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Vachelon Eddies sat nude on a stool in the middle of a pink-walled bedroom decorated with azure taffeta curtains and plush ivory carpeting that swallowed his toes when he burrowed his feet into it. There was no bed in this bedroom, but along the back wall stretched a long Hollywood-style clothing rack buckling under the weight of a cavalcade of sequined and lacy dresses, skirts, and gowns, all one custom-tailored size: his.

Vachelon "Vash" Eddies was twenty-six, was a fox, and had lustrous russet fur that bordered on bronze for its richness and luminosity. Cracking his back from his neck to his tail, Vachelon stood from the stool and painted over his perfect fur in wide swaths with an airbrush gun, spraying temporary dye in colors of jade green and platinum, covering most every part of him save for his pearl white front and the plump parcel of sheath and balls happily hanging between his thin, muscular thighs. His package would be covered anyway, barring any malfunctions.

Vachelon taped the whole assortment of male-hood under himself, and then put on a hefty stuffed bra in size 38 E. He watched, as he pulled the straps over his shoulders, his fake breasts dwarf his firm biceps. His cock flexed against its tape. The garment itself was cumbersome, forced him to brace his back, and was covered in fake fur the same color as his natural pearl chest. The green, platinum, and white fox crowned his voluptuous bosom with shiny platinum nipples as tall as a shot glass, and areolas just as wide.

The vanity, in keeping with his dress rack, was of a flashy Hollywood style, and as such had over twenty light bulbs affixed to the frame around the mirror, lighting his feminized body until it gleamed like a neon sign. Pending any charges of vanity and haughtiness, the fox admired himself in the mirror: he had a slight muscular build, was sinewy with short fur, and ignoring the square shoulders, he looked like quite the R-rated cummy-paw fantasy with a rack of fat tits big as his head and a smooth, sensuous "v" below his tummy that traveled down, down, and ended in a flat mound that suggested a pair of sensitive, delectable netherlips beyond the fur.

Again, Vash's cock strained against the tape, so he strutted on tip-paw to the rack, tits swinging side to side, and picked out a few fun articles. He grabbed a wide satin cape of jade and platinum shading, and when he unfurled it he revealed long finger-creases that travelled from collar to hem: it resembled a bat's wings, or a certain hero's cape. Tossing this over his arm, partially over a boob, the fox plucked a skimpy top and bottom which were little more than nylon triangles on strings.

He slipped on the cape, then a pair of enormous foam bat ears over his own, a bat nose over his own, and finally, strung the tiny bikini top over his hefty bosom and the bikini bottom up under his flattened, fake-out pussy. The fox-cum-bat snapped the thong string once against his tight, pert tailhole, then stepped into a skirt so short, it left the bottom half of his curvy, firm bottom hanging in the wind. He smacked it once just to watch it jiggle.

Vachelon, now "Pteropa," cracked open a feminine pad and gouged the middle with a claw, then flipped up her skirt, looked down between her massive tits, and inserted the pad down the patch of her thong to give her pussy some cameltoe. Pteropa turned to her mirror with a grin, where before her stood a green and white bat with platinum stripes, with tall, cavernous ears, a cute flared nose, a set of round, cantaloupe breasts threatening to burst out of their slings, and a tiny green triangle between her thighs being partially swallowed by delicious, velvety labia.

Vash's cock lurched again, stretching the tape. He tucked it back into place and called a cab.

***

The cab ride started innocuously: her driver was a stout bull chain-smoking cigarettes with the front windows barely rolled down. The bull regarded the big-breasted bat with a snort, and had the address pulled up on his console without her saying a word.

"Y-yes, the drag show," she confirmed in practiced falsetto. When the car lurched into the motion, the femme-bat caught, in the plastic divider window, a flash of upside-down hermaphrodite crotch: a nylon-wrapped pussy bulge on top of a packed rack of balls and cock, and because she wasn't wearing her seatbelt, she slid forward and flashed her nice pink asshole hiding behind a tiny green strap. Pteropa squeaked and shoved her tiny handbag between her thighs, keenly aware that her skirt only covered the top part of her panties when sitting down.

She saw the bull's gaze in the rearview mirror, his eyebrow raised.

"Don't worry about me, sister. I've caught my son on way worse websites selling way worse than you," he said.

Pteropa nervously chuckled, if just to fill the silence, and adjusted her bikini strings. The leather seat cushion felt warm against her bare rump.

"About shoved the phone up his ass, but I think he was watching a video like that at the time ... hey, on second thought, is that drag show going to be any good? You girls going to milk each other or double penetrate onstage?"

"Excuse me?!" she yelped. Pteropa felt a burgeoning, confused erection: sitting on it was like sitting on a TV remote. "I mean, sorry, sorry. Maybe some might behind closed doors, or in front of a camera, but a drag show is a performance art! We actors, admirers of the female form, create these garish exaggerations in tribute," the green and platinum bat said with a grin, bowing a mere foot before her ears touched the dividing window.

The bull snorted. "Here I am getting a philosophical dissertation from a fox with tits the size of his head. You new in town?"

"Fairly ... why?"

The bull shook his head as he pulled into the parking lot. The word "Perineum" was written in loud cursive neon above the door. "Welcome to Copernica," he said, "Things are a little ... lively around here."

Pteropa pulled money from her clutch and then stepped out of the car on green platform heels, paying the man as she looked upon a building cast in neon and mirror shards, music thudding across the asphalt.

***

All the coyote was looking for was a man and a drink. So far, he'd found neither, and was currently hunkered over the counter of a shiny black, glitter, and neon bar listening to a baby-blue boy husky bartender with a mesh shirt, nipple rings, and boyshorts so tight he could count each ball yammer on about nothing. His nametag said "Typhus."

"I, uh, yeah I'm not sure how they let you in ... Cowpoke Day is Thursday and, like, I really like the outfit but it seems you're actually serious about it ... and while that can be hot for some of our more eccentric clientele, next to the bondage, railroad, and the superhero clubs, it's a bit passé. And what drink did you want, again? Bublè? Bèarnaise? Berrrrrr ... Bernie Sanders? I'm sure we don't have it; you'll have to look elsewhere for that, but if I could interest you in a Lucky Pierre Ring-Stretcher cocktail I could ..." Typhus began, continuing on his merry way regardless of his patron's attention.

The black coyote Siphedious sighed and removed his black, sharp-brimmed cowboy hat, sticking his fingers up under the frames of circular purple glasses to rub his eyes. When he pulled his paw through his face fur, purple highlights caught the gaudy neon lights. The club thundered with electronic bass strikes. The boy did not stop for breath, and all the time while this young, fit male energetically gestured, it seemed that his elbows never left his sides. He was like a t-rex with a Goddamn lisp, and he was faking the lisp.

"There's a bottle of bourbon right behind your fat head," Siphedious growled, his glasses shining like the cool night sky over a naked desert. "If you have a Goddamn Cowpoke Day, you obviously serve Goddamn cowpoke drinks."

"My head is not fat, sir, and for another thing I can call Andre and Deshondre over here right now and they will throw your saddle-sore ass out of here at like, five parsecs. Like, so fast."

"Are you going to serve a paying customer or not?"

"Like hold your tits, Reverend Blumpkin; you can fuck your baby brother soon enough," he said, wagging a finger with one hand as the other reached up to grab a bottle covered in dust. Coughing after its retrieval, the husky turned around and bent down so that his fat, obvious sac-bulge squeezed between his muscular thighs, bringing up a martini glass and opening the bottle with one thumb. He tipped the bottle upside down, splashing everywhere.

"I don't even know what you're even, like, why you're here--you look almost forty and while some of the bitches have that whole daddy fetish, myself included, it's a known fact that no one over twenty-five is gay: you just gotta hold it in until you're forty, then you can bend eighteen year-old bitches over your knee and spank them until they're begging for daddy's cock."

Siphedious's eyes gleamed like the brass casings of bullets, a fight packed inside them, but the boy had his eyes up in the rafters, head cocked back, while he talked himself into an obvious erection. Boy had a fat cock knuckling against the fabric and a knot the size of two golf balls. The bartender saw the look in Siphedious's eyes and laughed.

"Oh sweet Jesus's musky butthole! Don't take it seriously; 'daddy' is just an expression. Usually. Which speaking of," Typhus said, pausing as the whiskey meniscus bulged over the rim and his fingers, "Are ya forty?"

"No."

"Then nope. Nuh-uh. Sorry. You're in gay purgatory, in time-out. You now gotta get married to a mare for fifteen years, have the bitch pop out a couple of kids, get a chubby-chubb daddy belly around the middle, get your daddy experience raising kids, and then, right around the 'filthy four-Oh,' the throbbin' forties, you have a gay scandal with your son's, um ... friend's ... High School Senior quarterback brother. And oh my fucking God, bonus _points_if your son and his friend are looking for their copy of _Doom Soulsborn_or whatever, and they burst into big bro's room to see him on his knees, in his jersey and jockstrap, weenie dribbling out the side, with a mouth full--_fucking full--_of his brother's friend's dad's juicy old cock," he said, a massive wet spot spreading on his tented shorts, "And then everyone's surprised, and quarterback tries to pull out, and you cum all. Over. His face. In front of your son and his friend. Fucking amazing! I had a friend who this exact ..." he started, but Siphedious had long since drifted off.

The coyote slowly breathed through his mouth. He didn't know what sounded off and what sounded outright wrong: the difference between a purple horse and a horse with a chainsaw up its ass. For a brief moment, he didn't know whether to shut this boy's yap with his cock or his fist, but he was aware that his hackles were raised, that his paw on his thigh had slid towards his gun, and that his ears had flared forward to face an attacker.

His mind, however, hosed him down. He was no moral judge; he was just looking for a man and a drink. Christ Almighty, how hard could that be?

"Look, kid; I know what you're sellin' and I ain't buyin'," he said, receiving the martini glass of bourbon and sliding it aside, shaking his paw off after it dribbled liquor all over him, "If that's any consolation."

"Why the fuck not?" Typhus asked, an ugly frown on his face. There was a white pearl tip on the front of his shorts, which were pulled so tight that Siphedious could see the sides of his bleach-white balls. "I'm everybody's type. I've proven it in public, on CyberFet's site, and in the Wal-Mart bathroom," he growled, pacing the bar. As his injured bragging came to a high, he got up on a step-stool and, turning away from the black and purple coyote, bent far down, shoving his moist, polyester-wrapped rump and his boy-bulge right in the coyote's face.

Siphedious had to admit that from a casual standpoint, the firm, round, apple-shaped ass was all sorts of attractive, and the boy was clearly hung by the obvious wad of cock and balls jutting between his legs. His mouth began to water.

"So yes," the husky said in triumph, the tent in his shorts wiggling when he walked, "You're the outsider here, not wanting this boy. Not sure how you could be gay, frankly."

"First of all," Siphedious said, adjusting his glasses, "if the only thing you know how to make are those gasoline fruit cocktails, you're not a bartender: you're a soda fountain in boyshorts. Second, I'm as gay as the daisies in May: I can suck the bullet out of a cartridge and kill a man by spitting it back out. I've got the libido of the Horsemen's four horses and a dick that can bend train rail. But I don't want a boy," he proclaimed, throwing the drink in the husky's face, "I want a man."

The husky screamed, dripping in liquor, and Siphedious walked out of the club, laughing the entire way.

***

The first thing Pteropa smelled through her fake nose, as she sidled in through the side door, adjusting the straps of her overburdened bra, was the tart, rubbery smell of cheap dildos. She saw them when she rounded the corner; a few were stuck to one of the several Hollywood-style mirrors lining the backstage area.

Many queens were preening in front of these mirrors, putting on final touches as they tucked their male features away and paved over flaws with shellac, paint, and finished with a few hair ties. A dragon with round, girlish hips approached the generously endowed female bat: she wore an adult-sized girl's dress with lace and frills, and her skirt hung out at a 45-degree angle, stopping just before her thigh-high stockings.

"Goddamn, Batty Bitch-Tits; you lettin' it all hang out!" she giggled, "you got your junk taped back and everything! So what are you doing for the talent show, you glorious slut?"

Pteropa blushed, giggling as she posed, cringing as her heavy breasts swung and the straps pulled at her back. She felt her thong strap rub against her tailhole, and in the next moment she felt the dragon's paw slide around her hip, plucking that string like a bass guitar. There was a strange smell about hear: it was earthy and the bat was reminded of an outhouse.

"Ugh, nff," Pteropa grunted, feeling her cock swell, "Just lip-syncing. The classic."

The dragon's smile faded immediately, and her grip slacked. "Dusty vintage bitch. Not like everybody's been doing that for seventy-odd years."

The dragon left, sashaying away. Beneath her puffy petticoats, Pteropa spotted a pair of frilly, patterned bloomers that sagged in the seat.

"Dear me ..." Pteropa whispered to herself, then wandered further into the large, busy room, dodging drag queens to get a glimpse of the stage. In her periphery she spotted a large fishing net hung on the wall, and then an actual bat squeaking around in a tight latex suit. She wore a gas mask above comically inflated breasts, carting around a bicycle pump with its tube leading directly under her tail.

Behind the bat Pteropa spotted an enormous double-ended fleshlight; the holes were soaked with lube and one end was dribbling with ... "results."

The dressing room was like a slide-show of all Vachelon's late-night fetishes: on many drunken, curious nights alone the fox had pawed off to all of this stuff, but here in the flesh, fur, leather, and paint-on latex, it seemed horribly wrong for a simple drag show. He--well, there was an anus right there--had seen more nudity here than on pop-up porn ads.

Pteropa approached the stage to see what was going on: the queen was introduced as "Jill Tylaybee-Yass Cock," an awkward Star Trek reference, James Tiberius ... oh, God. There was a horse, a feral horse, a funnel, a stepladder, a four-slot toaster, laxatives, watermelons, jumper cables, costumes from a recent Disney movie ...

Pteropa clapped her paws over her muzzle, bending her fake nose. Before she screamed, or puked, or both, the bat pulled her emerald spike heels off her feet and ran over the stage, down the aisle, and out the front door.

***

"And you're closing the doors? Sign says you've been open for more'n two hundred fifty years."

"Bar's flowed through the generations, yep," the bartender snorted. He was a rhino with an impressive beard, and his fat fingers barely fit inside the glass he was cleaning. Not that any of them needed cleaning; they were all shining on the shelves behind him, unused by the 95% of the bar that wasn't filled. "Ever since Dalvex Copernica ran out the tribes."

"Kinda perplexin' how a man like you could just keel over like that," Siphedious dared. He leaned forward, holding onto a heavy glass tumbler filled with a couple shots of bourbon and a ball of ice knocking around in it.

The rhino gave him a mean look, and for a few moments they held each other's' eyes in an aggressive standoff. "You new in town?" the rhino asked, spreading both hands out on the bar.

"I'm new in every town," Siphedious responded.

"Then how the Hell did you find this place?"

"Saw the sign out front. 'Our Dragoness.' Highfalutin, but the courage is admirable. Better n' 'Perineum' next door; 'taint no place I want to be. What a plastic, cum-lube, glitter nightmare."

The rhino's frown deepened, and he shook his head. "Yeah, well I'm glad you came to pay your condolences," he said, and then walked away.

Siphedious sat up on his stool and looked around the place: the pub was an ancient hovel of massive wood beams, wood walls smoothed and darkened with age, and the polished wood floor, while slightly warped in places, spread out under the patrons like a warm auburn sea, reflecting the flames of burning oil lamps mounted on the wall. Ancient medieval weaponry and shields bearing heraldry hung in intervals between the lamps, glowing in the soft light. In keeping with the theme, the place was even an inn.

Siphedious saw a parcel of patrons in the corner, and when their eyes met they each acknowledged him with slow, confiding nods. They hunched over their drinks in sullen sluggishness, and their weathered faces reminded him of an oceanside cliff worn by waves.

He noticed a tiny upside-down rainbow triangle amidst the swords: that was a relief. The black and purple coyote tapped his glass on the grand mahogany bar.

"Barkeep?"

"It's Ragnar."

Fantastic fuckin' name.

"Ragnar, I don't make it my business to nose my way into others', but y'mind explaining why a solid place as this is foldin' like a house of cards?"

Ragnar shrugged, and tossed a couple heavy fingers towards the opposite wall, which was rhythmically thumping.

"Hear that music?" he asked.

Siphedious chuckled, but it was laced with a snarl. "My nana six feet under, rest her soul, is probably knockin' on her coffin for them to quit the shit."

Ragnar snorted, smirking. "Yeah, well, there's your answer. Not necessarily men or boys, but animals in boyshorts chasing the metal rabbit, unaware they're on a circular track."

"The clientele's pretty, though."

The bartender snorted again. "So's a sarcophagus until you crack it open."

"They're not all that bad, are they?"

"If you find a Rolex in that pile of bootlegs, I'll sell you the bar for a kiss."

Siphedious waved a paw and turned away, taking a pull of whiskey. "Sounds like you already are."

Ragnar slammed his fist down on the bar, silencing the room. Siphedious looked at him over his glasses: when they made eye contact the rhino's meaty hand splayed open, and he leaned on it for support. Ragnar's eyes glowed with fire, but flickered as if under a strong wind.

"I'd put you through that wall back into glitter gulch, but you're right. Maybe I'm getting too old for this ... my last husband was fresh outta college with a major in Genderfluid Taxonomy with major daddy issues. Didn't mind the fetish gear he wore or the pacifiers he kept losing ... but if someone stiffed him on a tip, or he dinged his car door opening it into a traffic pylon, I had to fix it. He'd be crying into the night. Even tried to teach him how to clear his internet history ... and I was born before computers ... but no. He forgot or never learned," he said, and continued on.

This bartender's got issues, too. Ain't it the customer supposed to be caterwaulin' to the booze-tosser? Siphedious thought. He nodded, trying to look attentive, understanding, and all that.

"You know what happened the day I called it all off? Took off my diamond ring and threw it in his face? For Valentine's Day, he tried to surprise me with his own concoction: A grilled salad. The lettuce, for fuck's sake. And the chicken was raw. And he was so proud of it, sitting next to me; ate every bite of his own portion with a faked orgasmic moan. The sight of his huge wet spot on his tented shorts normally drove me to rip 'em off and take him over the side of the nearest piece of furniture, but that day, when I looked at that lewd display, all I saw was a feral husky wiggling around with a red rocket. Some animal. Typhus works next door, now."

Siphedious sat up so fast his glasses left the bridge of his muzzle and landed back down with a painful pinch. His drink dribbled onto his paw. "You married _that_thing?"

Ragnar laughed, helping himself to a glass and a splash of bourbon. "Best fuck of my life. Tight, tight tailhole that pulls your cock in to the base and a bowel that inflates like a balloon when you cum. You're compelled to empty every last sperm you've ever made inside that sloshing slut. But then he'd go to work, and then call for a ride home when invariably it all comes rushing back ... "

"All right, stop," Siphedious said, holding a paw up. He had a serious trouser snake straining at the side wall of his denim, but the whiskey in his belly was also wanting to see open air. "So he was a gorgeous disaster. A fuck-boy in all sayin's. I can see why you both got ensnared by, and ran screaming away, from him. But that's enough jawin'. I wanna make you a bet. No questions asked. You're gonna sell me this bar."

Ragnar was equal parts embarrassed and angered. He stood tall over the barrier. The glass quaked in his sausage fingers, about to burst. His teeth ground against each other as he spoke; his bushy beard hung like a knight's shield.

"When a man opens his heart to you, you listen. You don't strike him down with sarcasm."

"Ease off, hoss," the coyote countered. He felt like a real matador with this volatile meat-head, even though he was a rhino, not a bull. Siphedious slapped his paws down. "I threw my drink in that emotional jack-a-nape's face; how's that?"

Ragnar's muzzle wiggled with a suppressed smirk, his eyes still glowering mean. "Why?"

"Bourbon in a martini glass. Full to the brim."

A moment passed, Ragnar leaning in so close so that his horn practically hooked the coyote's nostril. He closed his eyes, and a couple stray tears wiggled down his wrinkled gray face. A deep chuckle rumbled from his gut, and he rose back up. "That magnificent fuck-up."

"So have I earned you some peace n' quiet? Have I earned me some piece n' quiet?"

The rhino nodded. "Plenty. Kick your feet up. Drinks are on the house. So's a room if you need it. Not selling the bar, though: you splashed piss and vinegar all over me; now I'm inspired. You a traveler, a nomad? You look like one."

"I'm an outlaw."

Ragnar paused; his hand went under the bar. There was a thud in two places: a shotgun's buttstock and barrel bounced against the underside. Siphedious remembered his pistol; the two stared at each other long and hard.

"Not an outlaw by our laws, right?"

"I ain't done anything here but piss you n' your ex off. Just looking for a man and a drink...thanks for the drink."

Ragnar deflated by the denial left unsaid. Now that their argument was over, the coyote seemed to be looking right through him with his yellow eyes. Or ... looking straight at him, and seeing nothing.

"Yeah, well good luck with the first part," he said, injured, "Ain't any men in Copernica."

And just like that, like some some other unreliable force of nature, the front door banged open and in stumbled a big-breasted bat with sparkling wings, a flat stomach, long, sinewy legs, and cameltoe so sharp it could cut knuckles.

There rose a loud commotion, the scraping of chairs, the bartender shouting as a silver and gold shotgun flashed in the lamp light, pointed right at the busty girl.

"I thought I told you wastrels to stick to your own rotten echo chambers!" he shouted.

The bat shrieked and threw her wings up; one of her ears broke and fell down against the back of her head, revealing the fox ear underneath.

"I give up, I surrender; stop!" cried a male's voice, "Can I get a drink, or at least step out of the cold, please?"

Ragnar lowered his shotgun, but kept it above the bar. Siphedious had his hand under his duster, on his gun, watching the shaky rhino out of the corner of his eye. Mostly he was eyeing the bat, which did nothing for the trouser cannon straining against the inside of his pants. This broad's ... or this buck's ... sheer lewd creativity was a burning shot of sanity. She didn't look half bad, straining to flood the place on tits alone.

Fuckin' hot, honestly; she looked like one of those cartoon characters from the erotic comic books dime-stores kept behind the counter. The coyote was pretty sure those two-gallon tits weren't real, but she painted a bawdy picture, and the more he fantasized about it, the harder the pressure in his pants leg grew. His knot alone was giving him a tent.

"C'mon, Ragnar!" one of the patrons shouted, "th'guy said 'please.' He obviously ain't packin' ... er, uh, a gun! I mean. Sorry, sir ... er, madam ... 'Miss Bat.'"

Ragnar sighed, shook his head, and put his shotgun back under the bar. "Come in," he said, gesturing over, "Come as you are."

The brown, platinum, and white bat smiled, and stepping into the room she hooked a thumb under a shoulder-strap hidden in her fur. "Thanks, but let me tweak who I am right now."

To the disappointment of the bar, who were catching on to her Dolly Parton skull-smashers, the bat shrugged out of her enormous breasts, setting them aside in an empty booth, revealing a lithe vulpine chest. Next came her cape, and when her ears and her tail tube came off Siphedious saw he'd been mentally undressing a fox with a stiff male frame and a suspicious slit eating up the bottom of her ... of his thong. This was solved soon enough when the fox reached under himself and ripped out a piece of tape.

The fox's crotch sprung like a bear trap, and suddenly there was a fist-sized lump pushing out the front of his green nylon triangle. Just like Typhus at the club, Siphedious could see the sides of his balls in the leg holes of the fabric, and though he was about to criticize him for not wearing something that could handle his business, the coyote's own situation was not much better.

This frustrating night had riled something fierce, and now his pants looked like he was smuggling a bible sideways. The fox wasn't helping none, either, walking his tall, sinewy body towards him. Siphedious took a suck of whiskey and coughed as denim scraped the head of his cock.

"I like your highlights," the fox said, streaks of his own copper-russet fur gleaming among his airbrushed coat. "The purple's very pleasant. Natural?" The fox sat next to him, wearing nothing but a pair of thong panties stretched thin against his junk. His thighs were the only cover for his balls. "What is that, bourbon? Oh that's fantastic. Can I get one too, innkeep?"

The fox pulled his ID out of a tiny purse and received a glass shortly after. When he leaned forward to grab his drink, Siphedious saw the curvy mounds of his rump bulge below a straw-thin bikini strap, and let out a low growl as his knot throbbed against his fly.

"So." The fox began with a smile, turning to the coyote and crossing his legs. All the fox's maleness squished up on top of his thighs, covered only by a tiny green tarp. It all squeezed into a perfect, softball-sized lump, and the coyote's mouth went dry as he felt a trickle of pre seep through the fur of his right leg. "So I was next door, and ran out when a horse started fucking himself with his own cock. The club is now a roaring Hellhole, and on my way out I encounter an irate, raving husky screaming about some 'cowpoke coyote cunthole' who threw a glass of Bernie Bublè Béarnaise Bourbon--he sounded like Droopy the Dog, he was blubbering so much--in his precious groomed face. I assume that cowpoke is you. I should be so fortunate to know a hero."

"I..." Siphedious started, blood drained from his head, "I ain't no hero." He couldn't help but stammer, all but worshipping that mound of meat perched atop the legs of this brash, nearly-nude fox. This fox was king of his stereotype: cool, cunning, sultry, sexual, and God damn Siphedious if he couldn't spend two minutes between those legs that were stiff as braided rope...

"Maybe not full-time," the fox said, leaning back as he sipped his drink, showing off his long torso, the distinctive lumps of a toned stomach, "but I'm not usually a woman. We all have our moments of glory."

There was a pressure, a squeeze, and the coyote realized that the fox's other paw was on his knee, and sliding up.

"What do you want?" Siphedious growled.

The fox grinned wider and pushed his paw inward, hooking his fingers around Siphedious's cock and squeezing. The coyote instinctively spread his leg, giving him full access--not that he'd already infiltrated plenty deep.

"I'm thinking our wants our mutual, here. Room?" he asked the bartender, but there was already a key slid in front of them.

Siphedious slammed his drink, then stood free of the bar. His jeans jutted out for all to see, rustling a few cat-calls, grunts, and whistles from his limited audience. The fox stood up behind him, purring, and with a few deft twists opened the coyote's jeans to let everything spill out into the open.

Well, there the coyote was, buzzing on bourbon and throbbing hard and loud, his entire reproductive assortment hanging high in the cool air, cock drooling, as his pants dropped to his knees. Applause erupted, and the fox in the tiny bulging bikini curtsied with his trick.

Siphedious reached for his pants, but the fox stomped them down to his ankles as he took the coyote's nape in one paw and his balls in the other, pulling at both. His white underwear--nothin' special--hung like a slingshot strap between his knees.

"Why don't we go upstairs before we give these boys a promise?"

Fuck, he'd had his drink ... may as well let this fox wear the panties and the pants. Siphedious knew he'd found a man.

***

"So what's your name?" Siphedious grunted, waddling inside the room as he struggled to keep his pants over his thighs. His cock waggled in front of him, tossing spurts of pre on the floor below. The fox shut the door behind them and quickly relieved the coyote of his duster, himself bulging fiercely out of his tiny triangle bikini; his shaft, knot and balls were merely shaded by the fabric. As the fox pulled the coyote's duster down his arms, he grabbed his jeans and undies too, shoving them to the floor where they stayed locked around his ankles above cowboy boots. The coyote's gun fell out of its holster, and the fox kicked it aside.

Feeling the sweep of the painted fox's dominance rush over him, stumbling to the bed in pant-manacles as firm, long paws groped his chest and undid his collared shirt, Siphedious's voice betrayed him with a lusty growl, and his tail had already raised before he got to ask the question again. As if his naked, pulsing erection wasn't enough.

"Vash," the fox purred as he pulled the coyote's shirt down his arms and tied his wrists with it. This buck was going all out, binding him like a no-account bandit. A shock of fear shot down his back as a strong paw toppled him face-down, ass-up on the mattress. Had he seen the wanted posters?

"You gonna take me before takin' me in?" he asked through his teeth, his bottom jaw flat against the sheets. His glasses had slid down his muzzle, and the brim of his hat covered his eyes.

"Oh," Vash said with innocent surprise. The fox was right up on him; he felt a cold nose and warm breath inches from the base of his tail, which was raised so high it could signal the next town over for help. A slow, savoring lick slithered over his exposed pucker, and Siphedious couldn't bring his tail down. Instead, he deepened the arch of his back and murred as the wet, muscular probe penetrated veins of heat buried deep inside his body, cracking them wide open. A long, unbroken strand of precum coiled on the sheets beneath him, wiggling with every twitch of his cock. "Are you a criminal? I haven't seen any posters in Copernica."

He and his big fuckin' mouth. Siphedious's embarrassment flooded deeper, pouring into his heat chasms and screaming as it turned to steam. When Vash gripped his rump with two possessive paws, pulling him backwards so that his tailbone crumpled the fox's muzzle, so that his own knees bent further and spread his ass cheeks, so that his aching balls and drooling cock dropped back between his thighs, Siphedious gave a groan of submission, and then a whine as the fox's insistent tongue speared into him, voraciously claiming him. Vash slavered over his backside, teeth scraping against the inner cleft of his rump, cold wet nose flush against the base of his tail, tongue slithering, sweeping against his intimate passage walls. The fox's claws pressed into his hips, and when the coyote snarled it only drove the painted predator on.

If only the coyote could get his paws under him, instead of letting his fingers frustratedly spasm at air, a couple tugs would relieve his sexual conflagration. Every brush of his cock against the moist fur of his thighs, every jostle that made his balls swing made his knot throb harder, but not to the point of release. There was a glass ceiling or a mental block holding it back. As the fox rose up and gasped for air, leaving his ass conspicuously empty, Siphedious acknowledged the holdback with a shudder.

He needed this. This confident, insistent, earnest lust rampaging over his backside, this clean, powerful force of want mounting up on him, tapping his balls and dragging precum up the crack of his ass with a stiff, warm cock. Despite being tied up, Siphedious felt freer than ever.

The fox leaned over him and lifted his hat, muzzle smelling of musk and his own ass as he licked the side of the coyote's snout. Before Siphedious could lick back, his hat again covered his eyes and a new pressure prodded his slick, pliant slit.

"If I'm too rough, Mr. Outlaw, just tell me and I'll cum sooner."

"Cum without tying me and I'll skin you alive."

Vash dragged the tip of his cock against his slit, stealing another moan from the coyote. In the blazing, black-smoke haze of his heat, Siphedious distantly gauged that the head was a bit far from the fox's flat hips ... and that those hips would soon be hard against him. He'd not seen his captor erect ... this dominant male that moonlighted as a big-breasted bat ... Siphedious anticipated something fierce and fantastic. This night had already been a spectacle and a train wreck, but as long as it ended with an explosion ...

The fox pushed into him slowly, steadily, stretching out his smooth wet walls and driving far deeper than his tongue had ever reached. His dick kept coming like a long line of cows he couldn't see the end of. Siphedious's fingers curled above his back and his tail strained up: every little twitch tightened him a bit too much, and the coyote grunted as his body nervously swallowed a fat pole of pure male need.

Maybe the fox wasn't actually hung like a steer, but he sure felt like it: this male bent over him in a clean arc, grasping at his bare chest as he slid inside him, his thighs walking up behind his own seemed larger than all the coyote's one-night flings combined as he'd bounced from town to town.

Having that cock deep inside him, pulsing against his passage and he throbbing in response; it seemed like the most natural thing ever. Siphedious wasn't completed by it; he was made better by it.

The knot bumped against his buzzing ring and the coyote moaned, squirting a jet of pre that splatted in the mess underneath. His shoulders burned from his arms being bound, but he writhed against the sheets, flexing his tied legs so he could back into Vash's knot and complete the ritual.

The fox wasn't having it. Vash backed in response, keeping just-deep inside him, and bent down to lick the nape of his neck. His flat stomach compressed the coyote's fingers, then he drew out to thrust in all over again.

Vash held onto Siphedious's sides, just under his arms, and sandwiched his limbs between them as he began to make good on that insistent, earnest lust. Siphedious moaned beneath him, face pinned to the mattress, his body nearly folded in half as the fox relentlessly rammed his rear in repeated, rhythmic thrusts, fucking him to breed him, leaving him all the more needful and empty when his hips weren't flush against his rear. The coyote's cock bounced under him; the mattress rocked and the frame squeaked as the fox humped him, hunched over him and clutching tight.

The lewd, slurping sounds of their mating escaped into the rented room; the chamber was humid with their intertwined male musk. Siphedious felt his asshole stretch and dent as the invading member pushed and pulled. All pain subsided as the hot, veiny fox cock shot waves of heat and electricity through him, and he whimpered as his prostate jolted with every jab of Vash's tip, then Vash's underbelly, then the tip again.

Vash panted on top of him, chest heaving against the coyote's trapped triceps as snarls and grunts, squishes and slurps, assaulted his ears. The coyote was tight; his passage gripped at every square centimeter of his sex. Vash was enshrouded in complete bliss, and soon the buzzing euphoria of his groin transcended throughout his body, turning the tips of his ears, nose, fingers, tail, and toes as hot as the long, rigid cock he repeatedly, insatiably plunged into the coyote's silken folds.

His balls locked against him, with a snarl his muzzle snapped around the whole of Siphedious's nape. He pushed his hips flush against the coyote's rump, and with a sodden pop he locked his knot deep inside, that snug tailhole ensuring he'd not go anywhere anytime soon. Vash erupted into the coyote's bowels, spraying his walls with hot fox seed and spraying the backwash of seed with even more. His balls pulsed and churned; his own asshole spasmed beneath his tail, and as he filled up this male he'd just met, Vash shifted to ensure the passage would be whitewashed on every accessible inch.

Siphedious howled underneath, his body going rigid, his stomach gurgling, and as the fox frotted his spewing member against his prostate the coyote blew as well, his own cock jumping as it threw up thick, sticky ropes up onto his stomach and splattered down into the puddle of precum that pooled around his knees, in the mattress dents. The muzzle-hold on his nape told him not to move, but there was no controlling the organ lurching underneath him, throwing up wave after wave of coyote spunk until his balls ran dry, and his cock rested against his thighs at full-knot.

***

After a spell had passed, Vash released Siphedious's nape and pushed himself upright, his paws walking down the coyote's back as he straightened his own, soliciting a few vertebral pops. Wordlessly, the fox untied Siphedious's shirt from his wrists and tossed the wrinkled garments to the floor. Siphedious's arms flopped to his sides, and with a wobble, the coyote struggled upright onto his hands and knees, groaning as that thick male organ shifted inside him.

Vash, with the best effort of flexibility, turned his top half backwards towards Siphedious's ankles. Both of them winced, gasping as their minute body shifts tugged at the respective elements of their sexual union.

Vash paused. "Oh, shit. Cowboy boots are the worst thing to take off. You'll be stuck in them for hours," he said, then turned around to see the side of the coyote's head, one passionate yellow eye looking at him over the silver temple of his glasses.

"Whyn't you slow down and enjoy the moment, Vash. You've claimed me already; the bounty can wait until morning."

The painted fox reached behind his head, scratching the base of his neck. He blushed, chuckling.

"I don't know who the fuck you are," he said, posed prettily from the waist up, paint smudging down his thighs.

Siphedious smirked, rolling a few kinks out of his neck before returning to the male locked inside him. The fox was a funny sort: now drained of all his libido, he seemed more a young, spirited, earnest ... dork. Charming, in a way.

"We have the night to figure that out. I'm thinkin' there's better ways I could spend twenty-five to life, with a _better_ball n' chain," he said with a wink.

Vash snorted as he languidly twisted the coyote's tail around his arm, stealing a few glances at a shining pink tailhole wrapped tight around the base of his erect canid cock. He grinned, showing his teeth. "I mean, I respect you, but isn't this whole thing a little fast?"

Siphedious turned away and laughed. It was the brightest, cleanest laugh he'd heard from himself or from anyone else. It was racked with gaiety, and quite unbecoming for a late twenty-something coyote already wizened by the world. From the seedy streets of Copernica, to the sugary chaos at Perineum, to the dusty, empty despair at Our Dragoness, he'd thought that this town, too, had fallen to gaudy, flim-flam indulgences and crusty, dried-up nostalgia.

But then there was Vash, behind him ... balls-deep in him. He didn't know much about the guy: mid-twenties? Hell, this big-bosomed bat drag queen just swaggered over to him and dragged him upstairs; now the sheets stunk and his rear was full of someone who didn't even know his own name.

But if Vash rejected Perineum, and Our Dragoness barely accepted him ... perhaps there was something right with Vash. Siphedious reveled in this thought, tail wagging unconsciously against Vash's paw, and he laid his front down, bracing his elbow against the mattress and cupping his chin in his paw as he looked out the inn room's window at an ocean-blue moon and a jagged cityscape bathed in its light.

The fox scratched Siphedious's rump, and the coyote murred.

"So, what is your name?" Vash asked.

Siphedious smirked, staring out the window, shivering as Vash shifted and sloshed inside him. "Like I'd ever give myself up that easy."