to look at the speedometer

over his shoulder, since I was too busy just holding my chest against Jasek's riding leather. We

went _fast_, though, fast enough that I was terrified of falling off. I expected it to be loud,

since motorcycles were loud when they went roaring past, but his was surprisingly quiet and the

sheer act of moving forward seemed to leave the sound behind. All that was left was the rush of wind

past my head, the purr between my legs, and leatherclad fox. Why had I been upset with him? It was

all in my head. Jasek was a nice guy with weird hobbies and a fast bike.

We flew up to The Pit and came to a fast stop, and I climbed off. Jasek stayed on, and took my

helmet to affix it to something. "Hey, thanks for the ride."

"Don't mention it. If you want to tear around the countryside, let me know. I'm always up for pony

rides," he said. I waved, and he tore off. Fast. If we went that fast, I was amazed we didn't get

pulled over.

Wouldn't you know it? I was gonna be busy that evening. A whole string of afternoon donors. That's

D-O-N-R, or in the old classified ad parlance, Discreet Oral, No Reciprocation. Lainsville is

probably one of the most tolerant places in the country, but that doesn't stop clean-cut 'straight

acting' men from coming to whores and hookups in droves for their down-low sucks. It even followed

the same pattern I was used to: hybrids in my mouth, humans on the stick. Wolf, golden retriever,

human, human, and a bitchy loud-mouthed fennec with a disproportionate dick. It was good money.

---

Saturday night, knocked out cold at four in the morning after a marathon session with two bucks who

I saw now and then and always got a good handout from, I had a terrible nightmare. I was feeling

good when I went to sleep, scent of sex after sex wafting up from out under the sheets, spent and

wasted and ready to curl up. I dozed off thinking about Harley, an unexpected thought that left me

wanting and almost comforted, a massive tawny lion to pet me and penetrate me and leave me

dissatisfied enough that I had to see him-

I probably dreamed all night, but it wasn't until well after the sun came up that it really

happened. All of a sudden, I was on stage. I thought it was a rock show, since people were cheering

me, but it wasn't. I was also naked. It wasn't one of those naked dreams, I mean I was supposed to

be naked. Except it wasn't really naked. As I stood there, two guys dressed up like vaudeville

magicians came and showed some things to the audience, then started to dress me. It was rubber, like

Jasek's gear, like the stuff I'd worn, but this covered all of me except my head, dick, and balls.

A cheer as one of the performers came over and manhandled my cock. I didn't feel a thing. I was

hard, but it didn't, it didn't feel like anything. One of the performers looked familiar, and then

it was Kyle, not some guy in a ringleader outfit. He and the other performer, a much less dramatic

cougar - was it _that_ cougar?, went over behind the curtain and wheeled something out. It was a

table, like a magician's table, with Jasek strapped onto it. He was happy to see me, and we had this

conversation about motorcycle parts. It didn't make any sense, I mean when I thought about it

afterward. I knew enough about mechanical things to know that it was gibberish.

Jasek was in this kind of sac thing made of rubber. I'd seen them in pornos, sleep sacks or

something like that. It always looked extremely creepy, like something from that alien abduction

movie. Now I was one of the performers, even though I was just wearing that weird body suit. It kept

changing from rubber to spandex to leather and back again, like it was always changing. Maybe it was

supposed to be alive, or I just kept getting it wrong? I kept trying to tell the dog and cat that I

didn't want to do anything, but any time I said no, I just got a laugh and a pat, a chuckle from the

audience.

The fox was in that sack, and he had on a gas mask like before, but I went to look at it and nothing

held it on, meaning it was just like part of the sack. Like he was trapped in it. And he was

trapped, and suffocating, although I couldn't really tell why. It wasn't like that scene down in the

catacombs, but he couldn't breathe and was freaking out.

Was that Harley getting up from the audience and leaving? Then they started to chant, "Take it

off!", but I couldn't take 'it' off because there was no 'it', the fox was some kind of symbiotic

sealed operation, and I woke up.

---

I spent that day wishing I could have done something different. Totally different. I tried to work

on my recordings, but that was a wash. That was my old life, when I was a disobedient kid who could

play guitar really, really well. That blew up. I tried it and somehow it failed, and when it failed,

I didn't just get a job at McDonald's and pull up. I shat the bed, I lost all my friends due to

being a mooch, and then I was out on the street swallowing come for money. And that wasn't even

degrading after the first few times, because I really liked doing it. I mean the act, I really

liked having sex.

Now I still did, but somehow it was turning all into a huge blur. Like sex for me was kind of a

strange thing, while sex for other people was the norm. A whole row of guys who didn't even ask my

name, a few of them not even looking at me. One of them was texting on his goddamn phone. When

Harley had done that...

Oh, Harley. Somehow, he kept entering into my thoughts, especially when I started feeling

desperately bad. Harley was a huge jerk and didn't even pay right, although honestly I tried to rip

him off since I figured he'd pay whatever I said. Fucking someone in the ass just isn't cheap.

That's why people with money or expense accounts pay to do it. I kept remembering the dream, seeing

him leaving the show, the show that I didn't want to be in, the show that was about me being useless

and helpless. Sometimes a cigar is a cigar, and your dreams are like someone emptying your closet

out onto the bed to rearrange it and put it back - that's what someone told me on a cable TV show -

but damn, this dream was kind of fucking OBVIOUS.

I really, really wanted Harley. He was a jerk, but it was the kind of jerk that really made me feel

good. Bad good, or good bad? Maybe just good? Something about it wasn't like that Kyle guy, who was

uh, technically proficient but soulless and maybe sadistic? Or Hawk, who was... broken. Hawk was

like some giant dark thundercloud, and the only good thing about him is that sometimes you need rain

to stop a drought. (My mom used to say that. I guess she grew up on a farm.) Even Jasek was kind of

a jerk, since he seemed to have all these weird-ass interests and no real shutoff valve for trying

to indulge them. I can bet you that if I hadn't gone back home, I would have been dressed up like

that Master Chief Whatever from those video games and forced to do weird-ass shit to him.

But Harley... every time I thought about him, I felt this weird pang of unpleasant, followed by this

totally hot resolution. Unpleasant because he stirred me up, hot because I got hard. So big, stoic,

strong, so into leather but so subtle about it, so filthy and possessive and absolute and... and...

And he was a lion while I was a Zebra.

---

I could only stew for so long so I went out to eat. Full of food, I started wandering around one of

the city parks. I half expected to find someone there, another random thing that was going to try

and fuck me over. Half expecting and all right. Who was standing by a grove of particularly gnarled

trees in the nature area, hunching over a camera, but that cougar guy. It was kind of warm out, but

he was wearing a leather suit. I mean a suit like Armani, not like a body suit or something. The

jacket was this alligator-looking stuff, pants were leather jeans, boots were cowboy boots. I didn't

really see what was so interesting about the trees, but I don't really get photography anyway.

"Who is standing behind me?" he asked, without bothering to, you know, turn around and look. Of

course, I didn't just walk away...

"Well, uh, I was just watching-"

Now he turned. Yep, it was that cougar guy. Tomasz. Same disgruntled look, same clothes, same weird

accent. "Who did your mother fuck to make zebra have spots?"

What? "Uhhh, that's a weird way to put it. I'm half pony."

"Wait! You are this zebra thing I see before!" Tomasz made a strange face when he said that. It was

a squint and an upturn and out-push of his whiskers, and his tail lashed around. It wasn't a really

hybrid thing to do. It was something a housecat does. "I take pictures of you for the wolf."

I put my hands in my shorts pockets. "Yeah, I guess that's me. I guess that was you. Next I'm gonna

run into that huge horse cop guy, and that tiger. It'll be a reunion!"

"It was your birthday, the wolf buys you some fancy leather. Why are you in shorts now? The money is

not good for you?" Tomasz grappled with his camera. It looked expensive, one of those square ones

that people shoot fancy food and heroin addict models with that you see on TV. Kind of old, covered

in that leatherette stuff that's on a guitar amp.

I kind of wanted to leave, but I couldn't not look at him. Mom always told me to be polite. I never

was polite to her, but I guess it rubbed off. Suck it for a dollar, sir, it's so nice and big. Even

when it's not. "Well, it's kind of hot out. And it's not really like, walking around in the park

stuff."

That housecat look went away. "Do you see this, what I wear? Expensive, and delicate, and I wear it

outside to photograph things for my project. Wolf would not be proud of you, but maybe he doesn't

care."

I shrugged. I was going to say something, when this grumpy cat dropped a nuke. "I tell him to do it,

so he does it, maybe he did not tell you how important it is to be attractive in leather things?"

I read that backwards, literally. I really liked the stuff Hawk bought me. And Harley really liked

it, too. Harley. I started getting a hard-on. It was enough to not... told him to do it? "You told

him to do what? Buy me that leather stuff?"

"I am working on some photographs, and he calls me up, says he some pony at his place that he is

going to fuck. So he goes out to do things and I see him, and he says he opened big mouth and said

he keeps you for a year. It is a joke, to scare you, because he says you are scared all the time.

You are scared now, too scared to go away from me. Do you think I bite you? They take my teeth and

file them and cap them," he said, baring his fangs and demonstrating. Blunt fangs are still fangs.

"I tell him no, you don't make joke, you keep him at your house for a year. He is prostitute, so you

keep him as house-boy. You do it. And I tell you to do things to him, and you do them. You use him,

maybe I get some pictures out of it sometime. You do not fuck around, I say to wolf, you do not play

this as a game."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"Nothing is funny," he said, sniffing.

"No, seriously, did you just say that you told that Hawk guy to actually keep me in his house for a

year? That's stupid. He said it to me in the car taking me back there. I totally remember it,

because it was the weirdest-ass thing to tell someone."

"That was a joke, he does not have guts to do that on his own. He finds some new person and makes

them cry and comes in them, then next morning sits in the bath staring at his feet and feeling sick.

He tells me this over and over. So he tells me he finds useless pony fuck and I tell him to do it

for real, and I make him do it. I am convincing." With that, Tomasz turned and started taking

something out of the camera. I don't know, maybe it was film or something. He went to put it in his

nearby camera case.

If I believed him, Tomasz was the reason Hawk had kept me at his house. The wolf seemed so random,

behaving nice now and then and other times actually hurting me. Like he didn't want me there, but he

needed me there. I thought he was just, you know, conflicted. But no, he wasn't conflicted, he

wasn't a total creep, he was just following _orders_? That was simultaneously lame and terrible. It

was all to get pictures of me? The ones where I was berated on my birthday?

Kyle, Jasek, a nameless horde of cocks to suck, drugged-out humans, three wolves and a stallion, a

mutt in a bathroom stall who was playing sewer to anyone who needed to piss, that was it. Tomasz was

busy putting stuff into his bag, but his camera was still sitting there on its tripod. Then, I said

to myself, and I literally said it in my head: if everyone is going to use me as a toy, I'm going to

use someone else's toys. And break them.

I walked up to the tripod, grabbed onto its carry handle, and picked it up. The cat wanted pictures

of the trees. Well, he better have gotten them already. I took off and ran, as hard as I could,

straight for that little twisted grove. I kept going and stuck my arm out, legs of the tripod

splayed across in front of me. I kept going, but the camera didn't. It hit a tree and exploded into

metal bits. I guess I'm impulsive sometimes. I looked over for a split second and then kept running.

I didn't really pay attention to what I was doing. I mean sure I was running, and pretty fast, and I

was going to try to get away from Tomasz. I should have turned left and ran, but instead, I kept

going forward. I don't know if the ground dipped away from my feet first, or if Tomasz hit me first,

but I was pitched forward with the air knocked out of me. Somehow I managed to throw the tripod to

the side before I crashed into the ground. It was like tripping and face-planting in the mud, except

instead of it just hurting and looking stupid, weight crushed the air right out of me. I tried to

move my arms but hands pinned them to the leaves and dirt of the shallow ravine I'd blundered - been

hurled? - into. I tried to twist my head, but something clamped onto my neck, an awful hard grasp at

the sides. I inhaled but I couldn't breathe, and something squirmed against the back of my neck. I

guess I got a hand free because I remember whipping it back and hurting my fingers on something

which got the vice off my throat.

I rolled over to get pinned back flat again, and it was Tomasz. He barely looked like a person, more

like an animal that happened to be stuffed into a leather dress suit. All teeth and black lips and

tawny face wrenched into animal violence, ears splayed, fur prickled down into the collar of the

coat. He snarled and hissed and spat on my face, sending the trail of blood that came out of one

nostril all over my mouth. I tried to shove him away but he beat at my hands. I tried to grab at

them but he let his claws out - claws! - and my shirt was in tatters. I imagined blood fountaining

out, but no, it was just the shirt, I was struggling too hard. I kneed him in the balls but he

backed up, rolled to try and clamber away but he pounced me flat again.

No more neck-bites. One arm grabbed around my neck and collarbone and pulled tight, gagging and

strangling me, while the other clawed at my shorts, nails somehow not ripping them. His hand yanked

the fabric down below my ass, and then I wrenched and tried to get his nuts again. No nuts, just his

cock out into his hand. He pinned me flat and grabbed for my face, gloved hands splaying over it,

nails shoving in at my snout but not breaking the skin. I couldn't breathe. Oh fuck, I couldn't

breathe. If I got any air, it stank of leather and dick sweat, but I didn't really get any. I could

exhale but not inhale, and soon I was doing anything I could to get him off me. Flailing, kicking,

trying to snort and bite at his hands as they covered my mouth and nose - I'm a fucking horse but

cougars have big hands.

I reached panic and started seeing spots, started feeling like I was watching everything. Was this

what Jasek wanted? This feeling? I wasn't aroused. I was going to die. I was being raped by a

psychotic cougar and he was going to smother me to death while he - and then air rushed in.

"Fuck, fuck!!" the cougar hissed and climbed off me. I should have gotten up, but I preferred the

air. As I lay there, gasping and coughing on a few pieces of leaf that I sucked in, I tried to

figure out what happened, how badly I was hurt. Sore chest, sore face, sore arms, but no sore ass. I

turned back to look, and my gray stripey crack was loaded with pearly spunk. Tomasz looked

disheveled, fur sticking out at funny angles, dirt ground into his face, shoulders lifted up inside

that leather suitcoat. He had his cock in a gloved hand, and as I stared confused, squeezed three

shots of piss out on top of the load. "Filthy mare, now I leave my stink in you for everyone to

know you are a toy to use!" he hissed, coughing on his own spit as he crouched hard and yanked my

shorts up, then stomped on my ass. That didn't really hurt, but his heel dug in and ground all that

mess into my fur. He swiped his tripod up and then stormed up the short hill to where the trees met

the park.

After a minute or so, I stood up, then just sat right back down. I looked myself over. No blood

anywhere. Somehow, I'd escaped any actual injury. But... but. I could feel the wetness on my ass,

soaking into the fabric, and it stank. As I sat there in the dirt, making sure I wasn't somehow

about to lose my entrails through claw gashes, I lost it and started crying. Not like those little

sniveling sobs that you get when you feel really bad. This was like when I was six and I cracked my

left elbow and I cried until I fainted. The only thing good about the situation, which I was very

aware of, was that I was in some fucking hidden little grove where no one else was going to see me.

At the best of times, I felt like I was totally in demand, plus being a whore gets you some cash.

This was the worst of times: I didn't know how to spend money so I socked all the cash into

investments that I couldn't touch for multiple years, and the only reason I was in demand was

because I don't know how to say no once I'm naked with someone. Talk about one-trick pony. I could

play guitar until my fingers came off but no one hands me money until I suck on their smelly dick.

I didn't hear Tomasz come up, and when I saw a black boot appear a few feet from my leg, I flinched

and stared at the ground off to the side. Nothing hit me. "Why do you sit there? Are you..." and his

attempt to berate me paused. "I don't know the word for a baby horse, you are a calf who cannot

stand up yet?!"

I looked up at him, frown falling off my face like everyone I knew had just died. "What? Calf? No,

it's a foal. A baby horse is a foal."

He looked horrible. He'd brushed off his leather gear and straightened some of the fur on his face,

but there was a blackened trail down from his nosepad to his chin, and that side of his face was

swelled up enough to make it obvious someone had punched him in the face. "Get off the ground, baby

horse," he said, and stuck a black hand out to me. I stared at it, then stared him in the face.

"What the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm not a fucking 'baby horse'. I'm a fucking zebra

and a fucking pony!" This sounds eloquent but I was stuttering at this point, past the peak of my

crying jag so that I had that embarrassing chest spasm. "You know what that is? I'm fucking food for

lions and hyenas and shit, and something that you hire for people to ride at birthday parties!

That's what the fuck I am!"

"What the fuck is wrong with _you!_" He hissed, shaking his hand. "You come up to me and I tell you

things and you smash my camera!"

"And you fucking raped me!"

"You broke things, and I did not even put it inside you." He took his hand back. "I was distracted."

I stood up and shook my head out, releasing some random twigs that'd gotten stuck in the mohawk.

"Distracted? Oh, so you were distracted and couldn't rape me. I don't know whether to be happy or

sad that _you_ of all people couldn't find my ass interesting enough to fuck! You, Mr. Freak Ass Cat

who tells fucking psycho wolves to kidnap me for a year and then takes pictures of a maned wolf

pissing all over my face so the wolf can wallpaper his fucking dungeon with them!"

Tomasz lifted his hands up and flexed his fingers like a cat about to punch another cat. He stepped

up and grabbed me around the head and neck. My aunt had a cat that would do that to your hand any

time you tried to pet it. Instead of biting between my thumb and finger, or biting my head, Tomasz

just glared at me. "I am distracted by strangling you, because I am sick, that is why I do not come

in your asshole! I don't have time to come before I put it in! I am sick like that!"

I wrenched his hands off and he just spat and recoiled. "Everyone I know is sick! You want to hear

sick? I watched some army dog suffocate a fox while I was tied to a chair and cock-milked like a

cow!"

"So what is the problem then?" he said, voice ascending into a bizzare chirp, like a teenager whose

voice was cracking. He cleared his throat and adjusted the shirt under his alligator jacket. "A fox

who is suffocated, is he black with red hands? A fur that comes up like this?" He made a motion up

between his ears. I must've nodded because his tail lashed and he lit up. "I know this fox. I know

army dog too, I wish I could see it happen."

"Yeah, I bet you do. I bet you'd take pictures," I said, holding my elbow and looking off to the

side at a tree.

Tomasz stepped up and slapped me. It wasn't very hard, but it made me turn my head the other way,

which put him square in my sight again. "Yes I would take pictures. You work at that club, The Pit,

who do you think took all of the pictures there? That is what I do, I do sick things to hurt people

and take pictures! It is all I can fucking do! If I do not do that I would still be cleaning human

sweat off gym machines or packing shit into boxes at warehouse in bad part of town! What do you do,

you let people fuck you and they pay you. It is the same thing, only backwards! You take things into

you because you are pony with stripes, I make them happen because I am cat who cannot stop himself,

we get money for sin! So what?"

I wanted to cry again, but not because he was angry at me. It was kind of hard to take Tomasz

seriously, and I think it was because of the accent. He sounded like a cab driver lecturing someone

on how easy they have it in the new world. That shit's amusing, not serious. I wanted to cry because

I had totally fucked up. "I'm sorry I fucked up your camera. I'll, I'll fix it. I mean I'll pay

you."

Instead of accepting with a huff, Tomasz laughed. At least I think it was a laugh, it kind of had

this hissing yodel quality. "Pay me for what, I buy it on internet auction for fifty dollars. It is

a piece of junk, old broken Hasselblad that leaks light into the film."

"Fifty dollars?"

"Yes, fifty dollars. It is terrible, it is junk, well it is pieces of junk now. It takes terrible

pictures. I am a terrible person, and the trees here will be behind terrible thing that I put

together in computer."

"Oh." I almost felt stupid, then just felt like I was in one of those art films that everyone raves

about. I half expected some kid carrying a balloon and speaking French backwards to come through the

little ravine, but it was only a breeze.

"I give you fifty dollars, even, for new shorts and a shirt," he said, and took his wallet out.

Either he couldn't count, didn't want to count, or actually meant one hundred and fifty. I took it

and just left it in my hand for the time being. Tomasz didn't say anything else and merely turned to

walk back up to the park.

I went the other way, through the little wooded spot, and came out into a nature area with a pond. I

had this weird moment of calm, like somehow I understood why I felt bad, but I didn't really _know_

why I felt bad and didn't know what I was understanding. Maybe I was just in denial for the moment.

Outside of my head, I stank of cat piss and come and that was nasty. What did I have to lose? I took

my phone and wallet out of my pocket, lifted up a pocket of grass, and stuck them in there along

with the money. Then, I jumped in. It was kind of gross, full of pond weeds and stuff, but what's

natural dirt compared to stinking cat spray and that weird buttered chlorine smell of a sticky load?

Plus, in a way, the pond was dirtier than I was after a few kicks at the bottom.

---

An excessively busy Thursday night led me to go to sleep at about five in the morning. I woke up

around one to the sound of my phone ringing. That would be a loud ringtone of John Petrucci playing

"Flight Of The Bumblebee" on guitar, in case ringtones say anything about me. Most people I knew had

their own ringtones, and I probably shouldn't have answered a random call, but hey. Half asleep.

"Mr. Sterling, I haven't seen you for several days."

Oh _god_. "Oh, hey.." Sir, Master, Lord Benson, Your Highness, Asshole, "Harley."

"I would like to see you after I get off work at six."

I thought I was going to die. My heart was already pounding from waking up, and now it had to fill

up an erection. "Sure. Uh, here or at that hotel?"

"I would like to have you over for the night," he said. "I will pick you up outside Davis Hall. The

traffic over to your side of town is terrible, and I'm impatient."

"Sure, sure."

"Wear what you wore when I first met you. Bring the clothing from last time along as well. Six

o'clock sharp. I'll leave early."

"Sounds like a plan," I said, and he hung up. Still a jerk! Just for that, I wouldn't wear jeans.

Same slate leather blazer, same black slinky shirt, but a pair of cowboy-cut maroon leather jeans

instead. That was actually worse than the jeans, because I was hard. A hard dick in denim is kind of

hard to see, it's like the rough surface screws it up. Behind glossy leather? I looked like a stud.

Maybe like a rock star at an interview. I was practically shaking when I got out of the apartment at

five fifteen and started over to Davis Hall. That's actually a building, and a kind of retail

square, on the good side of town. You know, as opposed to the red light district, or the poor side

with all the boarded up windows and crackheads. The only reason the red light district was upscale

was because gay guys always make some cash and there were a fuck-ton of them in Lainsville. Davis

Hall was at the edge of the financial district, and I needed to take a bus to get there. The

homeless guy across from me kept staring at my crotch. The thing is, there wasn't anything to stare

at by then. I couldn't get hard sitting on a creaking bus full of shitheads yammering into their

headsets with some drunk schizo ogling me.

I took up on a bench near the bus stop, pretending to be important by fiddling with my phone. I was

really playing one of those games where you match up colored things until they go poof. That's an

entire category of games, match three or whatever. It's like one step above goddamn solitaire, and

the step is like one of those baby steps they put in a public place so you can't sue if you trip.

Harley wasn't kidding about sharp. I happened to look at the clock on the phone as it ticked over,

and there he was. Well, I assumed it was him, since it was a nice car and it pulled up into the bus

stop. The window rolled down, and yep, it was a lion in a business suit. I went over and got in,

except there wasn't a door handle. It popped open. The whole inside was mahogany leather and looked

like a space ship by way of Porsche. I slid into the seat and the door _closed on its own_, what the

fuck.

I expected Harley to either say hi, or to completely ignore me and drive off. Instead, he pushed

some button on the dashboard and the windows went opaque. What the fuck number two. I had about ten

seconds to register the lion's presence: sharp suit, tie, black dress shoes, black italian driving

gloves. He turned and his gloved hands came at me, just like Tomasz had done a few days earlier

after attacking me for attacking him. I'm sure I dropped my jaw and gasped, and I felt this panic

rise up inside of me. He took hold of my jaws and then leaned towards me, pulling in equal amounts.

Instead of anything bad happening, instead of claws pricking at me - Harley had fingernails like

most hybrids - his muzzle pressed close and wet, rough tongue invaded my mouth. He backed off with a

kind of chesty growl and sat back, hands on the steering wheel. Another poke at the dashboard and

the windows went dark but see-through in the front half of the car, and we pulled away.

Holy shit, the car was silent. I generally don't go around in other people's cars, and it never

occurred to me that I'd end up in some electric luxury thing. That fascination lasted for about

thirty seconds, after which I realized he'd kissed me. I wanted more of it, more of that tongue

pressing at my lips, more of his lips crushing against mine as thin and feline as they were, more of

that hot breath huffed against me. Instead, I got to see him sit there like a lion. Back against the

seat, arms out, leather-clad hands holding the steering wheel, tawny tuft coming out the vent hole

on the back of the hand. He didn't look at me, only the road. Well, that was a good thing, unless

the car could drive itself. If it could, he didn't make use of the feature.

"I live a ways away," he finally said, I guess to explain why we were getting on the highway. I

really wanted to be turned on, but the farther we went, the more I felt a kind of panic coming up

inside me. This was a repeat of something I didn't want to repeat. I couldn't take the butterflies

in my stomach and turned to the lion.

"So uh, how long am I staying over for?" I palmed a hand down my thigh and adjusted a boot next to

my bag of leather gear.

"The night. I have to be at Fifth Street Athletic for a racquetball match with several friends at

one in the afternoon, so by noon. I will be happy to drive you back to town anywhere from six until

then."

"Just the night."

Finally, he turned to look at me. "While I obviously have money, I'm not made of it." Then he looked

back to the road. I kept looking at him, all those butterflies, I dunno, flying off? Sure, he could

be lying, but he'd already paid me twice. Why suddenly morph into a black wolf and keep me willfully

imprisoned for another year, with an outfit's worth of leather fetish gear the only thing to show

for it? Staring at the road, he kept on. "One of my business partners recommended you. His name is

Kyle, and he told me he met you while you were staying with a wolf. I thought that was strange. I

don't have any intention of keeping you as a pet, or whatever that wolf did. While I'm lonely, I

don't think a pony for hire would help me feel less so."

I didn't know whether to be ashamed of myself or relieved when he said that. "Uh, so, why-"

"If I didn't want you at all, you would not be in my car, on your way to my house, to spend the

night. I don't think you can understand what it's like to be me, or anyone who isn't..." He thought

for a good moment. "Who isn't like you." Then he sighed hard. "Forget I said that. I can't think of

a kind way to put it. We're here."

He didn't really live _that_ far away. Instead of some creepy angular-ass ranch house on a hillside

on the edge of a state park like Hawk's place, he lived in a duplex condo joined at the garages. He

pulled up outside the garage, then we both got out. The door opened and I'll be damned if his car

didn't drive itself right in. The condo had a foyer lit by sunlight that streamed in from some huge

double-floor window. After walking up the hallway, it opened up into the living room. Arched

ceiling, with these weird hanging fabric things that slowly moved around. Off to the side was a home

theater, and then next to that, a hallway to the kitchen. I could see the refrigerator. It was

fancy, real hardwood floor and leather furniture, actual art on the walls, a few sculptures and

vases (!). It was bright and expensive and still kind of homey, not cold and unpleasant like that

wolf's place. All I ever do is compare things to that goddamn wolf.

"Sit," Harley said, leading me to a sofa with a hand on my back. We both sat, and he let that hand

slide to my neck, fingering through the mohawk. It stands up on its own, so none of that disgusting

egg shit that punk kids put in theirs. I feel real weird when people touch it. Kind of a tingle.

"You didn't do what I said. You didn't wear the same thing I told you to." His other hand, wrapped

in that tight, ventilated leather, settled onto my thigh. "You did better." His fingers stroked down

to my knee, back up the inside, then cradled my bulge.

"I... I knew you'd like it, Mr. Benson," I said, lips parted in case he wanted another kiss.

Instead, he stood up.

"I won't ruin your clothing. Change. I'll do the same," he said, and left the room with the clack of

dress shoes. I let out a sigh of relief as he stomped away, because knowing his big, gloved hand was

palming my cock was getting me close and I wasn't even out of my pants yet. Who cares if Harley was

a stuck up jerk? He was so hot that I couldn't see straight.

Biker jacket zipped up to the bottom of my pecs, long over-the-jacket gauntlet gloves, skin-tight

bar chaps, stovepipe cowboy boots. I felt self-conscious enough that instead of rock hard, my dick

just kind of hung out over my balls. I walked around the living room, looking at all of the stuff.

It wasn't really packed full, and it wasn't really like a museum of things. But he had little

sculptures, and that was so _weird_. Was he an art collector? I wouldn't know an art collector if

one fucked me in the ass, apparently. I heard footsteps and clopped my way back to the sofa.

There he was, the proud lion Harley Benson. The little insight into him I got in the car was totally

erased and replaced by his broad-chested leonine bulk. Top-heavy and bare except for a smooth

leather vest that buttoned up the front, Italian driving gloves on his hands still, leather snap-off

pouch jock packed with the curve of masculinity, but with a new touch. Knee-high riding boots.

Perfectly fitted to his long calves, a little higher on the outside than the inside and hugging the

curve of his knee, ink black and shined as bright as possible without being that icky plasticky

patent leather stuff. He walked into the room with a slow clack of boot heels, then stopped in front

of me. I wanted to sit, but I just couldn't. I couldn't move. In terms of leather kink stuff, he

really didn't have that much on. The boots without pants or shorts thing wasn't really that common,

at least with the guys at The Pit. They liked all-out. But this was somehow much more powerful. He

wasn't some thing obscured in leather, he was a tall, broad-maned lion with fancy boots.

His gloved hands took hold of my lapels like I was in for a talking-to. "Sit."

How could I even say anything to that? I sat. As soon as I did, he stepped up close enough to touch

boot with the edge of the sofa next to my leg, then lifted his other one and propped it up on the

back of the couch next to my shoulder. He didn't need to tell me what to do, even though I really

hoped I was right. I turned and slid a leathery hand up the underside of his booted calf, then

leaned down and started to lick. Well, kiss at the toe, then lick. If it was humiliating, I'd long

since turned that humiliation into the burn of arousal. I had thick lips and a strong tongue, and I

used them both, swathing the leather in spit and leaving it damp afterwards. I was just reaching his

knee when he made a noise. I looked up to see him holding my discarded black shirt, thwapping it

into his other hand.

"Now that you've made a mess of my boot," he said, and tossed the shirt at me. I caught it, turning

away from that gleaming leather. He pulled his foot away, then pushed it straight at me, right into

my cock and balls. It didn't really hurt, especially not since the sole was smooth and hard leather

and the heel didn't crush at my balls. "I would like you to finish your spit-shine."

I can't believe the only thing I was thinking about with a boot on my dick was that his were totally

new. Well, okay, they were obviously used with attractive creases at the ankles, but I mean the

soles weren't worn. I could read the production number painted on the sole. If he ever wore them

somewhere that wasn't carpeted or on hard wood, I would be amazed.

Oh, the shirt, the boot. I took my shirt and folded it, then started to buff at the leather. I knew

guys did trampling play, but he wasn't into that. His boot didn't move aside from a slight flex as

he stayed balanced on one foot. He wasn't doing it to tease me, he was doing it because there was no

bootblack stool and I didn't have anything covering my dick. At least I knew how to shine a boot -

going to church as a kid and needing clean shoes goes a long way. "I.. I think I'm done."

"Very well," he said, and took the boot away. The lion's leathered hands came to my lapels again

and he sat me up and forward. "As before, I've looked forward to this all day." Instead of just

giving me the contents of that pouch, he drew me right up to it, the smell of heated leather and

musk making me snort. Then he mashed my lips to it and I kissed and sucked. "You can take it off

this time. Without your hands."

I didn't even use my teeth, over and over grasping at the corner of the snap-on pouch with my lips,

finally pulling it free. I flipped it out of the way like a, like a, like how a horse flings a

play-ball in the field. You know, those balls with the handles. Horses like them. Yes, I snuck out

at farm camp and did it. So did this big clydesdale guy who went with me.

Anyway, the lion's dick tilted forward and hit my snout, then swelled up the bridge of my nose. Just

like the previous two times, he was so musky that I about fainted. Sweaty, slimy with leftovers from

earlier - no doubt beating off in the bathroom to the thought of leather-clad me servicing him after

a meeting - and wasn't this supposed to be disgusting? Sour and salty and if I inhaled through my

nose it was like having an entire baseball team's worth of jocks dumped on me after a circle jerk.

It was so bad, I had to clean it off, lips holding his foreskin forward, tongue squirming under it

to wash around the glans, drawing a leg-shudder and a curt growl-snort from the big lion. I pulled

off, leaving his plump dickhead all clean for a moment, only to see a drool of precum push right out

and run down the V of the head. "If you sit down, I can-"

His warm, leathered hands grasped around my head and I twitched; they grabbed at my mane and I

pulled back into them; they pulled harder and I stuffed over his cock until the head jabbed me in

the throat. He really had to pull to get it in there, but he did, over and over and over, until I

was gagging and drooling enough that it ran off his balls. I pulled free and got air, then went back

down, lips squeezing and pulling the skin, sucking and then 'puffing' out hard enough to push my

head back off his cock. I held onto his ass with one hand, feeling the muscle stay firm and hard,

fingers petting over the trimmed fur and the strap for his jock. I milked his balls, and that did

it. Spunk flooded my mouth and I got one swallow down before, mid-grunt, he ordered me not to.

Harley pulled back and that last spurt pumped out and splattered me right above the collarbone,

oozing down onto my chest. I looked at it, then looked back up. He glared down at me, that endless

leonine glare from inside his ruddy mane, and his hands took hold of my head. They smoothed around

it, then gently tugged upwards, urging me to stand up. When he held me like that, I felt... I felt

_secure_. I never felt secure. No one ever held me.

When I stood, he came forward, muzzle pressing against mine, jaw parting, lips wrenching my mouth

open. Instead of letting him dodge his tongue into my mouth, I stuffed mine into his, complete with

that salty load of come. He wrangled my tongue and shoved it back in, but I backed off, taking the

mess all over my lips. He licked it clean, bit on me a little, then rubbed his stocky muzzle hard

against the side of my jaw. Then he sighed and let me go, twisted on a heel, and sat down.

He actually relaxed. He leaned back into the corner of the sofa, one booted foot pulled up and

planted down next to the arm, the other outstretched and canted at an angle. He didn't have to ask

me to sit; I slid right down and nestled up against him, received by a strong arm with a smooth

leather glove to feel over all of my own hide-clad curves. I returned the favor, caressing his

chest, offering little squeezes to his fur-covered pecs, making my way down to his thigh instead,

then that pulled-up boot. He just adjusted his mane and leaned back, cock sagging between his legs,

shrinking enough that it displaced a drool of spunk.

Harley was a total collection of interests. He liked to keep his cock dirty. He liked to snowball.

He liked to throat-fuck. He liked to act like a stiff asshole. He liked leather. I had absolutely no

idea who he was inside, but I kept trying to draw a picture. Was this Harley Benson? I didn't know a

lot of lions, so maybe this was it. This was why lions in reality would eat their cubs after letting

them play all day. This was why they sat around while their womens chased down gazelles. The other

option was that Harley was really someone completely different.

He certainly didn't talk much, and when he opened his mouth about himself, he apologized and asked

me to pretend he didn't. Okay, that's a point for the, "It's all a sham" choice. Instead of talking,

he took his fingers and squeezed at his cock, milking that drool of leftovers out until it was

strung across two gloved fingers. He brought them up to my mouth and penetrated my lips with the

cold mess. I swooned and took it, tongue cradling them as he wiped the mess off inside, then started

fucking my mouth with that smooth leather. Okay, there's another interest, and that's the marker for

a real leather freak. You can wear fuck-me chaps all you want, but when you stick your gloved

fingers in a guy's mouth, you're walking the walk.

I'm going to come, Mr. Benson, I'm going to come if you keep doing that, I'm going to come all over

your sofa and your fancy boots and then I'm going to whimper and clean it up and-

Of course I didn't say that, I mean his fingers were in my mouth. He pulled them out and I dodged

after them, and shit, did he _smile?_ "I see you enjoy using your mouth on things other than my own

or my cock." Then he pushed me off the couch. I was stunned enough that I just sat there on the hard

floor, while he pulled his other leg up onto the sofa leather and spread himself, leaning back

further, an arm supporting behind his head. I almost asked what he wanted, but there it was: His

asshole.

It would be nice if he actually told me he wanted it, so I wasn't just guessing, but sometimes guys

think it's gross to talk about it even if you're gonna be licking the damn thing with your fucking

tongue. I leaned forward and offered it a kiss, tongue swirling around the pucker. Sweaty, salty,

but not dirty. No nasty surprises. Unlike his dick, this was carefully cleaned out. That's fine, I'm

not into hot fudge sundaes. I pressed in with my tongue, not to penetrate but to shove his flesh

inwards, squirming and licking, lips pushing in now and then to try for a sucking kiss at the edge

of the ring.

Harley loved it. He grumbled and sighed and groaned out a breath or two, then started to make this

rhythmic on-off growling. I guess lions can't purr like smaller kitties? I didn't really want to

mash my tongue inside; that's for the dogs. I mean they got those crazy tongues, mine's thick and

strong and kind of hard to shove in there. So, I pulled back and slurped on my own fingers, then

started to give that dark ring a massage. He kept up with that purring, cock hard again and arcing

up over his abs, balls snug in their silky sac. He had this boytoy look, like a pinup model who just

got his voter's ID, but it was grafted onto his massive, powerful, middle-aged lion self. Oh yeah,

he was probably twice my age, but so what? I was fingering his asshole and he was loving it.

I dipped one finger in, and his eyes snapped open, body tensing and stiffening, almost like he was

going to push me away. I slid it back out, and he relaxed just enough to still his impulses. Two

went in, and his eyes popped open again. I curved them up and started to massage his prostate, and

he let out this kind of rrrrrowrl sound that I'd never really heard him make. His body arched, one

hand grabbed at the back of the couch with a hard squeak of leather, and then he locked eyes with

me. I think he wanted it to be a stern look, but it wasn't. It was... it was terrified to the point

of erection.

"I think we should... take this into the other room," he said, and put his boots back onto the

floor. I slid my finger out before it made a bad angle in there and moved so he could stand. Okay,

into the other room- he got up and pushed past me, clopping his heels hard as he stormed towards the

hallway.

I had a funny feeling. Not like the bad kind. Like I was seeing something important and not really

realizing what it was. The other room was his bedroom, not a dungeon. Mood lighting, a few more

tasteful landscape pictures, a huge black-linened california king bed. And the nightstand had a

bottle of lube (totally understandable) and a pair of handcuffs. As soon as Harley saw them, he

pushed forward as if to snatch them away, then froze.

I caught you, son of a bitch! The weight of all of my angst forced my thoughts together inside my

head. I was some pony who let people walk all over him and took money for it, but Harley was a

_liar_. He wasn't some big tough lion. Those handcuffs weren't for me, or he'd be grabbing them and

coming at me. I'm no dumbshit, I've done plenty of bondage play (always with a spotter so people

don't really use me), and you don't blanch at the last second. Harley liked my fingers in his ass.

Harley wanted to get fucked. Harley was playing asshole just to see how long it would be until I

stopped taking it! I was so sure of this that I just grinned at him.

"Go on, relax. This is totally better than your couch. No ruining the furniture."

He scowled at my comment, but sat down on the edge of the bed. I stepped past and grabbed the metal

cuffs. When I approached him, he shrank away, a huge maned cat scared of motherfucking _food_ with a

pair of puny bondage-issue metal cuffs. They weren't even real police ones, they had a safety latch

that you could open by squeezing them a little further and pushing a lever. I kneeled onto the bed

and snapped one around his wrist; Harley pulled it away, but I just leaned over further. He ended up

lying on his back, squirming away from the edge of the bed, brow furrowed hard, that triangular

nosepad pointing down to a scowl. "I didn't say you could..." he grunted.

"If you don't want me to cuff you," I said, and looked him over. Tawny trimmed fur, ruddy mane,

choice black leather here and there, and that cock. A little slimy from my mouth and his own load,

and swollen so hard that the foreskin was stretched thin over the glans. Just now, I noticed the

cockring behind his balls, a demure metal ring fitted to stay in place without too much

constricting, almost jewelry. I'm sure he could argue that it was why he was so hard. "Then you

shouldn't like it so much." He pawwed at me, literally pawwed at me with those gloved fingers, and I

just captured his hands, stroking leather on leather, helping them feel my jacketed chest.

He kneaded at me like a kitten, but that wasn't enough. I straddled over onto his thighs and pushed

his hands back to his own broad chest, then grabbed the wrists and pulled them up over his head. He

was in just the right place to put his arms up at the headboard, and the one attached cuff rattled

against something hidden under the black pillows. I looked - it was the head bar of the bed frame. I

took the dangling free cuff and stuffed it under the wood, then wrapped it up around, then snagged

his other wrist with it. As soon as he was locked in place, Harley started struggling. Not so much

fighting to get free, but testing at the cuffs, glove leather creaking as he felt around the metal

and the bar, trying to find that safety latch and failing or giving up. Then he writhed, boots

messing up the blankets, body arching and straining, face wild and wide-eyed. In a matter of a

minute, he was breathing hard, cock puddling precum into the short fur over his abs.

I sank against him, cock against cock, and took my gloved hands to his face. I mimicked his tender

strokes, petting his jaw, fingering through his mane, putting my muzzle just inches from his parted,

panting lips. "This is how _I_ feel when you fuck me," I said, and climbed off. He muttered my name,

scraping the cuff chain back and forth at the bedframe, growls and huffs spilling out of his mouth.

I just swiped up the lube and squirted it out into my palm, then spread it around my dickhead. I

almost felt numb. Hard, but numb. In a good way, like I was up for some abuse.

His nightstand drawer was open a crack, and I could see something black and metal inside. I tugged

it open with a slick finger, and saw some random leather bits - I think one was a harness - and then

a big, red ball gag. I mean big, like a grapefruit. I took it out of the drawer and expected to hear

some complaint from the lion, but when I looked over he was just staring and rumbling. I guess I

expected him to make a mewl or something, but lions probably can't do that. That cougar could make

all kinds of weird noises, but maybe that's not the same as a lion. You can tell I don't pay

attention sometimes.

Harley tensed as I straddled onto him again, this time over his chest so my cock wouldn't rub all

that lube off in his fur. He stared at me with those wild, wide eyes, petrified, terrified and

aroused enough that they almost quivered and watered. His muzzle didn't close up, but hung open,

tongue curled slightly. "You are a filthy lion. I mean _filthy_, you fucking come all over your dick

while you're at work just so you can shove the stinking wet thing in my mouth six hours later!" I

said, raising my voice as much as I really could. Then, I snorted and spat all over the ball-gag. I

had to do it a few times to really get it dripping, then held the straps close to the rubber and

brought it in to his mouth. The thing was huge, way bigger than would fit in my mouth. That's always

a surprise, that my mouth can't take a big gag, but that's a horse for you. His, on the other hand,

could. As soon as the spit-wet rubber hit his lips, he struggled his head back and forth, then

admitted it, the ball lodging behind his fangs. As I fitted the straps around his head and buckled

them down, compressing his mane like a headband worn way too low, I couldn't help but lean in for a

lingering, all-tongue kiss over his gaping mouth.

Now, it was time. I got off him and moved to his legs, kneeling there with a creak of chaps leather,

hefting his boots up and splaying them apart. He got his thighs up onto my shoulders and tried to

push me away, but none of that! I squirmed side to side and his boots slid down a little, then

wrapped behind me as I tried to force his knees up to his chest. That kind of struggle made me hard,

real hard, harder than I usually got. Hard like I was about to come. In the lower-body tussle, I

ended up mashing into his asshole, then forcing the slick flare inside. His eyes popped open and he

let out a gurgling hurrrrhn!, chest heaving upwards and straining his vest leather. He was fucking

tight. If he ever used a dildo, it was one of those pussy pencildick 'anal training' ones that only

train you to take a stick up your ass.

I didn't fucking care if it hurt. I was going to fuck him, and he was going to like it. I slid out

and he let out a gruff that pushed spit up around the gag. Then, back in again, out and in, out and

in, until he was rolling his head from the sensation of being ring-punched. Someone told me that was

the part that hurt the most. Bullshit, it's when you go deeper. I forced in halfway and he reared

again, this time roaring into the gag. What was probably supposed to deafen me just sounded like

some seasoned BDSM porn pro taking it for the camera, all muffled by rubber and slobber.

If it hurt, he didn't want it to stop; when I pulled back, his heels dug into my back. "You need

some spurs there, big kitty. You need some spurs for your pony!" Out and in again, and then I leaned

back, going for the thrust. That spurring grab stopped, and soon Harley had his boots hovering in

the air, knees back as far as he could get them, mouth uttering the urgent and awe-struck sounds of

someone getting their prostate mashed. And I couldn't fucking come! Harder and harder, until I was

huffing and snorting, flared nostrils and flared lips, the lion's eyes fixated on me - I probably

looked like a wild horse - as my cock pounded and rammed and hilted in him. All of a sudden, a weird

little spurt of come came out of his cock and he started to sniff and huff. Oh. I clutched onto the

shaft and milked the foreskin hard, and he screamed into the gag, seed erupting out and hitting the

wall above his head with a hard smack. I kept milking until he was over, and then kept on and on and

on, listening to him roar and yowl, muscles clenching and milking at my dick in wild spasms.

Then it was over, a hot rush and deep satisfaction as I shot into him, whinnies and brays and a few

head-throws, and I pulled out. The last spurt forced out onto his cock, proof that the previous

fifteen shots went right up his ass. Harley trembled, face smeared with his own spit and seed, and

then shit my load out all over his tail, puddling a creamy white mess all over the black sheets.

That was all I had in me. I pushed up forward and collapsed next to him, arm over his chest,

smearing leather against come. "You want me to stay the night? I'm fine with that. I'll leave you

right like this, just like you want. Isn't that right?" No answer. I licked at his gaping,

come-splattered, blocky muzzle and lips. "Isn't that right?"

When he was driving me home the next day, he was very careful to make an appointment for the next

weekend.