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"Something New", by H. A. Kirsch Part 2 of "The Woods" Copyright 2006 by me. Who else would it be copyright to? This is protected under some Creative Commons license that lets you read it, distribute it, but you can't edit it. I'd link to it but it's late at night and I'm lazy. This is a finished work! Oh wow. It contains graphic sexual encounters between humans and anthro-animals, graphic sex between anthro-animals, descriptions of drug use, one instance of drug use, and several token uses of the word "bloody" to infer Britishness. * * * I was the second human to live at The Woods. It had been about two weeks since I moved there; I'd gotten to know my coworkers, was feeling better about being one of the only humans employed there, and had even managed to unpack. My previous job had been a Plant Operations Coordinator for a company in Petosky, Michigan. That worked out okay, except for two things: 1) I hate telling other people what to do, 2) My boss scared me. This was not simple fear. It was a subtle combination of repressed sexual tension and irrational phobia. My boss was a dog and I was more than somewhat cynophobic. Anyway, The Woods was basically a resort getaway located in middle-of-nowhere Kinross, in Upper Michigan. It catered mostly to well-to-do hybrids with a side of humans. It also featured time-share and condo properties, which were exclusively hybrid under the Hybrid Housing Act. It started life as a housing project for hybrids, bought up by a wealthy hybrid idealist and transformed into its current splendor about twenty years prior. Actually, it started life as an Air Force Base, but that's a boring story. I needed a job, and The Woods provided - Plant Operations Inspection Technician. I was overqualified but human. A little political finagling and a lucky coincidence - the threat of media exposure as The Woods was about to violate their Hybird Employment Diversity Act contract - and I suddenly found myself no longer a starving artist. The job was in-residence, too, so I would be compensated for my housing. Nice touch. I packed up, moved, and settled in. The Woods' housing areas were named after trees. Go figure. I lived in Ash, which was where all of the 'in residence' workers lived. Decent low-end to moderate apartments. Birch was the hotel, time-share, and condominium area, Aspen was all custom high end apartments, and Evergreen was a small collection of McMansion-esque homes at the far outreaches of The Woods. The apartment turned out to be the exact same model as my friend John's weekend place. Mine was a rental, while the dog could do whatever he wanted to his. Living room up front, then kitchen, bathroom, and extra-large bedroom. The bedroom opened out onto a patio overlooking a garden garden-topiary-something outside. Nice. All the trim stuff was high-end low-grade, decent but nothing special. Working appliances, clearly used kitchen, carpet that was flattened in spots. Considering the bedroom was the size of my entire place back in Petosky, I wasn't going to complain. One side effect of the layout being the same as John's condo was that whenever I lay on my bed and looked up at the ceiling, I remembered John. I remembered the moments before I touched him, I remembered him straddling me.. I could never remember sex all the way through. It came back in bits and pieces, like a broken slide show, out of order. The first few times I'd thought about it, after he fucked me that one hot summer night a month prior, I felt creepy and wanted to just clutch my pillow and sleep to make the images go away. By the time I moved, I was jerking off to the thought of the British-accented Malinois shoving his knotted dog-dick into my mouth to get it wet, then up my ass until he had enough spunk in me to drip out onto the sheets. It sure threw me for a loop: one day I was grumbling to myself about the loss of my overly-spunky and slightly nymphomaniacal girlfriend to some Buddhist temple in Turkey, the next I was going to sleep with a hard-on over my best friend and worst fear, The Dog. The doppelganger apartment It made me feel like I was alone in John's bedroom, like it wasn't really my own place, that I was just lying in bed waiting for him to come out of the shower. Would he smell like wet dog, or something more pleasant and just slightly furry? Would he wear a bathrobe or be naked? Would he blow-dry his fur so it was puffy and soft, or condition it flat? I felt like I was becoming obsessed. --- I deliberately put off setting up all my studio junk in the living room until exactly two weeks had past. I wanted to immerse myself in the new culture, which completely backfired. After training at work, I was exhausted, and instead of trying to see the rest of the resort, I would just get stoned and watch videos or doodle. It didn't help that, while not at all anti-hybrid, I wasn't really used to being in close quarters with them and felt out of place. On a startlingly cool late August Saturday, I was letting the apartment air out while I hung my mural-in-progress on the entirety of my living room wall. I nearly tore it in half when the door chime went off. Technically I could have looked at a little video screen from any room to see who it was, talk to them on the intercom, but being an old fashioned dumbass, I just opened it. Standing there in a Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and sandals was none other than John Martyk. "What the hell? How do you know where I live?" "Oh, Adrian, you deserted me! You didn't even tell me you moved, much less moved to The Woods!" He walked right on past me without an invitation, voice drooling his manicured upper-crust limey accent. "I suppose it's because of that one night, and I don't really-" "Actually, I just forgot, I was kind of at my wits end, and then I needed to move," I said, closing the door. I felt a hard flush coming on, along with the chest-pounding of a lie. It wasn't really a lie... "You forgot to tell your friend of what, ten years? More? That you were moving to a place where you'd be one of two of your kind?" John sat himself down on my sofa, tail off to the side. "By the way, that's how I knew you were here... rumors travel bloody fast." "But how'd you find my apartment?" "My glorious influence over other people, Adrian." I didn't know what to do so I paced around. I was in my boxer shorts, for one thing, and not exactly well-kept - I hadn't showered that day, and knew that John's dog-nose would pick it up. "So you're, you're coming in here and sitting down on my couch?" "Would you rather I came and lay down in your bed?" That really got the blush going. It also got my dick going, and I quickly made my way into the kitchen to do something, maybe get a water. "I don't know, not right now, I'm in the middle of stuff." "Washing your hair, hmm?" I thumped my head into one of the cupboards. "Don't go tapping your head on the wall over me. I just came to ask you out to dinner." Even worse! Damn my fucking erection. I just imagined what kind of crap the Malinois would try to pull, a foot under the table, maybe even a hand between my legs- "What? Dinner?" "Yes, that luscious meal you eat at night. I figured we ought to catch up a little, since I'm here for the weekend and you're hiding in your little hole." I didn't say anything. I was trying to think of something unerotic so my erection could go away. It wasn't working. "Is that a no or a yes?" "Fine. Where is it?" "Ciao." "Oh, you're kidding. I can't afford that place." "You don't have to." "Well, we need reservations at least a month in advance-" "Adrian, stop fooling around. You've known me long enough that I do things my way and I get them done. So. Since you agreed, I'll come by at 7." I sighed a little relief. "By the way, you don't have to hide your dick from me." Thud. Against the wall again. "John, how the hell..." "I think we've been over this. Now I need to get going, I have to buy some things, make sure my clothes are back from the cleaners, all that fun stuff. Ta-ta." He was out the door before I could even look up. Bastard. * * *

I don't eat fancy food. I usually eat cheap asian food, preferably from places that look like the rats in the walls will make you play poker with them or they'll shit in your tom yum soup. I also eat out too much, although I can make sushi fairly well. But fancy stuff? Ciao? Ciao could be described as a gourmet steakhouse, the kind of place where a lobster costs as much as a good silk shirt, where they let you smoke cigars after dinner and the waiters call you Sir and carry those little towels. I'd passed by it plenty of times - it was one of three 'signature restaurants' at The Woods, which attracted socialite big-rollers from the nearby casinos in a steady stream. I looked Ciao up. It was not 'formal attire', but it was, 'dress to impress'. Well, that was going to go well. I expunged my closet and finally managed to get something together. A black nehru collar jacket, white dress shirt, black jeans, and a pair of black snakeskin cowboy boots I'd forgotten I had. Of course, John laughed at me the second he opened the door. "Come on, I don't have anything between goth shit, bachelor crap, and my suit! And I'm not wearing the damn suit!" "I believe I picked an outside table for us, you fine villain, so you'll at least have cause to lose that bloody awful coat. Come on, they're punctual." John liked dragging me around - he never was one to dawdle. He was also a much better dresser. An expensive leather blazer, a slightly dizzying asian-theme camp shirt, black leather pants and his fashionably rogue harness boots. He looked rockstar fancy and a little slick, but if I'd put the same thing on, my black ponytail would have made me look like a mob hitman. Ciao was completely full, but as soon John showed ID, we were whisked back past the bar and the dining room to the dusky patio. Weather must have been coming in, since the evening was warmer and wetter than the previous few days had been at their peak. John ordered some sort of appetizer fondue along with some brandy, then settled back. "So, were you really trying to avoid me, or just being a little jumpy?" There went the evening. "Unh. I guess I was kind of... unsure what to do? I didn't want you to think I was moving up here because of you, somehow, but I didn't want to seem like I was avoiding you, and I was afraid you thought I was a jerk for just running away instead of staying the night....." "I think you need a little more experience in the relationship department, Mr. Cooley." John said this while swirling his recently-arrived brandy with a dog-smirk. "Doesn't that hurt your nose, smelling that?" "Don't change the subject. And no." Now I was just embarassed. Luckily, fondue at Ciao was really good, which wiped away my embarassment. We ordered dinner - prime rib for me, strip steak for the dog - and the conversation turned a bit lighter. "Getting up to any antics yet?" "Antics? Like what?" "Well, I see you still partake in some things.. you know, parties, chemicals, whatnot." "How can you tell?" John tapped his nose and I flushed again. "Oh. And well, yeah I smoke.. otherwise, I never do anything exciting. I just work and draw and watch TV. Kind of like every bachelor, except I'm kind of productive." "Mmm. Glad you're not quite on the rebound." "It's been six fucking months since Sandy! If I was gonna rebound, I would have done it already!" I laughed. Throughout this conversation, I could see the outside bar from around John, at the other end of the patio. Someone kept looking my way, but I could never quite catch their glance. John didn't seem to notice, or didn't let on if he did. Just as well - he would have given me shit for it. I didn't really know anyone so it couldn't be a friend... "Maybe it's a delayed reaction? A bout of depression holding down the old spirit?" I shrugged. "I'm not really uppity, go-getting and all that. I'm only artistic because I'm an obsessed spazz." Example: the mural, a piece of art so big I couldn't hold the entire idea of it in my mind at once. After a few more bites, John made a slightly uncomfortable face following a low humm from his person. "Hmm, I hate to push off in the middle of dinner, but I'll be right back." I just nodded, continuing on with my own prime rib. There definitely was weather coming up - a damp breeze puffed up now and then, rattling some aspen tree next to the patio. Equal parts of me wanted a storm, and yet not to have dinner blown away. Without John physically in the way, it was obvious that every moment or two, a snow leopard was taking a peek at me. That made me flush for a whole new reason. After a couple glances, the stranger made his way over. He wore expensive khakis, one of those rakish pinstriped shirts from the 'metro' craze a few years back, and like many hybrids he wore hiking sandals. "Hi." His cat smirk was talking. Those toothy muzzles always seemed to be brimming with an eager, knowing grin. "Can I do something for you?" "Sure. You can take this," the cat said, and handed me a small envelope. It said, "To Adrian. Do not open me until next Friday." This time, blood went everywhere else except my face and ears. "What's.." "You'll find out," the cat said, licking his teeth like a housecat after his bird of the day. Just as quickly, I was looking at a waving, spotted plush tail. I looked at the envelope. I never really listened to directions, but this time I felt compelled to stow it in a pocket and forget it. John came back, and looked at me with a cocked head. "Are you alright? Eat too fast?" My steak was gone. Well, I'd been hungry.. "Huh? Oh, do I look funny? I think there's a storm coming. I can always feel it, maybe it's... you know, I heard that some people can pick up the rumbling, some subsonic thing. Like cows and earthquakes." I wanted to say 'dogs', but that might have been rude. "Oh yes, those nervous heifers." He sneered. "Sorry about the little diversion, I got a bloody phone call. You know, you should do something about those nerves." The sky lit up in the distance, a rather sparkling green. Everyone else seemed to notice, muzzles across the patio turning over. "That's what the pot's for. I've tried, John, believe me, I've tried. I gave up and just figured it drives my art. All that anxious organo-tech goth crap, you know?" After dinner, I actually wanted to stick around and have a drink, since my nerves really were winding up again - thanks in no part to sharing a table with a D o g. I kept waiting for the inevitable warm hand touching my leg, maybe the prod of a boot toe up the side of my own shin. It never happened, making the wait that much worse. The wind was really starting to pick up though, as was the light show in the sky. Just as we were leaving, the servers started herding people inside, in time for a ground-rattling boom of thunder. On the way back to my apartment, John regaled me with a story about some sort of crazy 'you had to be there' moment that happened earlier in the week featuring some regional celebrity. I was all smile and nod, not because it was uninteresting, but because there was an envelope hidden in my pocket that promised something. All I wanted to do was forget it, but all I could do was think about forgetting it. The Woods was built strangely - most of the apartments were in sort of 'mounds', one on each side of a hallway on the bottom and these sort of pods up on top. As a result, the storm wasn't very apparent until I opened the door to my living room - the lightning lit the whole place up despite the bedroom having the only outside windows. We both made our way back and I tossed the patio door curtains aside, then cranked it open. Wind and rain splattered in, mixed with pea-sized hail. "Got out of there just in time, huh?" "Mmm. You know, I like storms.. they're very, oh, violent?" John said, arms crossed, leaning on the edge of the door as I slid it shut. "You don't strike me as the type." "I'm very visceral. I bet you think I'm just stuck up because of my beautiful British accent." He shrugged out of his coat and slung it over his shoulder. I shrugged with a grin. "You really ought to get rid of that coat, it's absolutely ridiculous." "I'm glad you did so well in fashion police academy," I huffed, and took mine off too. John took it and hung it up in the closet for me, tossed his on the bed, then returned to his post at the patio door. In between lightning strikes, I could see my reflection. He was right - I looked much better without it. A little ghostly from the waist up. We fell into silence as the storm started to whip through the area, John leaning at the corner of the wall and glass, myself at the other end of the window. I started to feel on edge again, the familiar heart pounding of an oncoming anxiety attack. It wasn't the terror and crawling doom of panic though; it was excitement, desperation. John's presence made me want to rush and grab him and hold him and... I hadn't felt that way in years. Not since I'd met Sandy, and even then that relationship had been a bit more cerebral. John was really warm. He'd had more liquor than me, two glasses instead of one, and he radiated heat. I slowly moved up closer as the storm battered down at the glass, the sound a low roar that probably dulled the sound of my creeping approach. I didn't know what to do - hands up on the shoulders, up his upper back, around his waist? I settled for the first open, feeling his back through his loose shirt. "Do you want something?" His muzzle swung around. "Yeah." "Is it the same thing you wanted last time?" I slowly slid my body up against John's back, letting my fingers move around his chest. It was like petting a four dog, lean and animal, with very human amounts of muscle. Unlike the previous time, I had no qualms admitting to myself that I loved it. "I didn't really want it at first, last time. But, uh, yeah. I want what I got last time." "You want me to stuff you up the arse again?" Oh, British. "Shit, John.." I stepped back just a little, enough for him to turn around and hold onto my upper arms. His black snout leaned down, tongue brushing my lips, then invading my mouth. It was still awkward, but at least this time I knew to just sit back and take it instead of trying to kiss back and get fur all over my teeth. There wasn't anything subtle about his hot, wet tongue as it pushed around inside my mouth - he wasn't clumsy like I was, but forceful. Each second he kissed hard, I tightened my grip on his shirt until he broke the kiss to keep me from tearing it. John was taller than me by a few inches, and it felt obvious that he was the one to muscle me up against the wall. He ground hips against me, and I intercepted his package with a hand down at my hip. He was really hard, and there was something weirdly alluring about feeling his canine tool inside his expensive leathers. He tried to open up my shirt again, but I didn't really want an exact repeat of my first time so I slinked down against the wall. I ended up down on one knee, leaning against his leg, shamelessly rubbing my face against his crotch. The leather smelled heavy and musky, almost that faint chemical smell like it was new. I didn't have to open him up - the shepherd's black-nailed fingers did that for me. Hot, slick flesh slid against my cheek, past my lips. I helped his balls out, fooled around with the velvet-furred sheath around the base until it happily lodged behind that almost-freakish knot, and... worshipped. After a few moments, John paused me with a hand to my head, stroking my hair and helping me look up. "Now, have you been thinking about this a little too much? You looked so scared last time..." While still looking up at John, I slowly let my tongue guide the tip of his shaft into my mouth. He pinned me up against the wall, maybe intentionally or not, his leg prodding up between my thighs. That was nice, it gave me a hot thrill, and took any trepidation right out of having a dog-dick sliding through my lips. It was so sloppy, the tip constantly drooling, even spitting salty preseed at my tongue, dribbling it all over my lips whenever I pulled off. John gently rocked forward into me, and that drove me even crazier - something had flipped inside my head like a switch, replacing my usual fear with total lust. I didn't really know what the dog wanted in a blowjob, but I remembered what got him off last time. After trying to see if I could get the concave tip down into my throat - I did, and oh was that strange - I started to stroke his knot. John responded by grabbing down onto my shoulders and letting out a low groan. I started to squeeze gently, milking it forward. The bulge swelled taut, throbbing with his heartbeat, the rest of the shaft bulging and pulsing. Just a few grabs later and John started to grunt, a wet rush of hot salt spraying into my mouth. There was a lot of it, and after a couple swallows I panicked a little and pulled back. His cock slopped out of my mouth and hung there, spitting onto my shirt, the spurts quickly dying off to just a clear dribble. "Oops, sorry, I wasn't.. there was a lot of that." I chuckled. John flashed his teeth. "Well, you get a gold star for that one, Adrian. Didn't quite finish me off though-" "Huh?" He stretched, leaning back, hands up behind his head - John was such a smug bastard. "Well, you know, I don't think it's quite like when you do it, like you can't get off halfway, right?" I wiped my face off on my sleeve. "Uh, well, no. You can't get off half-way. That doesn't make sense." "Hah. Says you. If you don't quite work it all the way, you know, this knot thing here, then it doesn't all come out." "Oh." I flushed, standing up, fiddling with my messed-up shirt. Something buzzed in John's pocket. He growled while pulling out his phone, glanced at the screen, and stuffed it back into his pocket with a creak. "Well fuck, I forgot I was meeting someone else tonight. A little business liquor. I hope you don't mind?" John's fingers absently put his cock back into his pants. "Hey, if you have to go do something else, I'm not going to tie you down to my bed or anything." He lunged forward and cleaned my face with a couple swipes of his tongue, then plucked out a breath spray and hit himself with it. "Mmm. I'm glad liquor helps wash away the scent, don't want to bely my cool demeanor with the taste of my own spunk. Till next time." He made a little bow, and I found myself alone in my room. I always thought dogs were supposed to be loyal, but John seemed quite happy to flit between people like some sort of moth. He was certainly going to flit to someone else, since he admitted he wasn't 'finished'. I was still stunned, still tasting him, my shirt becoming cold and wet. I stripped and crawled into bed, half exuberant and half let-down, mulling things over endlessly in my head. I thought about what I would have done if John hadn't left, convincing myself I would have ended up straddling his backside while I filled him up. I made red-faced use of my pillows, leaving a sticky splotch between two of them crushed under me, before I clutched the whole lot and fell asleep.

• * * The Woods was huge. I was in some sort of denial about what it really was - I knew it was a resort, intended for hybrids, mostly full of well-to-do people. What I didn't realize until I had full access to the facilities was how much of a near microcosm it was. Clinics, waste and fresh water treatment and processing, power generation, grocery shops and markets, the two performance halls (Hangar One - more of a warehouse dance club - and The Arbor), fitness facilities, parks, courtyards, the arboretum, on and on. My job was, at least initially, to help with an audit of the plant operations and emergency response systems for The Woods. I got to go through every service tunnel, passageway, sub basement, boiler room, and empty space with a camera and a UMPC, photographing and inspecting all of the control equipment. Fire suppression, HVAC, communications, security, disaster isolation. For the most part, it was a boring and methodically satisfying job (except for the disaster isolation; per new laws, the building needed explosive 'terror' doors that could completely shut off an area, including air supply! Thrilling.) In other ways, it was very, very weird. I got to see all kinds of things that I normally wouldn't get to see, which never really got old. I was the kid who used to stare at industrial equipment and let his imagination run wild. It came out in my art, lending my gothic charcoal-and-pastel style a geometric edge. The Willow development was the first housing settlement part of The Woods, and it had been converted into a collection of private clubs after a large fire in the early 80's. It was also right next to where I lived. As a result of all the work done to convert apartment units into a series of private clubs and meeting spaces, the behind-the-scenes shit for Willow was all fucked up. Nothing seemed to be where it should be from the map I had. One particular distribution box for all the emergency alert and security equipment was apparently missing, or located inside of a wall. I couldn't get into it, so I flagged it for when I'd gotten a temporary full access pass. When I got back to the box, I found why it looked like the panel was in a wall. The door accessing it had been painted over, the knob removed. A little careful work with a putty knife and a latch puller and I had it open. The inside was some kind of storage room, musty and chemical. I got out the camera and snapped away at the distribution panel, did a few electrical tests, and was about to leave when something tickled my senses. The inner door to the storage closet was ajar - it was warped and didn't look like it could close. The room on the other side of it was a pool of dark. I couldn't see anything inside of it, and my dying flashlight wouldn't penetrate except for some strange black shadows a couple feet from the door. The thing that tickled my senses was the smell. With the outside door open, the chemical odors slowly faded, leaving behind something musky and sweet and very, very familiar. Later that night, working on my mural to calm the hair-pulling that came after a big rush of THC dumb-down, I realized what the smell was. It just hit me, a slap to the face. To make sure I wasn't crazy, I tore into my closet and stuffed my face into my leather trench that I wore in the winter. The smell was leather. Conditioned, tanned, treated, massaged to the perfect natural clothing material. There wasn't a good reason for a room in a collection of 'conference rooms' and private... clubs... to smell like that. The gears of comedown paranoia started up. Conference rooms? Clubs? Are we talking night clubs? Maybe some other kind of club? Drug clubs? Sex clubs? Satan-worship clubs? Dead clubs? Nazis? Aliens? I had passed the point of post-pot sleep, so I put on something very innocuous - jean shorts and a gray tee - and weaseled myself into the maintenance corridor behind my apartment. It jogged, nearly occluded with some random boxes, and led me back to where I'd been before. Inside the storage closet, I put my ear up to the narrow doorway, and waited a good five minutes. Easy to do while stoned. No sounds from inside, except the faint click and patter of a small fridge somewhere. Five minutes seemed long enough, so I put out my flashlight and started to lever the door open. I barely managed to get it wide enough to squeeze through, a momentary twinge of panic as I got stuck until I realized I could exhale further and push through. A couple more minutes and my eyes could barely make out enough shapes to figure that I was nearing the opposite end of the room and the door. I rose up and felt the wall until my fingers bumped the light switch. The entire room was filled with leather, so much of the hide that it blotted out rational thought. Predominantly black, other earth tones scattered here and there. Like a biker leather shop, times ten, condensed into the space of maybe a gym locker room. Rack upon rack of jackets, coats, shirts, vests, shorts, pants, breeches, chaps, gloves, bracers, caps, and an enormous number of boots. As big a variation in footwear as in all the other items put together. The sight was stunning and I couldn't stop looking. Black shadows, polished highlights, the variation in texture between patent, full-grain, drum-dyed, waxed, oiled. I'd been one of the few students in art school who excelled at Drawing 416: The Art of Black, a course in paper-media shading. Big surprise there. One of the units was Leather, which is surprisingly hard to render in detail. Anyway. After the initial shock and awe of a room packed with leather, 20 years of sexual experience slowly turned me around. This wasn't a stock room for a fashion store. The outfits ran the gamut from cowboy to biker to fascist military. Not really a lot of bondage equipment, although there was some impressive medieval Ren Faire-type stuff. A nice representation of gothic wear, too - I spotted a pair of boots that could have been my own prized New Rocks. How could I not satisfy my curiosity, when faced with such a collection? Why on earth would there would be masses of leather. A store? There didn't seem to be price tags, although there were barcodes for each item on the shelf, and plastic security tags on anything that looked small enough to easily covet. More realization: If this wasn't a store, then maybe it was a .... rental outfit? Like the places that rent jewelry? Who do you rent leather outfits to? When that thought popped into my head, I didn't want to be in the room any more. One reason: someone could come in to rent something. Another reason: the someone who came in could be very, very scary. Paranoia was the unfortunate side effect of comedown. Luck had me just about to pass the doorway out of the room when I heard voices exploding into the unknown room on the other side of it. I slapped the lights off and snuck up behind a rack of long coats, panic making my guts knot up. The voices kept going, a fairly high, young-sounding one, and a patronizing aristocratic southern boom. I could easily get out of the leather room without anyone really knowing I'd been there, but my body wasn't cooperating. Startle gave way to nagging fear. All the leather was suddenly a macabre collection of devious tools, my hiding spot in the dense aroma of animal hide was making it hard to breathe, and I was inching closer and closer to being found out. Something was setting off my irrational panic defenses, and there was only one thing that did that. Dog. The voice. Oh god, the voice. Not the young one; that seemed innocuous and unfamiliar. The other one, the fine Southern drawl. There were two sets of feet, the faint shuff of bare feet on wood floor, the hammer pounding of heels. A swaggering, full-of-it strut, scraping the heel now and then. That was familiar, just like the booming voice - the two had to belong to the same person. The voice and footfalls hurled back memories of why I quit my old job, why I ended up letting my best friend seduce me, why I moved away from Petosky. The voices seemed to have no intention of coming close to the leather room. There was a sort of scrape and clunk in the other room, like something being dragged around. I sank down to my knees and crawled along underneath the coats, careful to breath very deep and very slow. To be quiet, and to avoid passing out from the quivering low blood pressure of fear shock. I made it to the door, and peered under. Dusky light filled the other room, some sort of mood lighting as was common all over the whole of The Woods. The room was lit by faux torches or gaslights on the walls, various pieces of saddlery and other paraphenalia hanging. The floor was old-fashioned long-board wood, worn and scuffed up. In the middle of the room was a black wooden footstool. On the foot stool was the source of the higher voice, a perfect example of a red fox. Not the dusty sort, but the brightly colored British variety, black-pawwed and brushtailed. Standing to the side and in front of him, back to me, was a towering canine. He was done up in a mix of biker cop and, I think aviator gear - leather officer's cap, black horsehide high-collared coat (fitted to his rather narrow waist, one of the reasons I knew he was canine, as they're all like that), what looked like cream leather breeches, knee-high riding boots, and heavy gauntlets up his forearms. I'd seen that sort of thing before - I did a report on Tom Finland for pencil drawing class. The dog paced around the seated fox, and I got a good shot of his front. German shepherd, stunning getup, - there was just one really big problem. I knew who he was. He was Sean Ashton, my old boss. I wanted to be right back inside that claustrophobic rack of leather jackets, just hiding, waiting for the storm to pass, but I couldn't move. Instead, I had to smash my face against the cold tile floor and stare out through the crack at my former nemesis and a naked fox. Certainly the two didn't know I was there and watching, as Sean quite often was standing with his back to me and obscured the fox's view of the door. I could only see Sean's broad shoulders and his tight-wrapped ass, the backs of his boots, the back of his hat. I blotted out his voice, trying to keep him in my head as just some dog, just some dog... The dog lifted up his boot and stomped it onto the stool between the fox's legs, jabbing the toe forward and hooking upwards until the vulpine yowled and grabbed hard at Sean-boy's hips. That's what his boss always called him, Sean-boy - they were both always ragging each other. Sean pushed the fox's snout away with a clenched up first, fingers taut enough to make the leather creak. The vulpine, whose name seemed to be Arjen, flatted his ears and humped at the gleaming boot shoved between his legs, while Sean made the fox lick his leather-clad knuckles. A gesture like that was straight out of some campy movie, like watching a peasant kiss the ring of his king, except this was charged with the whole uniformed energy of a burly dog getting his fingers polished by a whimpering, very eager submissive fox. The fist-worship ended with a hard slap to Arjen's face, Sean growling out orders. The fox's muzzle disappeared from my view, the sounds of wet licking filling the otherwise silent space between my crack view and the action. Then, snap after snap, a shuffle of leather, the hint of a broad grin from the dog looking like a snarl from behind. One of Sean's arms disappeared wholly in front, and a few seconds later there was an obscene slap, which knocked a whimper out of the fox. Arjen's slender fingers moved up and down the shepherd's thighs, around back to grasp at the dog's flexing rump. The hidden arm shifted again, the steady sounds of tongue against skin drying up. The fox's feet shifted and skidded on the floor, clutching at Sean's, and the lewd noise turned to a rough, gagging choke. I was equal parts aroused and terrified. Watching sex in person is not the same as watching a video. It's feral, primal, animalistic, and this particular brand of sex was clearly even worse because the fox was _choking_ on Sean's cock. That's what it had to be, there was no other explanation for the coughing, the splats of spit onto the floor, the hard snorts every now and then. After what seemed like an unhealthy amount of time, the dog stepped his boot down and started backing up with red headfur grabbed up between his knuckles. Arjen leaned forward, letting go and making an awful gagging sound as he slackened and huffed forward. The image was awful, the sight of someone having a large object pulled out of their throat. The fox breathed hard and drooled all over the floor, chin fur matted, wet enough to glisten. I got to see what the cause of that mess was, as Sean turned and paced around the fox to scruff him. His cock was very much like my friend John's, except about as large as a police-issue Maglite. Knotted, concave-headed, lacking a bone as it seemed quite flexible, and way larger than seemed safe to shove down someone's throat. Arjen grudgingly went along as he was hoisted off the stool and marched plain out of view to my left. They were going to the wall my hiding door was mounted on. They were going to!- No, no one came in, but they had to be about two feet to the left of the door jamb. I slowly crept along the viewing crack, until I was flattened against the wall on the opposite side, back against the drywall. All I could see was a fox tail, Arjen's legs, and the entirety of Sean's front. Neither exchanged any words before the shepherd jabbed his wet cock-point right up into the fox's tailhole. Arjen screamed and jerked forward, yanking right off the pointed cocktip and bashing against the wall with a thud that went up my spine. Very much like the thump of my own skull hitting wood, which I knew very well. Sean sneered and got a handkerchief out of a jacket pocket, then fished a little bottle out of another and upended it over the fabric a few times. I started to feel prickles go through my palms - if there was going to be chloroforming, I was going to pass out. The kerchief-wielding gauntlet went out of view, Arjen thumping against the wall again, groaning and huffing. Sean gave him a severe smack to the rump, making the fox gasp. After a few seconds, I watched the vulpine's tail droop. Smell came down by the door, the familiar dirty socks and paint thinner of nitrites. I could deal with poppers, sure. I'd been using the stuff for ages, mostly to obliterate my brain while stoned - carefully timed while smoking, it reduces the world to you and you and only you, not to mention making you feel so hot and ready. This time, the fox didn't jerk his body into the wall when Sean got inside. It sure looked painful, but the fox made surprisingly little sound except a grunt and low moan. Sean wasn't so demure - he snarled and gruffed, yanked at Arjen's fur, and after a few moments, was thumping the vulpine forward into the wall. Each thud made me want to flinch, but had me erect. What part of the fox, I couldn't tell, since the hits against the wall went right into my brain through my leaning skull. It was a brutal fucking, not just a good show but hard for its own sake. I could see the dog's cock disappearing and reappearing, veined and slick, a disgusting purplish color, the knot at the base swelling quickly. The thrusts stopped and Sean just started grinding that rude knob against Arjen's asshole, and then _popped_ it in. The fox just yipped slightly. The shepherd bared his teeth, snorted through them a couple of times, and I could see his tail slap back and forth behind him, a heel clopping the floor once or twice. Then, soft, wet slaps, like someone flinging spitting onto the floor. After more moments, out came the dog with another pop. Arjen sighed and sank down to the floor, then stood up shakily. I panicked, as I was sure they were going to barge through the door. Instead, Arjen gave Sean a good handshake, and they both left, making small talk. I got up and literally bolted out of the leather room, scraping my chest pretty bad through my shirt as I wedged through the storage closet door. I hoofed it off to my own apartment, every stride faster than the next. Only once I was in the bedroom did I stop, flail around, and then bury myself into bed. The image wouldn't go away, the sight of Arjen the attractive and anally-talented fox having something sizable and cock-shaped _extracted_ from his throat. It kept re-appearing when I was doing things with no other entertainment potential, like going to the bathroom or trying to fall asleep. Unlike the incident with John, I didn't feel my attitude changing. I just felt hollow inside, watching that poor fox in my mind, over and over.