Foreplay/Longtime
Yo fuzzies and fuzzettes, this is one of them horrible pornographic stories that you've heard all about on the internet. This one is particularly horrible, as it deals with only folks with penises doing things to one another, and not only that, one of them has a penis that is larger than the average standard penis is supposed to be. Worse still is that there are too many descriptions of how musk and other such things smell both weird but give most guys boners anyway. And to make matters worse, one of the guys pees on another guy - seriously - I actually wrote that and decided to share it with you guys. There are some other things, but you can read tags and other such yummies if you really want to know what's up, I think that's the worst of it though. All of these characters are pretty boring and not much to look at, so if it sounds like your character, you have a boring character and I'm not stealing them. Except that mink guy, he's the property of [http://www.furaffinity.net/user/woofwoofwoof/](%5C), but by now you've already stolen that character anyway. See, now I'm being witty. If you are a baby, fuck off, babies aren't supposed to read this shit. Send me hate mail and secret desires to be my Valentine to [[email protected]](%5C) and stuff, because I'm a pervert and they need Valentines all year round.
Foreplay/Longtime
It takes an all too familiar pulse to get the tip of that snout shooting forward, the lewd soundtrack of the moist ring of black lips gliding across bare, vulpine flesh lost between the dull whish of claw tips scraping over concrete and three counts of blasphemy. A pink nose crashes against the ocean of orange and white just in time, the nostrils flaring at the sudden spike in ripe male scent before gloved paws tug on dome-shaped ears, making sure that the union between muzzle and crotch was not a short lived affair. The action earns a grunt, a muffled squeak, and little else; the eagerness was expected, and there was plenty of brown hair to go around in the event the male was dumb enough to try to yank himself away.
The throb seems to be a false alarm, but the slow, breathy hiss coming from the muzzle that wasn't currently stuffed up with a healthy portion of erection seems to be hinting that he's managed to delay the impending explosion for just a few, more seconds. It's proving to be a non-issue with his partner, the cock-guzzler's massive plume of a tail merely giving a somehow amused flick to the other side before his mouth glides backwards about an inch or so, just enough to make sure his slight overbite could be felt tugging and bunching up the skin on the base of that glans, a tongue that was admittedly short but never lacking in enthusiasm giving the underbelly a good rubdown, nudging all of the right veins and pressure points, even taking the time out of its busy schedule to trace around the edges of the mushroom-shaped tip, an over-excited swallow sending the newly accumulated preseed away from the back of the throat and into the greedy stomach - and it needed filling - the cocksucker must be living life according to Twink Weekly or something; the only thing that bubbled out on this one was the rear end, and that fat tail always seemed to be in the way unless he was making an intentional move. He liked to call the thing his bouncer, only letting in the V.I.P.'s and paying customers.
His paws took some initiative, seeing as the guy was taking the easy road out and was content to lay on his back and just pant like a dog. It was kind of fitting, but calling a fox a dog to the wrong sort of vulpine and you are looking at some broken teeth and cracked ribs. Although luckily he currently had neither, his teeth and tail being his pride and joy, his species calling card so to speak; you see, a squirrel without these things and you are dealing with a freak of nature, and freaks of nature don't give head behind one of the more popular clubs in town. Well, at least not for the price he was getting.
He was going easy on him, too, feeling sorry that he had almost made him bust his load a mere five minutes after the first half of his pay had been hastily stuffed down the side of his pants and all coyness was triumphantly thrown to the curb in a textbook display of cocklust. His paws were playing the white on white game, palms to ass cheeks, making sure that the digits curled just enough to part the mounds of flesh and make those hips arch upward; sure it earns him a couple seconds of wincing as the panting mess of vulpine yanks his ears just a little bit harder, but that inflating knot his kind are more than famous for is ramming into his well-trained muzzle, bumping his bucked teeth for a mere second before vanishing, the rodent becoming a temporary extension of that fox, tongue declaring war on that pillar of masculinity, lips curling ever so slightly as to smear the heavenly, silken texture they were blessed with over the root of that spire, making the vulpine kick, whine, grind those claws against the pavement just that little bit more before that length gives a heavy throb, and this time the rodent knows that it would take an act of god to stop the beast lodged in his throat from going off, and he sort of frowns on these kinds of unforgivable sins.
Clutched ears make whatever the fox is trying to tell him impossible to hear, but the squirrel assumes that he is stating the obvious and letting him know that the thick, musky goop that had just dumped against the back of his mouth was his seed... so he just swallowed. He loved the way they squirmed when he did that, the roof of his mouth rubbing against a still-erupting tip, the gentle tug of his lips, a tongue lightly grazing the edges of an increasingly sensitive member to make even the strongest knees wobble. He works a little bit of shaft from his muzzle, taking his time with the knot: not because it was too big to handle, but because toying with the thing was making the guy whimper. Hell, there was even a tear rolling from the side of his left eye just before he was freed from one prison and shoved into one that involved that warmth bouncing over his still spurting shaft. He was very professional about this part; every drop was worth it to him, so every drop was going to be slurped into that greedy muzzle of his, the warmth of the thick cream coating his insides would last him another hour, which was probably longer than it would take to get his next fifty bucks.
"What the fuck?!" His ears were ringing during the explanation, if there was one; all he knew was that white gold was spraying over his face, chest, and the damned client's thighs of all things, all because he got one of those guys that thought it was cute to give him a facial. He whined and whimpered, but never had the heart to beg for these sorts of things; he just abused his reddening ears some more and always found his prize out of reach, the fox's over-productiveness only making him more upset that he wasn't guzzling the stuff down. He closed his eyes (mouth open, of course) and blindly tried to catch some of the stuff in his voracious maw, the rodent going from brown and white to just plain white, though it was a rather matted-down, runny look that was really going to do a number on his well-cared-for coat if he didn't do something fast.
Luckily, his partner was the sentimental type; he panted for a moment, finally giving the rodent his ears back, which he would slowly work back to their original shape as the vulpine worked his way back to his feet, a five dollar bill fluttering downward until it sticks to the bridge of the squirrel's nose, the slut going cross-eyed before a couple singles came down a few seconds later. "Don't bitch about the facial kid; we all know you guys love dick, so you'd think you could live with wearing the stuff. Anyway, next week is payday, so you're going to get to take off your clothes for me next time." And with that the fox was slinking back out of the alley, well, just after turning back and mentioning, "Oh, and watch the teeth." Another twenty lazily strolls through the air to the ground, punctuating the fox's departure.
The rodent responded with a polite rising of the middle finger when the fox had his back turned, yanking the slightly soggy bill from the end of his snout and hastily shoving it down his pants. Not in his pockets mind you, these things lacked those kinds of amenities; style was greatly outweighing function, tight leather supposed to draw attention to how bubbled your ass was, not how thick your wallet can get. It made things a little nerve wracking when it came time to take the things off though; the client would be getting a view of both a pair of cheeks with a pretty thong-strap blocking their view of the prize dead center, and an inevitable shower of bills that he was forced to scramble around and scoop up before anything really fun could happen.
He'd rather be doing that then having to deal with the slowly hardening seed splashed across his face though, that fur he adored so much clumping together like he was some common tramp; his prices were trampy, not the experience. That was at least the excuse he gave himself and the customers when he laid down the ground rules of trying to keep the mess inside of him if they were going oral, and anal always meant they had to suit up before knocking at the back door. It got him the cash, the sexual thrills he was looking for, and he could sleep better when he stumbled through the door knowing that his professional life wasn't so much at stake.
This was going to take some time to clean up, which meant that he was going to have to work a little bit harder if he was going to meet his goal for the evening; the next term was going to start up, and his parents were less sympathetic to helping to pay for books after he gave that speech about how he got that well-paying part time job after Christmas break. He stopped himself before he rubbed his palm against his face, knowing that doing that wasn't going to help any; he was going to need the professional strength of soap and water if he was going to return his pelt to its former glory. Thanking his gods of choice that clubs offered loud music, low levels of lighting, and little questions as to why someone is ducking through the crowd wearing semen on their face and that skimpy see through top, he grumpily picked himself up and slunk back to the side door where he had made a hasty retreat. His fingers got around the doorknob, but the thing wouldn't give, not even when he shook it back and forth like if he willed it enough the door was going to unlock itself.
That door got a well-deserved kick, a size ten foot print forever dotting its surface, "It's fucking midnight, it's supposed to be unlocked for another three hours!" He even had a nervous habit of checking doors in case something like this happened, and this was no exception; though someone had yet to lock it during one of his escapades before now. He stared at the ground for a bit, looking for options until he felt a glob of that still-lingering liquid mask he was wearing rolling over the tip of his nose and onto the ground below. Little choice but to find somewhere that was still open and clean up; he doubted the bouncer was going to be a fan of this look, and at this hour the line was too ungodly a length to stand around in.
He felt like such a rookie when this kind of thing happened. It was bad enough that he'd spent his first three months doing this job trying to figure out what to say to get these guys to understand the services he was offering, but there was also the hurdle of picking a location. He'd been drifting around like mad the whole time, trying to find that sweet spot that he would cultivate into his proverbial gold mine. This club had been more than adequate for the week-long test-run that it had been given, but he was going to have to do something about the staff if they were going to jeopardize things by locking him out during business hours.
He was practically running down the block; head down as to not draw attention to himself, an irony in itself in that he was looking anything but inconspicuous with the insane, head-long sprint he had adopted. He was caring just as much about prying eyes as he was his quest for still lit neon; this hour tended to only afford a refuge provided by rest stops and twenty four hour gas stations, things that only seem all too common when you are racing down the highway at sixty five miles per hour, a fraction of what you can accomplish during an embarrassed sprinting session. It didn't help that he was rather clueless as to where things were around these parts; all he knew was that the last bus got here around ten and the first rolled around at about four in the morning, a good six hour shift that can turn profitable if you aren't wasting too much time, like he is now.
God eventually seems to take pity on the poor soul, offering him the solace of a run-down-looking mass of wood and concrete that claimed to be a fuel stop, something that could barely make the rent payments in a world where brand name comfort was just a block down the road, and stays open twenty-four-seven. But the hum of the open sign meant that the squirrel was going to be saved, and not a moment too soon, as he felt like his face was slowly turning into paper mache at this point, the sound of a bell jangling as loud as possible as he opened the do. He lunged, praying that he was running towards the restroom and not some employee break room.
What he found was another locked door, the rodent futilely jiggling the handle, staring at the white on black image that was supposed to symbolize males, because they obviously don't wear dresses. Then, of course, he catches the note underneath, scribbled in high school dropout scrawl: "Ask for key up front." There is a bit of debate about that one, but he figures he can risk letting some tired gas station attendant that could give less of a shit about who needs the bathroom see his tainted appearance; he was sure he wasn't going to be dealing with some kind of world's-hottest-employee situation here.
So it's a voyage through the expired pastries and bottles of soda that look like they are relics from a few ad campaigns ago; it's a horrible sign to see Crystal Pepsi just sitting on the shelf like there was some comeback going on that only this place seemed to be aware of. He was right about one thing; sitting behind the rack of cigarettes, energy shots, and pills that swore by their fading, cardboard packaging that you would be a lustful beast for the next three days, was not the world's hottest employee.
The rat looked like he'd been through hell; chunk of ear missing, that overbite looking a bit more chipped and jagged than the squirrel's own. Black fur dotted with hints of ash, he wasn't making a point to hide the fact that he was smoking the stock in front of him, his figure being slightly distorted in the plumes of smoke issuing from his nostrils. Lanky motherfucker, but in the lean sense that made you feel like whoever took the chunk out of his ear got something bigger torn off; he had the gall to wear a vest too, showing off a lot of matted fur and chest fluff that had seen better days. It was hidden by the counter, but the squirrel was going to assume this guy was a fan of the blue jeans that looked like they had a bad run in with a machine gun.
He was dead wrong about not being noticed though. The rodent was staring at him with the most toothy-looking grin that boy had seen in his life, one quick glance into those black, beady eyes and the squirrel knew there was no excuse he could make that was going to cover up what had happened to his face. The newly formed rosiness to his cheeks was hidden by the layer of hardened seed on his face, thankfully, so he could at least look a little bit more manly before he almost literally squeaked out, "Need the key to the bathroom," before becoming very interested in the pile of magazines under the counter. They offered little solace to the poor guy, as he was greeted with an article that swore it could teach him to give a facial that his partner was never going to forget.
A rather amused chuckle is all the rat gives him as his thin fingers shovel the key over the counter and find themselves in the more-than-eager-to-get-out-of-here, rodent's paws. He's busy marching back towards the legendary, lost soda display while thinking about how cruel magazine publishers can be with their choice in front cover stories before a whistle sounds. It's not one of those whistles that are designed to get your attention; it's that classic sort of whistle that you've heard since you were a little kid, the one you made when you saw someone you liked; or if you were older, wanted to go balls deep into. The squirrel was forced to give a quick glance over his shoulder, getting a nice eyeful of that rat with his tongue slightly sticking from the side of his muzzle, gaze directed at that bottom of his, a lewd-sounding giggle making the rather empty store seem more uncomfortable than it already was, something that inspires marches to the bathroom to become the one hundred meter dash.
Glad to avoid the horror film cliché of being unable to unlock a door when he was in a panic, he was able to slink in and lock the door in time to feel some relative safety. Now all he had to worry about was contracting some horrible disease from accidentally drinking the water in here or something. Or come to think of it, touching any surface in the place seemed to be inviting some sort of cataclysmic event that his white blood cells wouldn't be able to handle. The sink had seen better days, which was most likely installed shortly after they invented the radio. A lot of elbow grease was needed to get those knobs turning, and even then the water came out in a pathetic spray. The mirror looked like it had been on the losing end of a fist fight, so the damage assessment was a tricky affair, a spider web of rodents jockeying to get a good look at themselves, futilely trying to scrub the mess out of their fur with the aid of a soap dispenser that most likely went through its supply and was promptly forgotten by both manager and patron. The floor is enveloped in one of those muddied messes of mopless anarchy that spreads across some of the walls, which had evolved into the White Pages for some guys who did the same thing as the squirrel without the need for currency exchange. The scribbles and occasional diagrams seemed to extend into the stall, giving the rodent the impression that this wasn't always an under lock and key sort of establishment; otherwise the separation between the private room and the actual stall would be sort of a pointless expenditure, a big deal for a place that didn't seem to even make regular expenditures, let alone the semi-lofty kind. The urinal behind him seemed like merely a suggestion; apparently, if you have to use the bathroom here, you are supposed to have no sense of aim whatsoever, or you are just following example and showing the government that they can't tell you where you are supposed to drain your bodily fluids.
There were many plans of destroying all locked doors in the universe by this point, seeing as they had provided more trouble than they were worth so far tonight, and there was a lot of time to dwell on these things; he didn't even have paper towels to aid him in his quest for the cute sheen of perfect chocolate fluff that he needed to attract potential wallet expansion assistance. It was a brutal struggle between palm and face, trading one liquid for another, but he was at least happy that when the latter substance dried he would be looking more like his former self again, though with a sort of disarrayed fuzz dancing across his skull that he hoped would look more trendy than it did homeless, which it would if the water smelled the same as this bathroom. Even after a good half hour he was finding the tip of his snout twitching if he took too deep a breath, everything smelling of a strong, manly funk, though he would take musk, sweat, and piss over the potential scent of decay this room could have been wearing instead.
He was nearing a level of cleanliness he felt was acceptable to go out in, hoping that maybe he could squeeze in another guy before his night was over so his cash intake wasn't a complete disaster: nothing like selling your body for the whole night and all you can afford is breakfast and a bus ride home. Constant grumbling all the while too; he's still on about the doors, pervert rats, foxes that can't seem to understand how he handles this line of work and bathrooms that did nothing but waste his time and money seeming to top his list of complaints, though there were some special guests along the lines of school faculty that require expensive books thrown in once in a while; they were the true masterminds behind his perils, after all; more people need to blame the schools for prostitution.
His inner monologue was halted by an unexpected clicking sound, his ear giving a light twitch back towards the direction of the door behind him, mostly assuming that it was some guy who was going to suffer the same humiliation of realizing that this was some kind of executive bathroom that required the key he'd tossed on top of the empty paper towel dispenser. But the click turned into the quick grinding of metal on metal, and that rusted doorknob gave a swivel, and the door gave way. It was an awkward sort of moment for the squirrel, but he wrote things off fairly quickly on account of his looking rather presentable by now, and the fact that this would at least explain why the stall was a separate entity within a locked room. It still seemed a little unnecessary to lock things if that was the case, the squirrel unable to help himself from chuckling at the thought that the biggest expense this place could dish out for itself was making copies of restroom keys.
Besides, the incoming mink was cast off as an immediate non-threat to the rodent; shorter than him by a couple of inches, perhaps more of a stereotypical boy toy than even he, but his pride was doing its best to keep the bias in his favor. The eyes kept his gaze occupied for longer than they should have an almost unreal shade of blue that looked more like they were better suited for jewelry than something attached to the body for everyday use. The left ear was doubly pierced, though it was less of a distraction than some would assume when a male chooses to decorate themselves with gold like that. He's not a blue jeans kind of guy, it's more of a leathery tightness package, the lack of flaunting suggesting that he's either insanely comfortable with the things or they only exist to serve the purpose of accentuating every little curve and bulge on his body without the need of prancing around naked. And there is no kidding with the bulge; the mink is either packing or he's decided that he's going to be eco-friendly and stash those honeydews and a two liter down the front of his pants and not trouble the world with the time it takes for the plastic to sit in that landfill until the end of time. A hint of another piercing just above the belly button glitters from underneath an equally tight looking top, a rather loud looking magenta number, but the squirrel is a bit too preoccupied to pay these things too much mind. It takes the wiggling of fingers to remind the rodent that he's making it a bit too obvious he's checking the guy out, and that this guy has a telltale stripe of semen across the right side of his face.
He's confused at this one; had he stumbled on some sort of facial removers club in the middle of the night? It was enough to make him pay no mind to the mustelid slinging a book bag from his shoulders and to the floor below, the squirrel deciding that it's best to leave the questions unasked and just get the heck out of here. Plus the mink lacked a concept of personal space, already reaching around him to get to the water, the leaning of that weight pressing the outlined package against the base of that tail, letting him know that everything was very real down there; and of course during this the mink was idly rubbing his fur clean like nothing was going on. It takes a bit of a limbo move but he's making his way towards the door, an easy two step feat that would have had him out the door in a second or less, but he's only halfway there before the guy speaks to him, a voice that went down so smoothly one would suspect that anything that came out of his mouth sounded like he was asking for some kind of sexual favor.
"Forgot something," and the jingling sound of keys are the last thing he wanted to hear, even if the retreat was but a mere step or two.
"Thanks," is his quick response to that, and the keys are quickly snatched away from those paws and he's able to make his second attempt to escape this hell hole. The attempt fails when the mink quickly inquires, "Weren't you with that fox a little while back?" The look on that muzzle more than spelling out that the question was asked out of courtesy and not a genuine query; his work had been recognized. His hand had even been on the doorknob, and now he was forced to turn back around and let the white mass look up at him with the smuggest looking smirk he had seen in a long while. No sense in lying, so the squirrel just shrugged and offered him a, "maybe," before taking a step forward. A bathroom wasn't his ideal location, but if the guy made things worth it with the cash, he would be complaining a lot less about how his evening had been going.
The expression wasn't altered by the rodent's small attempt at being coy, the mustelid just giving his fat plume of a tail an idle pet; the thing had never touched the ground since he walked in, a well-trained snake that seemed to quickly jump out of the way every time it threatened to come into contact with any of the unsavory surfaces this place had to offer. "How long you been up to that sorta stuff, kiddo?" He asks that with the most offhanded tone possible, like he was complimenting someone's shoes, an impossibility for the squirrel's part, being the kind of guy to skip those things and say he's just being in his natural element.
"A week over there really; good spots are hard to come by these days." He was trying to cover up the lack of experience there, suggesting it wasn't lack of experience but the fact that he was dealing with some relocation issues that would have led to any sort of displeasure with what the guy may have seen. He's getting a bit more comfortable with himself; the mink was strumming all of the right chords so far. It usually takes about two or three more questions before they get to the more serious issues of money and what his plans were for the evening, so he's developed a light bit of a slouch, not seeming to mind that he was using an abused wall of that stall as his new perch.
The mustelid seems to be a bit more eager than planned, though; he's already moving in closer to that rodent, the insane plush of his coat tickling across his chest, that shirt being far too thin to absorb the feeling of velvet nuzzling against it as the mink leaned forward just a little bit more. A low, contented rumble comes from the flat stomach of the rodent, his eyes closing for just a few moments, half anticipating that when he opened them this guy would be gone; even dreams don't end this well. I mean, as much as the squirrel was hurting for cash, it would almost be worth paying this yummy piece of mink instead of the other way around. That silk slides down his paws, bringing them down to his sides, his nose twitching as he feels warm breath rolling across the bridge of his muzzle, breath coming out in a quick pant as he's seconds from letting the guy know if he's going to end as well as he's starting he might throw this one in as a freebie. The massage gets a bit rougher around the wrists, one of the paws neglecting its duty, but the squirrel has his time occupied with a pair of soft, moist lips, a smooth tongue trailing the edges of that muzzle of his, which is more than welcome to duck past the teeth and explore the insides of that mouth. A light nibble at the side of his muzzle makes his legs give a slight buckle, weight ducking downward just a few inches before he gives a yelp, a sudden pinch of cold steel snugging around his wrist, the millisecond of disbelief giving the mink time enough to ensnare its brother, who didn't bother to stop biting down as he pulled away, getting a nice whine as his reward.
"That's my spot, fucktard." Then there is an equally barefooted shove to the chest, knocking the male flat on his ass, the chain connecting his wrists getting caught between the door hinges, effectively tethering him to the mass of plastic and metal behind him, the stall apparently not cheap enough to just come apart on account of the frantic tugging of squirrels. The proverbial cat seems to have caught the rodent's tongue; he's left to stuttering and kicking his legs as the mink's paws descend on the squirrel's pants, skilled digits making quick work of the button and zipper so he can yank them down a couple of inches to reveal the prize he was after. The suddenly intimidating mink was quick to express his disappointment at both the thong decorated with its cute, little hearts and the amount of cash shoved into the waistband, both summed up with a headshake and a "pathetic," before barely a hundred bucks was shoveled out of the panties, finding a new home in that book bag, which looked like it was hemorrhaging cash from the quick peek the rodent stole amidst the chaos of the situation.
"Your stupidity seems to have cost me less than I was expecting at least, as far as money goes, at least. I'm more worried about how having trash on my turf is going to affect the quality of the clientele at this point. If I'm not mistaken you're somewhere around the fifty bucks a blow range and you're too afraid to get your feet wet." The monologue is delivered during a makeshift striptease; the mink unfortunately having the kind of body that makes you hard no matter what the situation is calling for; it only takes about three seconds of ass sliding free from the tight confines of that prison for the rodent to tent out, paws instinctively reaching forward to cover the indecency, a clanking of steel and a squeeze around the wrists reminding him that he's pretty much screwed until further notice. "You're going to make up for what I've lost, kid, and maybe along the way you're going to learn that if you are going to be serious about this you don't pussyfoot around; you either go in head first or you don't." All of this is capped off with the slow turn-around, pants finding themselves a new home around the rusted-looking pipes under the sink.
The squirrel's nose gave another twitch; that scent was strong enough to cut through the fog of manly funk even from a distance, like this guy's crotch was double dipped in pure sex. His balls rolled as gracefully as they could given their size. Considering their proportions it was a small miracle that the mink wasn't stumbling with each step. The sheath was a snowy mound of ankle thickness, an ebon cock tip barely visible but making its potency known, a thick river of opaque sludge already bubbling up and over its holster, trickling across the expanse of balls before pooling on the ground below, movement only aggravating the situation by spraying ribbons of the stuff forward, the rodent's muzzle getting the lewd kiss from the goop once or twice, ears flicking to express his feigned displeasure.
He was having a lot of trouble coming up with a proper retort to this situation, frequently stammering a less than assertive, "Um..." as his defense for the apparent crimes that he had committed against his fellow whore. His head was constantly trying to rub up against something to wipe off the thickening soup that was drenching his snout, which was already making him feel a little dizzy from the potent stink that seemed to leak out of each drop that bloated head manufactured for him, the reveal painfully slow by anyone's standards, barely crowning over the opening by the time the mink was looming over his victim. His muzzle opens, "I think-" the start of what was likely a well-thought-out introduction to some kind of well-thought-out negotiation session that would end with him not chained to a filthy bathroom stall in the middle of the night, but that proposal is muffled by the swift movement of fingers, a tight grip pressing along his skull to the point of wincing, and then a triumphant crash as his face smacks against the heft of the cum-moistened balls previously inches in front of him.
Five seconds later the squirrel is trying to crawl his way upwards, or backwards, any direction that can hopefully steer himself away from the prison it had found itself in. The air was so humid he could taste it, even with that muzzle tightly sealed out of fear of actually having to taste the stuff in its pure format; the cloud of musk so thick he was almost gagging on it, while at the same time he could feel the pained throbs of his still-covered erection hammering with every pulse of his heart, the dampness between his legs nagging at him to just give himself one little grope. He whined and thrashed, but the mink proved to be a lot stronger than he had been letting on, his paws providing an inescapable anchor for the perverted torture, and his hips provided a nice, disorienting smack to the snout as needed, the back of his head bouncing off the back of the stall loudly and back into the pile of sweat and sex that was now being lovingly smeared across his face. He could feel the thick layers of that lewd cocktail clogging themselves into his pores, the urge to bite met with a particularly strong buck forward, what little vision he had blurring before "I wouldn't try that one out if I were you."
He was forced to close his eyes after about a minute or so; it made the watering stop, and the mustelid had taken to using the bridge of his muzzle as a makeshift masturbatory aid, the thickness sandwiched between a palm and his face and rolled along with the hips, the fat end of that beastly dong more than happy to coat the male's face over and over, and over, and over. The daze he was thrown into was making him lose track of what was going on around him; the paws were no longer holding him in place, letting them attend to other, pressing matters, like keeping cock busy matting down that rodent's fur while the other pressed a pre slathered paw against that nose. A breath is taken, and the rodent starts coughing, nose now clogged with a lot more than just the mere scent of that sickening musk, nostrils flaring a couple times as the mink continues to block that air passage waiting for that grand moment where his mouth opens and he gasps for air, those bloated, sex-oiled softballs gliding forward until they are properly resting on top of those lips, the rain of pre, sweat, and god only knows collecting in the back of the male's throat, his utter refusal to swallow making this quite the game for the mink, who is more than happy to let his sac marinade and fester against the less-than-willing muzzle below.
He has no choice but to eventually give in, gagging and looking like he'd just poisoned himself, the salty bitterness of that mixture forever clinging to his taste buds, but on the bright side the mustelid had given up on making the squirrel's face a mask of prerelease that could never be scrubbed off; in fact it seemed the flow had stopped off altogether. Some fingers wipe the cock scum from around his eyes, wiped off on his chest with a look like he had just touched something diseased, his attention turning to something to the side with the only intension of sucker punching him from the side with that insane girth he was packing. The squirrel was so glad he was still wearing something, even if it was just butt floss protecting him; it was better than being on the receiving end of that monster. It was easily over a foot long, if only by a couple inches or so, but the fact that the sheath it was packed tightly into it was looking ready to burst under the strain of the thickness was what worried him. It was like the old joke about having an extra limb down there, only it was deadly serious this time; on someone as small and waif-like as the mink, it was totally entering into near-thigh territory.
The still-gasping-for-air rodent gets that warm dick shoved against those lips, his last shred of dignity keeping his jaws sealed tightly, making a proud statement about how uneasily broken he was despite his appearance. The mustelid had a winning response to that one though, the squirrel's quick head shaking and whining attesting to this fact, those massive inches deciding that if he's not going to help empty those balls they might as well get to work at emptying the bladder. It's a rank smell of rut and lust, pouring over him with the same enthusiasm as the pre had been more than happy to do just moments before, the mink keeping a point to keep the thick stream right against that nose, no amount of whimpering seeming to get to the heart of his fellow prostitute, who was wearing an almost bored look the entire time, both of them knowing that inevitably the guy was going to have to breathe. And predictably, there is a gasp for air, and the sickening sound of still pissing dick shoving past a pair of slickened lips.
He's crying from more than the musk now, the bitter, amber fluid leaking from the sides of his muzzle for a few seconds, but the mink encourages the rodent to use some space management skills to get that shaft in deeper, those balls tapping the end of the male's chin as he bucks forward to kiss cock head to throat. There's a gag or two, but the discomfort of resisting seems to outweigh the humiliation of just swallowing the stuff, the resulting series of gulps earning him the oddly affectionate petting across the head from the mink, an almost cute affair ruined by the sudden pull out and showering over the rodent's head until the stream died off. The mink made sure he was properly drained, smacking the ebon fiend on the end of the chained boy's nose a few times just to make sure that every little drop was spent, the male covered from head to toe in the stuff, a dirty puddle making his seat rather uncomfortable.
He practically squealed out, "Oh god no!" when those paws suddenly yanked down that thong of his, tossing both it and his pants in the same discard pile he had made earlier, more than just instinct trying to help him cover his backside up with that tail of his, legs trying to find the best position to defend himself from an inevitable attack. The mink is back over at the sink during his little dance, his book bag becoming more interesting to him than the annoying babble of a good for nothing rodent; magic markers and cardboard seem to be more in style. A cheap but sturdy looking chain is slipped through the crummy looking parchment of choice, the mustelid getting a bit less bored looking when he gets to show off his handiwork, a sign nicely adorned with the simple phrase: "Whatever you want, I only cost $1". The "I" was actually lower cased in this instance, a heart playing the role of the dot, though the squirrel was less worried about grammar and more worried that this was becoming a new sort of necklace, the mink pinning the corners to his shirt in case he got the idea to roll around enough to get the sign out of view.
And on the subject of arts and crafts, the mink had prepared a gift in advance for his least favorite troublemaker, showing that a bit of green construction paper around a coffee can and drawing dollar signs on it can be a rather foreboding thing in the wrong hands. Another smack across the face with that girth to make the squirrel duck his head down in shame for a second or two, getting a quick pat on the head; with a yank on the ears to get his attention.
"At your pathetic average you owe me seven-fifty." His paw is cupped under the squirrel's chin, making sure that the impact wasn't lost because he was too busy moping around in fluids to not pay attention. "I'll give you a week to take care of that loss for me, so I suggest you do really well for the first couple of guys because at your rates it's going to take a lot of work to pay me back properly. You're lucky word travels fast in this area. Take your time though; you're going to hang around until you've paid me back for cutting in on my work around here. To be honest with you though, you did pick a good spot; everyone around here likes a good fuck. You might even get some freebies out of this; or a policeman's special." That fat mustelid prick is rubbing against his face again, painting a slimy trail of fresh pre over that snout before the mink impresses on the squirrel, "Maybe by then you'll be less of a sniveling bitch and something a bit more fun to slip inside of. And believe me, if I see you around here any more, I'll be having you over and over and over, and my dick ruins cunts like yours pretty, damn quick."
The threat of penetration apparently is a suitable enough line to exit off of, because all other protests and complaints about the situation are completely ignored while the mink just casually exits the bathroom, keeping the door propped open with the tiny trash can that had been laying forgotten under the paper towel dispenser, lights on so the squirrel couldn't even have a moment of relative privacy to keep himself content. He had enough time to wonder why the guy didn't even bother to get his pants back on, the book bag apparently covering the cost of those things and then some with the amount of cash that guy was making, or maybe it was from doing things like this, some kind of lewd outsourcing with no benefits to the newly appointed assistant. The jingling of bells in the distance must be the mink taking his leave, the increasingly defeated-looking rodent trying to imagine what that dirty pervert up front must have thought when he came out of the bathroom reeking of sex, or more accurately dripping in the stuff.
That thought was quickly met with the dropping of his ears, not even getting a moment to comfort himself with the possibility that something like that was totally out of the realm of possibilities when the door swung back open, his old friend that rat padding in wearing nothing but that toothy grin and a dollar bill folded up into his palm. The bill was stuffed into his little coffee can with little ceremony, the rat cupping his fingers under the pair of baseballs below the sheathless tube of pink just north; thankfully it was something workable to the squirrel. He could take just under a foot given he wasn't too horribly thick. His legs went into that crawling mode as he caught himself even thinking about just giving in and letting this stranger have his way with him, no questions asked. There was no hesitation on the rat's part; he just grabbed those legs and spread them, glancing down as a courtesy, idle curiosity about what his fellow rodent was packing, which wasn't overly impressive given either of his friends of the day. It was white fluff dotted across a pair of kiwis and a slender seven inches, expected for his kind, especially when he made a point he wasn't one to use it in this line of work.
Didn't look like it was going to used tonight either, the rat, letting go after he'd had his fill of looking the male over, looking almost disappointed that he wasn't being outclassed; perhaps that mink had spoiled him walking out and showing his own goods when he told on his business associate. His approach seemed fairly similar to the mink's: walk right up to his prospective bitch, tap the end of his nose with the bloated expanse of his sac, then rub against that snout a bit. There was some variety coming up though, the slinky rodent managing to quickly about face and greet the squirrel with the backside of those balls. The rat was, well a rat, so it went without saying that any sort of musk the mink was wearing like a second skin was going to be this guy on a good day, and today was not a good day.
He was an impatient guy too, that whip of a tail doing just that, thudding against the rodent's side and the brilliant observation that, "yer suppose to be lickin'," before rolling his weight back and forth just a little bit, giving that snout a good hit of that potent musk of his. The squirrel showed that he had at least evolved some, or he had a very low pain threshold, because he was quicker to give into the request; he just had to close his eyes and autopilot this thing. It's not like it was his first time doing something like this after all; the circumstances were just a little less than optimal and the guy he was doing it to was someone he would usually hide from in the corner and pretend never existed.
The tongue flinches lightly at the first taste of flesh, the salty flavor of sweat not really complimenting the bitter aftertaste of musk the rodent had, but for the sake of treating this ordeal like a band aid and getting it over with his muzzle dug forward, nose kissing against taint as he started to drag that tongue across those orbs. His shaft was brought to full attention yet again, this time just trickling beads of his own prerelease down the mushroom shaped tip of his girth, tickling their way down into the light-colored mass of pubic fur below, his paws giving the occasional jingle as they made an attempt to finish himself off, or even start himself off for that matter. His lips gently sucked at loose skin, teeth tugging the flesh backward while that tongue painted over the surface with a sloppy but diligent purpose, the squirrel finding that with his eyes closed and his mind on some of his better clients this was a bit more manageable than he first anticipated. And he knew he was doing good; he could feel those jets of foreign pre smacking against his thighs, lazily rolling into the puddle he was forced to sprawl out in, and the rat was offering some rather contented-sounding grunts and, "g'boys," to make him feel like he could live with this one a couple hundred more times over.
The weight of the rat shifted on him, however; one of his increasingly passionate licks finding itself gliding across nothing but taint, nostrils giving another flair as that musk got a bit stronger, toes curling as his head was hurled into a proverbial fog of the more primal urges inside of him, and more literally between the thankfully lean mounds of rump cheek the rat was sporting. That tail could be felt twitching in eager anticipation across the top of his head, the slow rolling over hips kneading the tip of that snout along the smooth flesh of the valley between those half-globes tainted with a rather excessive coating of that sex fueling funk. This is enough to get the squirrel whining and wiggling again, but in the spirit of having to deal with partners much more acquainted with the use of force than him the rat just had to press his weight back a bit more firmly, getting that muzzle kissed against his flesh, and his skull mashed against the back of his stall.
In the spirit of his band aid theory the squirrel was left with little choice but to have at it, trying to mimic the same sort of vigor he had reserved for those balls, only this time the musk was a bit sweeter, and there was thankfully less of a sweat induced aftertaste to things. This was a rarity for him; someone getting this out of him was going to pay a lot more than usual and be subject to a lot of rules and regulations, but at least it was not something new... otherwise he would have suffered much more than he was already. His tongue was purposefully nice and slick for each journey over that flesh, that tight ring near the middle giving a light flex with each pass over, the rat's legs giving a nice wobble each time as well. He needed to pull out all the stops, considering that he was supposed to be creating a network of patrons to his little stall here that would get him out of this newly accumulated debt he'd been thrust into, which was his main excuse for taking his time with trailing his tongue around the edges of that opening, spiraling down towards dead center before his tongue lightly scooped inward, lightly spreading the flesh but ending up just gliding over the outer rim again.
The fluids slapping over his legs suggests that his rodent brethren was finding his performance more than adequate, which only meant that the squirrel was left with only one real option if he was going to up the ante on this guy a little more. His eyes are still sealed tightly, concentration divided between his imagination and the steady throbbing of his erection; he couldn't go through with this if he was fully aware there was a rat basically sitting on his muzzle and he was just making out with the thing like this was a dream come true for him. His lips parts a little bit more than usual, his lips planting their velvet embrace on that opening. Then the tongue goes through the familiar motions of the downward spiral, but once he hits dead center, there is no turning back, the short but well-lubricated sliver of muscle slides its way into that rump, the rat felt arching a bit from up above, the squirrel slipping as much as he could up into the tightness before fresh air hit his face, tongue slipping back into the opening, stray bits of spit dribbling back over him.
After a couple moments of nothing, the rodent dares to open those eyes again, and finds it somewhat comforting that the rat is facing forward again, and not within ball smothering distance. He's made his way to the pile of discarded clothing under the sink, and there are a couple, investigative yanks before he decides on a pair: in this case, the mink's. The rat seemed to not care much for explanation or dialogue concerning these sorts of things; he just snagged the male's ankles in one of his paws, that grip surprisingly stronger than the squirrel's lofty expectations afforded, using those pant legs as the make-shift bindings that crush the things together. The other pair was the squirrel's more familiar friends the blue jeans, which were theatrically dropped into the puddle of fluids around him, mink apparently not something that dries up very easily, and even the newly elected mop the rat had invented barely made a dent on the mess. His fingers gave the rodent's cheeks a tight pinch, exciting those jaws to open just enough for those fingers to stuff themselves inside and keep it that way, some nimble movements helping him feed some pant leg down that gullet, making sure things were balled up nicely in there before letting go. There was a decent amount of leftover leg to make the trip around the rodent's skull, even with him trying to spit it out as the thick paste of pre and cooling urine leaks into his muzzle whenever he bites down even a little bit. The rat was smart enough to give himself enough room on both ends so he could make a knot out of the leg, providing a rather awkward, impractical, but functional gag for his friend.
That same puddle of grime at the squirrel's feet would be worked into the rat's fingers, bound legs tossed upwards so that he could get his first look at the exposed version of that back end he had admired a little while ago when it was still clothed and sauntering to the bathroom he was currently chained in. A whimper and a cough was heard a bit further north, a decent response to the rodent's rather forward notion of just stuffing his index finger up to the knuckle between those bubbled mounds of ass cheek. The second finger got his teeth gritting, which prompted the flow of freshly spent cock scum into his muzzle, the squirrel glad he could at least breathe through his nose, but he was out of luck when it came to keeping the stuff from dumping down his throat, the aged version even more bitter and vile than the newly created supply, and lacking the comfort of warmth to go with it, accented with the grime from the floor it had morphosed.
A third finger was pushing the rodent's limits, some proper, canid-sounding howls and whimpers marring that affair, the rat's only concern with how much his dick danced at the view of that snug ring clinging to his fingers, far from virgin tightness by a long shot, but by most whore's standards this guy was a vice grip. A smack on the ass with the free paw is the signal for the transition to the real deal, subtlety not being one of the rat's virtues by a long shot; with him it's just out with the fingers, move just a little bit, in with the dick now, smacking those spit-lubed balled against the male's tail base.
He didn't care that the squirrel had closed his eyes again, trying to imagine that he was somewhere else yet again, the positioning making things undesirable for him; nothing like looking forward and seeing the musky-smelling pile of rat railing into you; he really wished that mink had at least set him up for the option of doggy style; would have made the coming week seem more bearable. The rutting session was permeated with yips and squeaks, the extremely fleeting amount of lube forcing the pair to wait until those inner walls were coated with that stringy pre seed before things could move smoothly. The rat wasn't complaining, his expression one of rather lewd contentment; ass this tight wasn't handed to him all that often these days, after all. The squirrel found himself oddly limp and defeated after a good minute of the completely unpredictable rhythm the rat was using, who was unable to decide if he was going to enjoy the tight hole he'd stumbled upon or if he wanted to rail him into next week from the feel of things; there was nothing he could do to wriggle out of this anyway, and his body was already starting to betray him, a nice slam against his prostate making his dick twitch, fire an arch of pre that made it all the way to his little sign around his neck, toes curling out of blissful instinct, the street whore he had been training himself to be not really caring that he'd been thrust into some bare backing stranger rut session. The bitch was just glad to have some dick in there for the first time this evening.
He pressed back, his ears folding down to cover his skull in shame as he found himself straying away from the plan of just doing what he had to do to get by in this thing without too much fuss to trying to milk some more pleasure out of this guy. The rat felt his extra effort as well, his own hips adding a little bit of an extra push to test the waters a bit; half hoping that it wasn't some happy accident and the squirrel was starting to come around. It was like instinct, that cushioned rear nudging backwards again, the pain and discomfort starting to blur into something he was all too familiar with, his snug walls picking up every pulse and throb the inches lodged inside of him were giving off, each little drop of pre sputtered into his tight ring making his eyelids flutter a bit, the rush of adrenaline making even the tainted gunk he was sucking on just bearable enough to swallow.
His plush back end was starting to grind back properly, the rat stopping his movement altogether a couple times just to watch the squirrel scoot up and down on his own accord, gently milking at that length within. The rat was the type to never announce when he was about to do anything, so it would come as no surprise that the rodent was caught off guard when there was a slap of hips to his ass, and the sudden rush of warmth inside of him. He doubted he would ever admit that his first career unprotected session was with some rat in the back of a gas station restroom, but for now the heat creeping up inside of him was enough solace that he wasn't going to have to dwell on that for just a little while longer.
His own member was still standing at full attention, needing a bit more love before its own release would become a reality, and from the way the rat just unceremoniously pulled out and smeared some of his release over that bottom sort of suggested his wasn't in a helping sort of mood. He at least untied his legs and got the gag out without being too much of a jerk, just an incident where he accidentally let the soggy article of clothing drag across his snout for a bit longer than he would have liked. He gave a couple pants, the euphoric pleasure coming down rather hard thanks to his lack of official orgasm and resulting afterglow, only the tickle of seed dribbling from his backside left to really keep his sexual senses active, seeing as the rat was wiping himself off on the squirrel's pants, something that made little sense considering where they had been dragged through moments earlier.
"See yeh tomorrow," are the parting words this time, reminding the rodent that in addition to whatever hornball that strolls in here he was going to have to attend to this guy as a regular issue in his life, and whoever else happened to work in this dump. There was no concept of time in here but he had to assume it was pretty late, he should be safe until the morning crowd settled in, and he was sure that they were too busy to do much of anything with him. He was starting to do a terrible job at comforting himself, already he was entirely sure that everyone that came here was either in no hurry, or they could afford to be late if it all ended with dumping a load in the cheapest hole in town. The fact that he wouldn't have to be pissed off at a door for a week is the only good thing he felt that came of this and that is fairly sad indeed.
The rat was on his way out, although just as the tip of that pink, serpentine tail flickered out of view, his gritty voice murmured from the hallway. "Oh wait..." The filthy rodent grins and swings the door just that little bit further open, not deigning it worth his effort to even walk back into the disgusting restroom. The rat opens up his wallet and flashes it to the bound creature, thumbing through a painfully thick pile of ones and fives. "Forgot I had these."