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Musk Containment

It's your turn to clean the fox chamber next. You've heard rumors about this one. Chatty. Dangerous. Warning signs are plastered all over the heavy steel door into the room.

Ventilators and facial shields must be worn at all times.

_ Do not speak to subject._

_ Any sign of breech must be reported immediately._

It seems like an awful lot of fuss for one silly fox, but you suppose his musk is collected for a reason. You just can't take your mind off the story you heard of the last guy who had a breech in this chamber, just a month ago. They found him completely naked, already sprouting orange fur, his face buried in that creature's ass. Now he's in a chamber of his own. It's not hopeless for him. He can form a complete sentence now and then, and his mutations stopped.

With these thoughts in your head, you tighten the straps around your gloves, and adjust your visored helmet. Air check? Flowing. Interior filters? Clear. Everything looks good. You take a deep breath of sterile air, lightly smelling of window cleaner, and place a rubber-clad hand on the handle of his door.

With a tug, it pulls out, setting off a very annoying buzzer. You need to get in, and shut it quickly so the airlock alarm won't go off. You've dealt with these before, and soon you are closed between the two heavy doors. You lift your arms up, and are sprayed down with cleaning fluid from head to toe. A warm rush of air blasts you dry, and a little green light comes on, unlocking the interior for you.

Inside rests the subject on his elevated platform, perfectly at waist height. He looks like a normal fox, on all fours. His only unusual feature is his size, being about four times the size a little fox should be. Metal bands and straps hold him steady on the platform, his rear pointing towards the door. No strap holds that bushy tail up, but up it is, giving you a perfect money shot of his dark anus the second you step into the room. A plump, round pair of balls hang taught underneath it, fuzzy with white fur. His pointy, dainty muzzle turns to give you a knowing grin, one amber eye squinting. The door shuts behind you, and he starts talking.

“Which one are you now? You're new, right?" You do your best to ignore it. It's weird enough to hear human speech come out of that muzzle, but that goes double when the voice is so suave and clear. After taking a look around, you locate the rack containing the tools you'll need: a pressure washer, bottles of cleaning fluid colored bright pink, textured rags to wipe the creature down and dispose of after. While you've never done this chamber before, you're aware of how this goes. First, the whole room needs a good blast with the washer. The metallic walls weren't outwardly dirty. Out of curiosity, you run a gloved finger down the surface. The result makes you take a sudden breath. A streak of clearer, brighter metal emerges behind your finger. A light, oily buildup gathers on your glove tip. You rub the brownish-orange grease between forefinger and thumb, then look back to the fox. He's staring at you, trying to maintain direct eye contact. You realize he hasn't taken that gaze off you the entire time, and doesn't intend to let up.

“I know, I know." It half chuckles. “It does tend to spread. This is only about two days alone. What DO you people do with it? I can only imagine it's what I like to do with it." You rip your eyes away and pick up the hose. The fox clicks its tongue, almost annoyed.

“The silent treatment before spraying those terrible chemicals, once again. Very boring. Though I do confess I enjoy the next part of the procedure." No words. You just start spraying. The wall changes color even after a single pass of the fan of pressured water. You briefly wonder what it would be like to stand in this room without your mask and oxygen tank. You aren't keen on suffering a fate like that poor soul last month, though he seemed to be enjoying every moment of it. There are worse things.

You are spared more pointless banter from the fox while the hose is working. No sooner have you hung it back up than the fox starts in again. You are thankful he can't move from his platform. There's no telling what he'd be up to.

“I'm glad that's done, aren't you? Come here and wipe me down. Be sure to get everywhere now. Everywhere." You were indeed going to take up a few rags and the pink bottle next. It's just the next part of the procedure, but now it seems like you're doing what he wants you to do. Just a simple psychological trick, nothing more. You'll do what you need to, even if he enjoys it. It's no matter to you one way or the other what it thinks. What he thinks. You just shake your head and gather up the rags. As you turn back to the platform you see him there, wiggling and flicking his tail in anticipation. His ears flick and turn. Those amber eyes are both on you now.

No glass separates his space from yours. All four of his paws are held down by the metal bands, preventing him from leaving, but the rest of him is free. He could turn his head and bite you if he really wanted, but you've never heard of him doing that. Even that incident last month wasn't because of a bitten suit. There was a recording of the whole event. Still, you aren't entirely confident about that tooth-filled muzzle as you approach. With a few spritz from the bottle, you get your rags nice and damp. Hesitantly, you place one hand on the creature's back, and work the rag against the grain. Almost at once it comes back stained. The creature is filthy, though he doesn't look it.

“You'll need more than one rag before you're done." Maybe he senses your surprise. “It's not harmful just to breathe you know. I keep telling them that but they won't listen. The true effects only come in with a taste." You scrub deeper, and harder, trying to take your mind off him. You work the rag into his undercoat along the ridge of his spine. By the time you are satisfied with that area, the rag is unusable with grease. With a small degree of disgust, you throw it into the incinerator bin, and take a couple fresh ones. You wipe his sides next. His ribs don't show through his fur, but you can feel them when you press down.

“I've never heard anything bad from a creature who's smelled my scent. They all love me." He states this plainly, as a matter of fact, but with a hint of pride. His bushy tail flicks, bumping your elbow, making you pull your arm away. “And if it's “mutations" you are worried about, even your own people have the data to know it won't happen from scent alone. Some have told me that taking in my scent was so pleasurable, they were cleansed of all stresses, and even forgot their own spouses for a time. A brief, passing effect. Purely mental, really. Nothing chemical going on." You are nearly done his sides. You are moving to his underbelly and legs now. You'll do his head next. After that, you'll get to the real problem areas. You've been purposefully avoiding them; you admit to yourself. You aren't sure why you didn't just get it over it. Here, touching the creature, he seems so much larger than you gave him credit for. He's nearly a full-grown wolf in size.

“Truly, you could turn your filters off just for a few moments, then right back on. Even that would give you a sample of what I'm talking about. Even with the cleaning you've done, you'd immediately feel it. Nobody would know either."

“Shut up." Your voice comes sharp and sudden. You didn't even mean to, but he's getting on your nerves. You wonder if you've broken protocol just by acknowledging you can hear and understand him. His ever-present sly grin widens and he looks back at you.

“It's a genuine offer. You'll never feel anything like it. I can promise you. That's not something I'd lie about. And really, I have nothing else to gain from it, here in this room."

“Just shut up. You're trying way too hard. I'm nearly done."

“Oh yes. You've got the best bits still to go. I've appreciated you drawing out my satisfaction." You just grumble and sigh. There's no reasoning with him. You shouldn't have said anything to begin with. You can see why the sign outside says not to talk to him.

With a fresh rag, you walk around to his face. He stands level with your eyes, giving you a smug squint. You reach a gloved hand out to him, and imagine him biting though your protection.

“You wouldn't want to bite me." You assure him. “That won't end well for you. I'd just leave, and you'd be dealt with much more severely in future." He lets out a foxlike giggle for the first time. It's an animalistic sound, not at all like the voice he's been using.

“Are you that afraid of my teeth? I know this very well. I've had my face wiped down many times before. Haven't you seen the recordings? I've never bitten any of you. Carry on, please." You're inclined to believe him on this. He gains nothing from biting you. He's holding still for you too, just waiting with that smug expression.

You cup his chin with your off hand, and start scrubbing the top of his fluffy head with the wet rag. It's just as dirty as the rest of him. You get down over his eyes, and along the contours of his pointy muzzle. You even get his ears and whiskers. There's a satisfaction in making him clean. His scent seems to be his source of pride and power. Taking a bit of that away, even for a short time, makes you feel like you're getting the upper hand.

Another cloth is soiled. It makes you feel as though you haven't gotten as much off as you need to. His face needs more work. At least, that's what you try to tell yourself. You know you're avoiding it. His hind quarters wait for you, and the thought makes your mouth dry.

“Another round on the face?" You swear he's smiling. “I suppose you're just being thorough." You clamp down on his muzzle and scrub hard. That shuts him up for a few moments at least. The rag comes back without much on it. It seems these chemicals do a decent job, but it's prof you're just wasting time. You step away to gather a couple more. You'll need them.

“You know, all the cleaning you just did takes away only a fraction of my scent. You've carefully avoided the best parts. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you are just as excited for it as I am."

“I'm not!" You spin around, your voice catching in your throat. He's managed to wiggle his ass in your direction. The dark pucker of his tailhole gives you a few flexes, helped by the tail swishing above it. Below, his pointy red cock is slipping slowly out of its sheath. The white fur of his plump, full balls only make his anus look darker.

“Now THAT'S someone who likes what they see." He chuckles. “Multiply that by about a hundred and you might imagine what it's like to smell them. Remember, the sniff is free. You can walk out the same as you came in. It will be untraceable in minutes."

“I don't…"

“I bet it's not so bad now that you've done all this cleaning. You'll get only the pure source. It will be tempting, for certain. It will be the best you've ever felt, or near to it. It might be hard to know that after you've felt it, but by the time you've left this room, it will have no effect on you. You know I'm not lying."

“It's not going to happen. I'm this close to walking out and getting someone else to finish the job. You're gross, and overconfident. I'm not sure why they keep you." You march around to the back of him, freshly wetted rags in hand. To your slight surprise, he keeps quiet for now. He just puts his head down, keeping his tail flagged in anticipation.

His dark hole is positioned about at the height of your chest. It's quite literally staring you in the face. A slight burn starts to spread between your legs. Your mouth is hanging open, threatening to fog up your visor even through the filter. As if you had to push though water, your hand reluctantly reaches out with the rag. Your other hand grips his hip, your thumb pulling the fur away from your prize. No. Your goal. No no. The last thing keeping you in this stupid room. Almost against your will, almost, the rag drags down his balls instead. One half-hearted brush. You swallow hard. Why would you waste it?

“It's… it's safe in small doses. That's what you said." A soft rumble vibrates the fox's throat.

“It's safe in high doses, silly thing. I told you. Only direct fluid contact leads to the other symptoms you apparently find distasteful. Take as long as you need. I'm not going anywhere."

What the fuck are you doing? You could get called into a disciplinary debriefing just for talking to it. The temperature in your pants hasn't gone away. In fact, it's started a gentle, intermittent throb. You've seen a 10/10 supermodel with less of an effect on your genitals than this filthy fox's back entrance. You check your filters. Oxygen still has a good 40 minutes to go. Foreign particle buildup on the filters is still well within tolerance, and that tolerance is microscopic. Your hand has forgotten the rag. A finger hovers over the filter control. You could turn it off without removing any equipment. In theory, the filter should still protect you from the worst of it, even without the rebreather running through it. Why are you bargaining with yourself like this? It's because you have to know what the fuss is about. You want to feel amazing. You want to know what that damn pucker smells like. It's as simple as that. Your rebreather switches off. Your filters are free to suck in the surrounding air. It happened like a dream, you think. You aren't sure you actually did it or not. You just want to…

A sweet, sharp, tangy, sour, spicy flavor lands in your nose. It travels up your sinuses in seconds, and there it prickles. Your whole body shudders. It's so raw. Unwashed, yet earthy. Filthy, yet vaguely edible. THIS is coming through the filters? This would stop tear gas. With half open eyes, you check your filter status again. Contaminant level yellow. Suggest replacement. From four breaths? Five? Six…

No no. This is dumb. Despite the prickle in your head, and the now constant strain between your legs, you turn your rebreather back on and take a few deep breaths. It gets better, but it's in your sinuses now. You can't shake it completely. It's all you can think about.

“It's nice, isn't it?" You jump a bit. You forgot was there; forgot you were here.

“I'm… going to finish up back here." You snatch up your rag again, a bit frustrated. Your head is swimming, and it swims more when you stare into that pucker again. It's the source of your pleasure. It's giving you these wonderful feelings. You can't take that away. The rag slips from your hand and slaps onto the floor. You grip him by both hips and push your thumbs along the rims of the ring.

“I'm going to express your glands." You say in a hollow voice. “I can't say you're totally clean until I do."

“By all means." He gives his ass a wiggle, but you maintain a firm hold. You need to do this. It's cleaning. If you just wipe down the outside, he'll replace it in minutes. Your thumbs move closer together, squishing the dark ring. It's wrinkles shift, then expand as you start to kneed. You wouldn't want to push too hard yet. He'd enjoy it more if you take it slow, and massage. But of course, it wouldn't matter how much he enjoys it. Naturally.

You push your thumbs apart and open him up a little. His entrance is tight, but soft enough to peel open just a centimeter. The interior lightens in color quickly, and is slick with fluid. Without thinking, you draw your lips in, trying to wet them. Your breath comes faster, still feeling the remnants of the little musk that entered through your filters. Now, your visor and suit feel heavy on you. They don't belong on you at all. But you've got an important task to finish first.

With loving care, you kneed both thumbs in, even entering his hole slightly. As you pick up the pressure, it lubricates from within. Seeing it slowly become glossy and damp under your touch makes fire between your legs. It's beautiful. It's too much. You stop, but instantly miss touching it. With one curious finger, you push at the center, and feel it's give. He's ready. You overcome the ring's resistance, and your eyes roll. The feeling of it's warmth hugging around your intruding finger, wanting you there, literally takes your breath away. You have to take a sharp breath in and remember to keep breathing. With debased curiosity, you slide in and out, watching out it reacts to the motion. The throb in your pants is threatening to burst just from this, and the feeling locks you in place.

The fact that this is so good, even without his musk around you, is insanity. A small part of you that's growing smaller knows this is wrong. Yet, the idea that you could double this feeling, triple it, just by turning your rebreather back off is irresistible. Your finger slides out, damp with him. That same finger taps your rebreather off. You know it's wrong. When the first tang hits your nose, and stings your sinuses, you feel ashamed. He's won, and you hate that you want him to.

An audible groan escapes your mouth, and your hungry hands return to his rump to fully enjoy it. You run two fingers down his rim, just letting him know what you're about to do. He does nothing but push his hips back, and give his tail another swish. He must be pretty proud of himself. You don't want this. You only need this. With a quarter rotation, you screw both fingers into him. His dark ring flexes, and you feel him tighten against you. The pounding in your crotch becomes electric. The filth of his stink is filling your helmet, and it's making each breath bliss. That breath sniffs faster, and faster. Your heart thuds. Your fingers work until those throbs of pleasure can't last anymore. You're cumming. Each new thud of your heartbeat moistens you under your suit. Your legs shake with the pleasure, and the shame of it. Slowly, your fingers stop working so hard, and you just let yourself stand there, knuckle-deep in anus, and sniffing hard. The fox seems pleased.

“Hm hm hm. Should I take that as a sign that you're enjoying yourself? I told you you'd never feel anything like it. I should remind you though-" It's your turn to cut him off. Your fingers slip out of his hole with a wet friction, and both hands go up to your helmet fastens.

“I need the full effect. I can't smell you well enough with this on. I need it pure." You nearly regret saying that the second your helmet unseals with a low pop. The natural air of the room rushes in, and you start coughing. The spice of it sears you. Even your eyes begin to water. You fold onto your knees and try to breathe. After only a few breaths you start to get used to it. It still burns, but you don't feel the need to cough as much. You look down at the fingers of your glove that were used for animalistic purpose only moments before. They are still wet. Like an animal yourself, you raise them up and sniff. Raw, sour, and sweetly rotten to an intensity you didn't think a smell could be. It's like a physical force pressing into the back of your throat. You turn your head away, forgetting how to breathe again for a moment. Then the rush comes. Softly, your head floats in your skull, and your vision blurs. Even though you just came in your pants, you feel yourself building up again.

Then you look up. It really isn't fair what you see. Here on your knees, you get a perfect view of the fox's throbbing red shaft dangling below it. His fluffy white balls hang so heavy. You can smell them now. The filth of his asshole can't quite drown out the more savory, creamier notes of his scrotum, and the pre gathering on its tip. All thoughts of returning to your original task leave you. Even the foggy shreds that were telling you to just go and let someone else handle this fade to nothing. Still, there's a shame in how eager you scramble to your feet. You shouldn't be giving him the satisfaction. You shouldn't be reveling in something so filthy. You'll be caught on the cameras sooner or later, even if you make it out of this. Most of all, you hate how this makes you feel. The fox didn't force you to turn your filters off. You needed this. You need it even more now, and as you grip the fox's back legs to lean in, your cheeks burn at the thought of what this will look like from the outside.

You move one hand to cup under his sack. The fox's words return to you: sniffing is free, but fluid contact causes other effects. You don't want that, but you can't deny you'd love to touch him now. You need it almost as much as you need to keep sniffing. With his balls firmly in your hand, you get your nose as close as you dare to them, and huff in deep. The saliva gland under your tongue spurts. Softly bitter waves travel straight through your nose and into the back of your throat. You swear you could almost swallow it. More of his natural oils come through here, not tainted so much by the filth of his tailhole, or the slicks of drying pre on his cock. Here, there was a happy middle ground between the two. You tease and roll his balls, watching how the fur shifts and wafts more of its contents toward you. The sudden desire to bury your face in them, to finish your cleaning task with your tongue instead of a rag, becomes powerful in your mind. Still, even now, taking that final step of commitment scares you.

In theory, you could still walk away from this. Sure, you'd likely be fired, but you won't suffer any mutations or illness. It wouldn't be anything permanently life-altering. You withdraw a bit from those delicious balls, wanting so much to draw a tongue over them. That desire scares you. You look back to the hole above it, still there, and winking for you. No sexual pleasure will be the same after this. You could leave this place, but you'd never feel this way again. You'd never be so totally owned by simple scent, so captivated by the most base of animal organs.

You straighten just enough to become level with his moist, dark anus, and take in it's scent from up close. Your sniff is delicate at first. Just curious, and inching closer. You've smelt this before, but from the source, its richness fills you. The air close to him is heavy with it, so much that it's a weight to breathe. The sour tang, subdued by the earthy savor, threatens to reach your brain. You let out a breath from your mouth, and you taste it on your tongue, having lost only some of its strength passing through your lungs. You look down in no small degree of embarrassment when a string of drool falls from your lip. You are salivating uncontrollably. It's a hunger, a thirst, and sniffing is just a tease. Your eyes get lost in his winking tailhole like a lover's eyes.

“If you don't want to be mine, and belong to me, you'll need to stop now." The fox coos. You almost don't register his voice for a moment, but you swallow the spit forming in your mouth to answer.

“Belong?" You sound more desperate than you intended.

“If you taste me, you'll be mine. You will have trouble thinking of anything else but me." As if that sounded exciting, like a life you've been dying to live, you lean even closer to his hole, lips gently parted. Even as you're doing this, your mind is trying to recoil. You never wanted to be his slave. You just wanted to feel what it was like. Your lips are no more than a handful of centimeters away now. Somehow, you manage to stammer.

“I… I don't want…"

“I'm bound to this table. I couldn't help you if I tried, and I can't help my scent. If you value the human life you've been living, you need to pull away. It may already be too late."

This is insane; insane that he's managed to get you in this position, insane that you wanted this in the first place, insane how much of your mind seems to want to plunge into that dark ring and never come out. While you try to think, you take constant sniffs, almost touching the sticky surface. It's for your own comfort. It helps you feel the way you should.

Your eyes can't leave the folds of his anus. It's so close now you're nearly cross-eyed. Its smell is in your head. After the fox's warning, that dark hole looks like your doom; the final decision you can never take back. The fox could push back into you before you could react, but he's not. He's just going to let you struggle. He wants it to be your choice. He wants you to know you did this, not him. Thinking of that now makes you sigh with loss. You would have closed your eyes, but you can't. They sting this close to him, and a tear wells up in one. Maybe it's from the smell, but maybe it's for the life you'll leave behind.

Such rational thoughts get more distant. A jolt of elation and fear rolls though you as you feel the tip of your nose poke the damp, wrinkled entrance. It's like touching a hot stove, but you don't move away. Your nose stays right where it is. Finally, you're able to close your eyes, making the tear roll off your cheek. It's a little sad, you think. It's sadness, mixed with the burning between your legs that's returned in full force, heartbeat pounding.

“You'll be mine if you taste me. You won't have another chance to-"

With a lurch not unlike a someone starving grasping for food, you push your mouth into his asshole. You kiss it, and kiss it deep. You kiss it like you'd kiss the mouth of a lover. You use only your lips at first, though they are plenty wet enough. The texture of his ring: wrinkled, but silky smooth, taught, but flexing. It responds to being touched. It almost kisses back. Your eyes roll back, and your tongue flicks out. You run it along one edge, tracing up the ring from bottom to top. The taste is sharp, and bitter. It's something you shouldn't be tasting, but you are, and it shocks you how much you need more. You try to remain subtle and probing. You try to go slow, and caress his exterior, but you are so hungry. Your next lick uses the flat of your tongue. You push it low, and drag it high, feeling his entire texture. The bitter taste becomes uncomfortably strong, moving lower on your tongue. It's going to slip down your throat, but you don't care anymore.

You hear yourself moan. It's a deep, needy sound that you didn't will yourself to make. After only a couple more drags of your tongue, you push in. Using the tip, his dark walls open for you, and hug snuggly around. At the very first entrance, you worm your way as deep as you can go, mashing your lips into the fur around his anus. Your mouth is open more than it was to provide just a bit more reach. Your right hand moves up and grip the base of that swishing tail above your head. It's a good lever to make sure you stay in position.

His taste coats the whole of your tongue. You can feel his heartbeat through the soft, wet walls. You slide your tongue back until the tip pokes at his wrinkles, then plunge in again. Your own heart hammers in your chest, and at your crotch. Every slide of your tongue builds the pressure gathering there. You're going to cum again.

Your nose is your only source of air now. It sucks in deep, panting breaths of air choked by the wet musk you are scraping up with your tongue. Your world becomes his scent, and the warmth of his asshole. Your need to push deep into it is your only need. It's exactly where you belong. Your left hand fondles between your legs though your suit, accomplishing little, but providing pressure to hump against at least. You wouldn't have needed it.

You start to moan with every breath out, and huff hard with every breath in. Your sounds get more desperate with each one. Your legs quiver. Your mouth presses down on its prize. Your tongue curls in its warm sleeve. A pressure builds in your face, and at the base of your spine. A prickle courses over all of your skin. These stranger sensations are unknown, but you are certain they are a sign that you are truly his. The thump between your legs is a hammer blow, and with a rising burn that accompanies the prickles, you start filling your pants with fluid, pump after white hot pump.

All you can do is shiver and moan. Your mouth is still locked in place, but you swear your eyes are getting further away. Your tongue can reach a little further now. Your darkening nose tip sniffs and picks up notes that eluded you before: the sweetness of his precum, the pheromone must gathering at his balls, and the peaty need of his asshole. When your tongue flicks back in your mouth for brief moments to savor him, you find your teeth too large, and your jaw too narrow. Your suit is getting feverishly uncomfortable on you. Everything chafes, and its pushing your tail down flat against your ass. It needs to flick free to display how proud you are to service a prize anus like his.

With a gruesome pop, you pull your half-muzzle free from his backside. You catch a glimpse of your hand as it leaves the base of his tail. Your nails have turned black, and soft black fur brushes along the back of your hand. Your fingers even have a bit less dexterity. They ache, but you need to get out of this damn suit. With your new claws, it's difficult working the straps and zippers. You barely remember how half this stuff works, but you manage somehow. Stepping out on unsteady, small feet, you look down at your naked form.

Your posture is hunching forward. You can't keep your back straight. Orange, white, and black fur is blossoming over you. Streaks of your own cum run down the inside of your legs, which still shiver. Looking back at your master and lover, you see you are a much better height now to reach his hind quarters.

You stick your head between his legs, feeling your pointing ears brush between them. You turn onto your back, and slide under him. For some reason, you get the idea that you should be telling him what you'd like to do.

“Aa reeed." You tried to say: I need. Your mouth isn't suited to speech anymore. A faint shudder of shame runs down your mutant body. You remember what you were only minutes before all too well. Your master doesn't need your words. You look up at his veiny, bright red, dripping cock with amber eyes. When it slowly lowers to your mouth, you open wide to accept. He doesn't waste any time. His first thrust goes to the knot, giving your wet nose a chance to sniff into his underbelly fur. The taste of old semen comes off on your flat tongue, and the taste of new pre drools down your throat. He's fucking your muzzle now, flattening you against the table. The thrusts are animalistic, following a sporadic rhythm.

“Ahh. I had a feeling about you. This is right where you need to be. Aren't you happy now, sweet thing? Mmm… Being mine?" You give a happy but muffled yip deep in your throat. You can't say anything more with your muzzle full. With your empty hand, you start to masturbate, feeling how things have changed down there as well. In your mouth, you can feel the throb of his dick. All you can do is squirm under him on the table, the last traces of what you once were fading away. What you are now is pitiful, and helplessly lost. The finest medical treatments could never restore you now. You're just a twisted mutant, neither fox or human, without even the elegance of being smoothly anthropomorphic. Your fur is patchy, your legs and back bent awkwardly, and your muzzle forming your face into an uncanny snarl. You just twitch here, totally lost in him, and about to cum again, your tainted eyes closing. You're ready now.

You hear the fox let out a yipping wail. He thrusts deep, and you feel the knot push past your half-lips. The power of his throbs beating against the roof of your mouth and your tongue, and the hot seeping feeling oozing down your throat leave no question what you are missing out on. Your own orgasm is so close. Your twisted hand is working faster, but you know what you really need to finish. You jerk your head back to slide his length out of your throat to let him spill on your tongue. You have to taste him.

His seed is thick, and you lather his cock tip with inner caresses. The swirl you make with your tongue gives you the best chance to savor how potently bitter he is. Though the hot temperature of it, you taste a briny, stinging goo that keeps pumping just for you. Eagerly you curl your tongue to rake it back into your throat before swirling more. Knowing you've pleased him so well is all the permission you need. Your own pleasure releases again, sending your curled, darkening feet kicking in the air, clawed toes working. An animalistic chitter replaces what would have been a passionate moan. You ride out the wet throbs of need until you are left suckling his shrinking cock for more juice, still hungry. Rudely, he pulls it away.

“Oh… you ARE eager. You're better than the last one. Look at you. There's nothing left in there, is there?" He shifts himself to look down at you. You shrink under his gaze. You are wondering what to do with your master now that you've served him so well, but just then the door opens with a buzz that's too loud. You shriek and try to hide behind the table. Two men enter in full gear, glistening white and clean.

“Holy fucking shit." One says though his mask. He marches to the wall and picks up the hose. This he points at master, but not before his eyes drift down to meet yours as you huddle on the ground, naked.

“Hey." He says to the other who came with him. “Drag this one out after I spray them down. We're gonna need a new pen for them." Then, he pulls the trigger. Chemical treated water blasts over your twisted form, and you scrabble to get away, a frightened cry rising in your throat. You're afraid of losing master's scent, and afraid of what these men will do to you. Mostly though, you're afraid that you still remember too much. You remember enough to know how wretched you are now. These men were your coworkers an hour ago. Now they spray you down like you're… just an animal. Just an animal.

High in the observation deck, three doctors take notes. The live video feed from the fox's room captured the entire affair.

“Impressive results."

“Naturally, but I must still protest at the human cost. We can't cover for all of them."

“We won't need too many more. By then, the distillate will be ready. Their sacrifice is not in vain." One sips on a coffee absent-mindedly, and they all nod agreement. The first replies.

“A weapon, an espionage tool, a gene-therapy conveyer, and even the world's most potent aphrodisiac all from a single source. Our loyal employee should be proud to have served such a noble purpose… do you think we could tell them?" One shrugs. The other scratches their chin.

“Later. We'll see how their speech-retraining goes. They themselves still have things to teach us."