The Slavemaster of Skate City and the Little Thief
The Slavemaster of Skate City and the Little Thief
By Gideon Kalve Jarvis
This story is primarily based on the picture "Shoplifter" by Beachfox, found at http://www.furaffinity.net/gallery/beachfox/ - these characters and concepts are used with this artist's permission.
Officer Dwight Nord hated the last two weeks of summer break in Skate City. School was out for only a little while longer, and the boys knew it, too, and put in their all to squeeze as much trouble out of the lingering summer days as could be managed. An uninitiated person might ask the reasonable question, "What boys?" Confronted with such a question, Officer Nord would be more than happy to answer: the skaters.
Skate City wasn't the real name of the place, of course. The real name of Officer Nord's beat area was the Penrose District, covering the area between 29th street on the east side to Boardwalk Boulevard on the west, running right by the white sands of the beach. But at almost all times of year, in almost all sorts of weather, the Penrose District was dominated by skater boys, grinding, thrashing, and tearing their way everywhere. These teenagers were the source of all the graffiti in the otherwise pleasant area, and during summer it was almost impossible to approach the beach by car, they got so thick at times. The reason for this, of course, was that there were so many perfect spots for skating around the area, and shops had taken to catering to the needs of their select clientele. After a survey three years ago showed up in the local news, demonstrating who spent the most time in the area, and who was arrested most, the name Skate City came up, and stuck in the popular consciousness.
Yeah, the skaters got into trouble a lot. It was only to be expected at their age, after all. The oldest were college-age boys, hitting the mid-twenties. But most of the skater boys were just that: boys, few of them out of their teens. Skateboarding was, after all, a young man's sport. Of course, so was juvenile delinquency, as the hard-working grizzly, Officer Nord, would be the first to point out. Especially at this time of year, when each and every skater knew that school would be in all too soon, and they were trying to suck out every last drop of summer's succulent juices before they were sent back to their drudgery of books and teachers.
A case in point was right before Officer Nord as he pondered the realities of Skate City. As the burly, slightly paunchy bruin police officer roamed the aisles of his favorite music shop, browsing the shelves for something mellow and Country, or maybe even R&B if he needed some cold tunes for a rainy night, he frowned as he noticed something that made him pay attention, his police senses tingling in typical warning fashion. The veteran bruin had been on the force long enough to know when something was up, developing this awareness to almost the level of a sixth sense, just a step below a supernatural ability, though some of his fellow officers would swear that it was.
The source of the sense, in this case, was a skater boy, roaming the aisles, alone and unwatched. Officer Nord first noticed the kid, probably in his mid- to late teens, as he glanced up, the towering bruin's Kodiak ancestry easily letting him look over the shelf, while keeping him from being spotted by the much shorter skater boy.
The skater was a mouse, his fur a soft, silky light grey. He was wearing designer grunge, showing off the height of skater fashion without sticking out of the crowd. A black hoodie covered his upper body, and Officer Nord could tell at a glance that there wasn't anything on under it, just in case the mouse wanted to take a dip while he was near the beach, or wanted to show off for some girls. The mouse had the hood pulled back, all the better to show off his backwards-turned cap, his tousled blonde hair poking out around the edges. His tail stuck out over the top of his button-up jams rather than fitting through the tail loop - a sure sign that the mouseboy was as much a tease as anything else - the pink member twitching a bit as the skater boy walked, in time with his confident stride, letting those behind him get a hinted glimpse of his tight young butt, toned and firm from all the work he put into what most adults would call goofing off. That stride was matched by a smug little smirk, and a taunting, mischievous glint in the bright blue eyes of the mouse that told Officer Nord all he needed to know: this mouse was trouble. Spoiled rotten, certain that the world did in fact owe him a living, and now set loose to do as he pleased, the skater boy was roaming around in a shop without any of his buddies to check his behavior, or a single adult to supervise him. This trouble was compounded by the fact that the mouseboy was hotter than the sidewalk outside, and obviously knew it well, judging from the arrogance of his walk and the smugness so obvious on his prideful, beautiful face.
Just looking at the boy, Officer Nord knew that girls must hang all over him wherever he went. Truth be told, Officer Nord felt like hanging on the boy himself. But all it took was one look at that arrogant face to know two things. The first was that the burly, half-redneck bruin was totally out of the mouseboy's league, even if the skaterteen could be convinced to bat for the other side, so to speak. The second was that Officer Nord knew instantly that whatever trouble he could get this hot little punk into, he would deserve it fully, and the good Officer was going to jack off nights thinking about it.
Slipping around the back of the long aisle, coming up behind the mouseboy as he stalked through the rap section, Officer Nord kept his distance, walking on soft paws as he just watched, letting his quarry do as he liked, thinking he wasn't noticed. When there was a break in the aisle, the burly, big-bellied bruin stepped into the next one, so that he could follow along with even less chance of being noticed. For such a big guy, Officer Nord was incredibly quiet when he wanted to be, and it made his job easier in cases like this.
It took all of ten minutes before Offier Nord's suspicions were finally confirmed. The mouseboy was walking along, his eyes scanning the album titles before him with haughty disdain, before he suddenly paused, his gaze fixed on one title out of many. The policebear didn't know the different rap groups from Adam, but he knew perfectly well that he'd been right when the mouseboy looked around, his eyes never rising above the top of the aisles, where Officer Nord's head was peeking over to look at him, and then quickly purloined the desired CD with his nimble fingers, lifting the side of his shirt to slip it underneath, showing off a quick flash of toned, firm stomach, and tight young rump.
Officer Nord could have stepped out around the aisle right then. But all that would have been was a temporary fix. The mouseboy would have bought the dumb CD, sure, instead of swiping it, or maybe just put it back. But the veteran cop knew that the whole process would be accompanied by more drama than he felt like putting up with: the sophomoric rolling of eyes, the 'who me?' looks and the outright expressions of hatred against the injustice of 'the Man' and His laws, coupled right at the end with that nasty little smirk, when nobody else could see, that would show the cop just what the punk really thought, and that nothing had really changed - he got caught once, but the cops couldn't stop him every time. Officer Nord had been through the whole thing before with these skater punks, and it never changed. So all he did now was watch and wait, letting his quarry thread out enough rope to hang himself.
Keeping his distance, the bruin cop was quite casual as the mousepunk stood at the end of the aisle, watching the counter and the detector that would set off an alarm if a bit of store merchandise passed through it. Officer Nord had to admit, the skater had some smarts to him, as he waited until just the right moment, when the cashier's attention was turned away to shuffle with a few bags, and then hurried forward, tossing the CD he'd swiped up and over the detector, and then deftly catching it on the other side.
The mouseboy was out of the store in a flash, now just walking normally, acting casual, that smug smirk even more firmly entrenched on his boyishly handsome face as he pulled out his booty and looked it over, home free at last. That smugness vanished for an instant as a massive, long-clawed paw came down on the mouse's shoulder, stopping him short with its strength and power.
"Whatcha doin' with that CD, boy?" said the bruin in the crisp uniform of a Skate City police officer standing behind the mouse, keeping a firm grip on him.
"I was just . . . " began the teen, his moment of panic gone, his arrogant expression returning almost instantly as he began to address the cop as though he was innocent, as though Officer Nord had no right to stop him doing as he pleased, when he pleased. And the big grizzly just wasn't in the mood for it right then. Not from some hot little punk who it was so easy to lust after, but who'd never give the horny cop the time of day.
"I know what you were just doin'," the bear said, cutting off the punk as he tightened his grip. "And I'm bringing you in for it - even if it's that rap junk, it's still illegal to steal CDs in this city. You've got the right to remain silent . . ."
The mouseboy looked stunned at this once more as Officer Nord recited the Miranda rights, out of habit - the big bruin had been reciting them for many years, and old habits died hard, even if he didn't have to do it any more - and then a look of indignation spread across his Adonis-like face.
"Hey!" He protested loudly, the very picture of wounded boyish pride brought about by the injustice of everybody over 30 not understanding him. "Don't you know who I am? Don't you know who my father is? You're gonna be in a lot of trouble, pig - my dad'll make sure you end up writing speeding tickets to penguins in Alaska!"
"That's Officer Pig to you, punk," said Officer Nord with a smirk as he easily used his greater size and strength to walk the mouseboy over to his cruiser before bending the smaller male over the hood. "And the only penguins in Alaska are the immigrants from South America. Now hush up - I don't got time for a buncha lip offa shoplifting skater. Especially not off of a prettyboy preyboy like you."
"Now you're dissing my people, huh?" retorted the mouse angrily, now full of faux-righteous indignation at the racial slur. "Forget working in Alaska - once Dad's lawyers get finished with you, you won't wear a badge ever again! He'll make sure you . . ."
Officer Nord smirked to himself as he listened to the youthful tirade - the teenaged equivalent of a toddler's temper tantrum, and not meant to be taken seriously if you wanted it to stop - and went about his business. Pulling the mouseboy's arms back with practiced ease, the burly male cuffed his prisoner without a bit of trouble - he was a lot stronger than the mouse, after all, and a lot more experienced with all the little tricks of grappling, having been a champion wrestler when he'd been in school, besides his later training as a police officer. Then his massive paws began roaming the teen's youthful body as the bear grinned toothily, enjoying himself as he ostensibly 'frisked his perp,' to use the jargon of his profession. What he was really doing, of course, was copping some major feels of this hot little mouseboy, his practiced fingers working into the trim young muscles beneath the thin clothes of the skater. The mouse was in a perfect position for it, bent over the hood of the cruiser as he was, firmly-rounded rump thrust out provocatively, just begging to be molested. At first the mouse ignored the skilled hands of the bruin holding him, a little too caught up in making a fuss. But then, as the burly male began to grip that tight, smooth butt right through the thin fabric of the knee-length jams the teen was wearing, giving a soft, deep growl as he did so, the mouse started, trying to rise, his tail lashing and ears perking in alarm.
"H-hey!" exclaimed the mouseboy, half in anger, half in fear. "What're you doing? You some kinda faggot? Leave me alone, stupid fag cop! You don't even know what sort of stuff you're begging to hit the fan if you . . ."
"Sure I do," snorted Officer Nord with a grin, easily pushing the mouseboy back in place and holding him there with one burly arm as his other paw tugged down the jams, his grin growing wider as a long-clawed digit slipped into that sweet little crack, testing the tiny pink nub there, and finding it as virgin tight as he'd hoped, making the mouseboy squeak in surprise at the touch to an unaccustomed place. "Honest truth, kid - I could nail your butt in the backseat of this cruiser, and there's not one person around here would even bat an eye. Not one person who'd testify against me, either - one spoiled little skaterboy like you doesn't get a whole lot of backing from the folks you bug all the time. Now come on," he jerked the boy's pants up and pulled open the back door of the cruiser. "We're goin' for a little ride, right after I put this back."
Shoving the mouse in the backseat of the cruiser and slamming the door, Officer Nord lifted the CD he'd taken off the punk, and walked casually back into the music store. Doing a reverse play of what he'd seen the mouse do to get the CD out, the bruin soon had the rap album back where it belonged, selected a CD of his own kind of music, went and paid for it, thanked the cashier, and walked out without incident. When he drove off towards the station, grinning smugly to himself as he listened to the blissfully stunned silence behind him as the mouseboy gradually digested what the bruin had told him, he couldn't help but congratulate himself on how smoothly he'd made it seem as though the mouseboy had never even been there at all.
*
Officer Henry "Hank" Samuels was on desk duty that day in the woefully understaffed Skate City Police Department when Officer Nord came in, pushing a struggling teenaged mouse in front of him. The mouseboy had a defiant look on his face, and seemed to still think he was in charge, but the sleek-furred blonde stallion hardly paid any attention as he continued to read his magazine. Since there weren't any female members of the force in Skate City at the present time, Hank was able to get away with publications like "Playstud" and "Rustler," where normally he might end up slapped with a suit for creating a hostile working environment. Not that the big, sleekly-muscled stallion really thought about such things. To be perfectly honest, Officer Nord had yet to know of a time when Hank thought about much at all. The twentysomething stud didn't look that different from the sunbleached surfer that he'd used to be before he'd joined the fuzz, and he didn't act much different either. This was why Officer Nord did his best to keep the dreamy, sweet-faced stallion in the station as much as possible, pulling strings with his superiors to make it happen. Well, one reason.
"Whatcha got there, Dwight?" looking up from his copy of "Surf's Up" magazine (nope, no porn today, it seemed). "Want me to write your perp up for you?"
"Naw, I've got it, Hank," replied Officer Nord with a big grin, reaching over the counter to snag the logbook and a pen, and also using the opportunity to check out the sizeable bulge in the front of Hank's police slacks. That, of course, was another reason that the burly bruin liked to keep Hank at the station: if the stallion hung out with Dwight all the time, the bruin would never be able to focus on his job, thanks in no small part to the way all of Hank's clothes seemed to hug his smoothly-muscled surfer's physique, clinging to him like a second skin - a second skin that Officer Nord would like nothing better than to shed for the hot young stud.
Forcing himself to keep his mind focused, Officer Nord jotted down something illegible in the blotter, and slid it back onto the desk, mostly unnoticed by the oblivious stallion, who was now quite engrossed in reading about the dangers of sharks on the Australian coast. His token duty finished, Officer Nord began to walk the mouseboy into the back of the station, where the precinct lockup was held.
"I'm just gonna let you cool your jets back here for a bit," Officer Nord told the sullen teenager as he worked his way through the series of locked doors to the back with his many jangling keys. "Let you have some time to think things over, maybe reconsider the way your life's going."
"I get a phone call," grumbled the mouseboy, and then, louder and more forcefully when Officer Nord seemed to ignore him: "I said, I want my phone call. I get one free phone call out, don't I?"
"Yeah, yeah," chuckled the bruin, patting the mouse on his bubble butt as he opened the last door, before pushing the teen through, the pout on his face making him even cuter than before, as well as making Officer Nord almost ache to do bad things to the hot little skaterboy. "I'll be back in about an hour to bring you out to the main desk again. Until then, just sit tight."
The mouseboy gave a cute little squeak as the burly bruin drove this last home with a squeeze to his tight mousie butt, right below his naked pink tail, and then grunted softly as he was moved forward by the big cop's intimidating strength and size, into the lockup. But the moment the teenaged mouseboy stepped into the jail, his blue eyes got huge, and he gasped in horror at the sight that greeted him.
Despite the decently large size of the lockup, there were only four cells, three of them quite large, meant to house people in en masse to wait for the next step of the due process of law, and the last one a small cell set off, away from the others, for more solitary imprisonment. Of the three main cells, only one was occupied, the four people inside being the object of the mouse's horrified attention.
There, before Officer Nord and the mouse's eyes, was a handsome young buck. The buck was actually hardly more than a fawn, probably around the mouseboy's own age, as evidenced by the clearly-visible spots running down his sleek back. He was naked from head to toe, except for a thick leather belt, which bound his wrists behind his back, the white star of his uplifted tail revealing just how frightened and distressed he was, that being the instinctual reaction of many cervids to a crisis, besides showing off the firm, smooth lines of his rounded rump, the plump set of developing, boyish balls dangling down, and the tiny pink tailstar nestled in the downy-soft fur at the junction of his legs. The poor, trembling fawnteen was sobbing quietly, though at present most of the sound was muffled, because the weakly-struggling male had his muzzle shoved forcibly against the groin of a well-muscled, dangerous-looking grey wolf.
The wolf, in his thirties at the least, was as naked as the fawn, which showed off his body in its full glory. He was scarred almost all over his powerful physique, and wore a black eyepatch to conceal the worst of some nasty gashes over one eye. Presently he was gripping the head of the fawnteen right between his velvet-covered antlers, forcing the poor, sobbing male to deepthroat what was obviously a truly prodigious length of hot pink wolf meat, the cruel wolf deliberately making the helpless fawn choke a bit with each rough thrust of his hips while the naked teen was forced to stay on all-fours in front of the cot where the burly, scarred alpha was sitting.
Also in the cell were two other wolves, keeping close to the one who seemed to be their alpha, and even closer to the fawn in their clutches. One, a lean, rangy beast with many tattoos all over his body, each done in dark, vivid colors that showed clearly through the male's white fur, was kneeling behind the poor, helpless fawn, his large paws roughly gripping the sobbing teen's firm rump, holding him spread open while the wolf wetly rimmed the fawn's tight pink tailnub, making no effort to conceal the loud, slurping noises that filled the room from his efforts as he prepared the struggling preyboy for a series of tailrapes.
The other wolf in the room wasn't as scary-looking as his companions. Actually, the brown-furred lupine, his build muscular but not obscenely so, would have looked almost friendly in other circumstances. At the moment he had a peaceful, contended look on his face, his tail wagging idly, as he knelt on all-fours, his muzzle buried in the fawnteen's groin as the younger male was held on all-fours by the other two wolves, bobbing his head and working his muzzle eagerly. Unlike the muzzlerape going on just above him, this male was obviously loving every minute he got to suckle on fresh, sweet deercock, greedily slurping and suckling as he hollowed out his cheeks, all the better to roll the tasty length of boyish male meat around in his muzzle.
As Officer Nord pushed the mouseboy into the room, the eyes of the wolves turned, half-hostile and half-hopeful, wondering if the bruin was going to try and stop them almost as much as they were wondering if he was about to throw them some more fresh meat. The fawn also looked, his eyes wide with hope, cheeks stained with tears, before the scarred wolf forced him back into his groin, making the poor fawn choke again.
"These're the Howling Hellions," said Officer Nord with a grin as he led the mouseboy over to the lone cell away from the others (much to the mouse's obvious relief, and the equally-obvious disappointment of the wolves). "Nasty bunch, but at least they're reasonable. The only time they come into Skate City is so they can hook up with some tight teenaged tail, and they usually stay on their best behavior otherwise. This time, though, they were crashing a keg party and causing trouble, so I brought 'em in here. 'Course," the bruin chuckled as he locked the door to the solitary cell and began to turn to leave, "the buck there was in charge of the keg party, and as you can see, he's way too young for beer drinking, so I brought him along as well. Just tossed 'em in here last night - I guess the Hellions got sick of listening to the fawn whine about the injustices of the system." There were a few growls and nods of agreement from the wolves in the other cell, before their eyes turned hungrily onto the poor fawn in their clutches, who was now sobbing loudly as he realized that he wasn't going to be saved at all - that he was well and truly doomed.
"Sit still and keep quiet," growled Officer Nord to the mouseboy as he opened the door to the jail once more. "If you cause trouble before I get back to take you out, I'll throw you in with the Hellions and their little friend. I don't think you want that."
Officer Nord hardly even bothered to look at the vigorous shaking of the mouseboy's head before he closed the door. As soon as they were alone, the brown-furred wolf looked up from between the poor, piteously-sobbing fawnteen's legs, and gave the mouseboy a smile and wink.
"Hey there, hot stuff," he greeted, seeming friendly enough, as though he and his friends weren't right in the middle of raping a teenaged buck. "What's your name? I'm Earl, and these are Scar and Pins."
"T-Terry," said the mouse, sitting down on the cell's lonely bunk, his pretty blue eyes wide as he watched the homoerotic tableau unfolding before him. "Terry Rasmussen."
"Rasmussen?" grunted Scar, the eyepatch-wearing grey wolf, looking up from the buck being forced to suck his cock, though still holding the poor male firmly in place. "Ain't that the name of that senator?"
"Y-yeah," said Terry, his eyes now lighting with hope as somebody seemed to recognize him. "Yeah, my dad's his younger brother. You've heard of him?"
"The pharmaceuticals kingpin," grunted Scar, looking back down as he forced the buck to start pumping his head, working up a steady, constant rhythm, so that it became easier for the poor male's eyes to start to glaze over, letting him get lost in the repetitive motion. "Yeah, I know him. Went to high school with the rich snot. I was a punk and he was a preppie, so we didn't meet much. Just as well - he's into a bigger racket than anything I've ever done. Wouldn't want to spoil my good name."
Pins (his name being obvious, since it was tattooed onto his chest in bright, bold letters), giggled at this, rising up behind the quietly sobbing buck, one big hand leaving the firm young rump before him to take his thick, dripping pink cock, stroking it slow and steady as he guided it forward.
"Guess we got ourselves a spoiled mouseboy for an audience," Pins said as he pressed the fat head of his wolfcock against the tiny rosette of the buck's tailhole, deliberately tilting the buck's butt so that Terry could see the action even better. "Suits me fine - I love an audience."
"Just sit back and enjoy," said Earl with a wink to Terry, before he began stroking the fawn's back gently, soothing the younger male as he started to panic, looking around at the large, powerful predator males surrounding him, pleading with them silently for mercy that would never come. "We're gonna go nice and slow and easy with this one . . . Ian's his name, I think. Nice and easy . . ."
Terry gasped, his eyes huge as he watched Pins pressing forward, Ian's tiny tailhole gradually spreading apart around the massive glans of the wolf, before, quite suddenly, the buck's tight ring of anal muscle gave way, the sphincter unable to hold out the massive, blunt intruder any longer, letting Pins sink a full half of his massive, throbbing length into the fawn's tense little backside, even as the poor preymale cried out, copious tears streaming down his cheeks as he was forcibly deflowered, and struggled desperately against his captors, each of his movements doing little except arouse them further, his squirming making his throat and tailhole clench and tighten still more. And then, as Earl dipped his head back beneath the wriggling fawn's body, and took his slender, erect length into his muzzle, slurping it up between his lips with practiced, easy skill, the buck soon began to quiet down, except that his entire body began to tense and clench, again and again, as bursts of pleasure started to replace the pain of penetration, and his whole world started to fade into a continual round of muscular lupine bodies and massive cocks.
Terry could do nothing except sit and watch, his heart racing, his cheeks flushed. He lifted his hand to cover his mouth, and bit into his finger lightly, unable to take his eyes away from what was happening before him. He knew it was wrong, knew that he should be repulsed and horrified at what he was seeing, at watching a buck his own tender age being raped from all sides by three savage wolves who had to be almost twice his age . . . but for some reason, even knowing this couldn't make him get rid of the tightness that had formed in the front of his jams.
*
Holding his cell phone up, dialing with his thumb, Officer Nord sat at his desk, pretending to look at some papers in his other paw, to finish up the processing of the arrest he'd just made, when he was really watching Hank through the glass door of the office. The sleek young stallion was off in another world, one of surf and sun, not a care in the world. How a hottie like that got to be a cop, Officer Nord really didn't know. Must have been a family thing. But his musings were interrupted as the subtly sinister ringtone on the other end suddenly stopped as the phone was answered.
"To what do I owe this honor, my good friend?" said a soft, achingly sweet male voice, its captivating power evident even through the crackling of Officer Nord's shaky connection, the tones flowing and rich with layers of hidden meaning behind every word and nuance.
"I've-" began the bruin, before he had to swallow, and then pulled his dark glasses from out of his pocket, donning them out of habit, feeling his confidence increase just by their presence. "I've got some merchandise you might want to take a look at. It's Benjamin Rasmussen's son, Terry. You know: the guy who runs those pharm companies, brother to that hotshot senator. I looked him up after I brought him in, just a few minutes ago. He's got some shoplifting arrests, some underage drinking, one count of drug possession. None of it stuck, of course, thanks to his dad's influence - typical spoiled rich kid."
"Just what you know I can't resist," came that voice again, the soft, sweetly subtle smile of the owner audible in the tone of voice. "I assume you want the usual fee?"
"Yeah," said Officer Nord, licking his dry lips as he looked up, his hungry eyes tracing the line of Hank's strong back and firm, shapely rump, one of the best features of any equine. "Oh yeah. After feeling up your goods, for quality control - and yeah, he's a virgin all right - I'm really needing some of that payment, and soon. I left the kid in the same lockup with the Howling Hellions - different cell, though, pretty far off, so that can't get their paws on him. The Hellions were in the process of nailing Ian Stokes - sorry that I couldn't save that hottie for you, but you know how it is: gotta keep the out-of-towners happy, keep 'em from making trouble. That and the arrest was too noisy - too many witnesses."
"Yes indeed," said the voice with a disappointed sigh. "Ah well, I may just pay the Stokes residence a visit in a few days, to see how their son is recuperating - if he's still using an icepack on his tailhole and such." Officer Bruin could hear the sly wink in the other party's voice as this was said. "I'll be there in a half hour - no sense in letting my merchandise be too scarred before purchase, after all. Though a little bit of it shouldn't hurt in the least. It gets the mind working in all the right ways, you know."
"Yeah, I know. See you in thirty," grunted Officer Nord, before he heard the other end click off, and snapped his cell phone shut, his eyes still feasting on hot horseflesh, his slacks now badly tented at the thought of what was going to happen in a mere half hour. "If I don't die of hypertension before then," he said in a husky growl, one big paw rubbing the front of his slacks, exerting all his will to keep from doing anything else, holding off to enjoy what would happen next to the fullest.
*
Hank Samuels looked up as the door to the precinct opened once more, only a little more than a half hour after Dwight had come in before, blinking in some surprise at who walked in. It wasn't a police officer, and it wasn't anybody who looked like they needed help. Most folks would call if they wanted the cops, anyway, rather than coming down to the station in person, and the blonde stallion couldn't think of anybody in lockup that was going to be picked up by . . . oh my.
The male now standing before the counter was tall for his species, and elegantly slender, the smooth lines of his toned physique shown off to their best advantage by the hand-tailored suit he was wearing. It was a fox, but like no fox Hank had ever seen before, for he was gorgeous, the most gorgeous male Hank had ever seen, his fur so bright red, and so well-groomed, it seemed almost to glow like living fire. The fox's tail twitched idly behind him, as though he hadn't a care in the world, his posture and demeanor demanding attention and obedience just from the way he carried himself. And those eyes . . . those wonderful, captivating green eyes. The handsome blonde horse just couldn't look away.
"You like Dwight, don't you, Hank?"
Hank smiled at that, his face otherwise quite slack now, and nodded, his eyes fixed on those of the fox.
"Come out from behind the desk," commanded that wonderful, seductive voice, the tones and nuances curling around Hank like a downy soft comforter. He could do nothing except obey, and didn't feel like doing anything else anyway. It was his pleasure to serve, and to follow to commands of this male, who he knew somehow would only make him happy.
"Kneel," said the fox, smiling pleasantly as Hank did as he was commanded, reaching out to gently rub the stallion's head and ears, as he might a treasured housepet. "Very good. I'm sure that Dwight will be happy to give you your reward for such obedience. You'll do anything he says, because you know that anything he does to you will make you feel wonderful, in ways you never knew existed."
Without looking behind him, the fox then began to walk back towards the holding cells, casually taking the keys from the big paw of Officer Nord as the massive, burly bruin came forward, eagerly licking his lips as he approached the incredibly hot, kneeling stallion, who looked up at him with such adoring, worshipful eyes. He was still wearing his sunglasses, though - he didn't dare take them off around the fox. For some reason, as long as he was wearing something to cover his eyes from the full force of those dazzling, hypnotic orbs, he could function, if barely, without having to obey every word from the other male's muzzle.
"I've been needin' this . . ." growled the grizzly, just before the door to the holding cells closed behind the fox, shutting off the scene of what happened next.
*
Terry still couldn't look away as the poor little fawnteen was made to sit in Scar's lap, and was now bouncing up and down on the largest cock the young mouse had ever seen, even on the jock side of the locker room at school, completely obedient to the commands of the dominant male now. Ian's will had broken after Earl had brought the squirming buck to two exceptionally satisfying orgasms, and now the pliant, eager-to-please male was doing all the work by himself, pumping his taut, tight rear up and down while the eyepatch-wearing wolf lay back on his cot and watched, a massive, triumphant grin plastered on his scarred face. The other wolves stood around, watching the scene eagerly as they stroked their cocks, keeping themselves ready for their next turns with their new little toy.
All eyes turned suddenly, though (except for Ian's, who was far too dazed to do anything except what he was told), as the sound of the holding cell's door being opened hit their ears. Those eyes didn't turn away either, as they were met, each person in their turn, by a pair of the most dazzling, captivating green eyes ever. Nobody said anything - nobody could - as the tod made his way to Terry's cell, and unlocked the door.
"Come with me," said the male, holding out a black-furred paw. Terry felt that voice wrap around him, soothing and wonderful, his whole being caught in those wonderful eyes, and did as he was bidden, letting himself be led out of the cell, towards the door.
"Hey," said Scar, speaking up, his gleaming yellow eye fixed on the fox's back. "I know you, don't I?"
"How could that be possible, since we've never met?" asked the fox, half-turning, a smile on his face, so handsome, so perfect, that it almost hurt to look at it - like looking directly into the sun.
"Reputation, man," said Scar, holding the fawnteen's hips, making the younger male come to a stop. "I've heard all about you. Hard not to. You're the Slavemaster."
The other two wolves in the cell grinned as they heard their alpha talk about an urban legend . . . and then they looked into the eyes of the fox, and all doubt was washed away.
"Guy gets to be a problem, and so he gets a visit, that's the way the story always goes," continued Scar, never taking his eye away from the fox, who simply smiled enigmatically, not stopping him, not interrupting. "Or maybe the Slavemaster wants to spread out, get new turf, open up new business. But whatever, the guy gets a visit from this handsome fox, and he calls out to his crew, wants 'em to come save him, maybe rough the fox up a bit and throw him out. Except, get this - his crew show up all right. But they're all working for the Slavemaster now. And before you know it, so's the guy who the fox came to see. Sometimes the guy's never even heard from again - just drops off the face of the earth."
"What an interesting story," said the fox, his voice conveying his amusement, with the hint of something more, something dark and sinister beneath the surface. "A most fascinating account of the urban legends of the underworld. But I assure you, Mister Scar, that the reality is," the fox's muzzle spread into a leering, horrifying grin, "far more horrible than that."
"What . . . how'd you know my name . . .?" began Scar, his single eye widening, starting to rise, to push the squirming young buck in his lap out onto the floor, his pack, Earl and Pins tensing up, ready to jump to his defense. But to get ready for an attack, all three of them had to focus fully on the fox before them. And on those eyes of his. Once they did that, nothing mattered any more.
"Keep up with what you were doing," said the fox, his smile becoming pleasant once more as he focused his will upon the three wolves. "Give this tight young buck a good, thorough raping that he'll never forget. But as to forgetting - forget all about me. I was never here. The mouse was picked up by a chauffeur, nobody special, and then taken away. You never saw him again."
The wolves stared a moment longer, jaws slack, eyes wide and staring. Then, suddenly, their faces seemed to spark back to life, their attention now focused entirely upon the fawnteen sitting in Scar's lap, the alpha's still-hard cock spreading the tight little male open wide.
"Now," growled Scar, sitting up, taking a firm grip on Ian's slim hips. "Now you're gonna get it good, buck! Earl - stick it in him from behind. Let's see how wide we can stretch this hot little piece of tail."
Terry and the fox slipped quietly from the room, even as the holding cells were filled with the squeal of a teenaged buck suddenly being ravished with new, more powerful vigor, two huge wolfcocks splitting his tailhole open wide, a squeal that was suddenly muffled as Pins moved forward, cramming his dick into the hot teen's muzzle, silencing him once more.
The mouseboy followed where he was led as the fox, a good head and shoulders taller than him, led Terry through the station to the front desk. There Terry got another shock as he saw the burly bear cop that had brought him in standing behind the handsome horse that had been at the desk. The blonde stallion was now bent over that very front desk, his slacks down around his ankles, whinnying loudly as he came, hard, painting the front of the wooden desk with his copious cum, while the bear seemed to be right on the edge himself as he plowed the stud's young rump hard and fast.
"One more time, Dwight," said the fox as he led Terry towards the door to the station. "Just one more time, and young Hank there will be like that forever - completely obedient to your will."
The ursine officer looked up, still wearing his dark, reflective glasses, and nodded, breathing hard as he paused for a moment, drawing a needy little whimper from the male he was stuffing full of hot bear sausage.
"Hope you enjoy your purchase," grunted Officer Nord, careful, even with his dark glasses on, not to fully meet the eyes of the fox. "I'll be sure to get another delivery for you soon." He reached around Hank's waist, gripping the other male's horsecock, which hadn't lost its former hardness in the least, stroking the slick male juices dripping from it up and down, until the whole length was slick and shining with wetness. "Your payment is . . . satisfactory, oh f-!"
Officer Nord grit his teeth as he said this last, before grunting, his face a tense mask of almost painful exertion as he was gripped by one of the most powerful orgasms of his life, the force of it shaking his whole being to the core, cutting off his last expletive before he could get it out, sending his whole world reeling, his senses shaken to the core. He was too caught up in the explosion of pleasure that rocked him to even notice as the fox quietly led Terry out of the station, the mouseboy's eyes watching the bear claim the stallion right up until the door clicked shut behind them.
"H-how did you do that?" asked the incredulous mouseboy, a cool breeze from off the sea catching his face, the bright sunlight of the outdoors rousing his senses a bit, helping to clear his head. "Wait, who are you? Why'd they just let me go? And why'd you help me out of there? What's going on here?" This last was an almost angry exclamation as the teenaged mouse tried to confront the handsome fox. But the other male wasn't paying attention right then. He was far too busy walking towards a waiting white limo. A liveried chauffeur, a tall and incredibly muscular black bull with dark glasses, was waiting, holding the limo's door open for the fox, who was obviously his employer. The fox then turned, and smiled at Terry, making the mouse's breath catch in his throat as he was captivated by that wonderful, handsome face again, a face which just begged him to be drawn in, his gaze fixing firmly on those wonderful green eyes.
"Get into the limo, Terry Rasmussen," said the fox, stepping to the side and motioning into the open door. "Step inside, and I promise you that I'll answer all of those questions, to one degree or another, in time."
Terry had felt something in the air, a strange sort of ripple that quivered like the static during a thunderstorm, as the fox had spoken to the wolves. Somehow, without needing to be told, he sensed that this fox could make the young mouse do whatever he wanted. The street was deserted right then, the late afternoon summer air heavy with the heat of the sun, broken only by the gentle ocean breeze. There was nobody to stop the fox from doing what he wanted, and even if he didn't use some strange mind power, that huge bull holding the limo's door open looked as though, if he got his huge hands on Terry, that the mouseboy would never escape. But despite this, he wasn't feeling the fox's power on him now. In fact, he wasn't feeling pressured by anything, not even that strange, captivating green-eyed gaze. The fox's power was turned off, somehow. Terry could make his own decision, without any compulsion.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" asked the mouseteen suspiciously, frowning now as he looked at the achingly handsome male, his whole being wanting so badly to trust the fox with everything he was. "How do I know . . . how do I know I can trust you?"
"You don't," said the fox with a teasing wink. "But I can promise you, Terry, if you get in the limo, you won't regret it. But you have to decide quickly - this street will only stay vacant long enough for Dwight - the good officer who brought you in - to get himself and his paramour to a safe location for further naughtiness. Knowing Dwight, that means that by this point you've got less than two minutes now to make up your mind."
There it was: the choice, dangled before Terry like the tempting siren song of lust. Play it safe, catch a cab home, and act like nothing happened (or if the fox did something to him like he did with those wolves, really believe that nothing had happened), or yield on the side of the deadly twins, curiosity and desire. Perhaps an older, sadder-but-wiser male would have chosen safety in preference to the dangers of following this strange, awe-inspiring being that seemed to be able to mold the minds of everyone around him like clay with his eyes, with his voice, with the slightest gesture of his elegant body. But Terry was young, inexperienced in the ways of the world, and eager to find and test every boundary, caught up in the spirit of his adolescent years. Therefore, to Terry, the answer was simple.
"All right," said Terry, walking forward and stepping into the tall white stretch limousine. "But you'd better make good on your promises."
"I always do," answered the fox with a sly smile as he stepped in behind Terry, letting his chauffeur shut the door behind him.
*
The interior of the limousine was just as plush and pleasant as could be hoped for. It was almost as nice as the one belonging to Terry's dad. Accustomed to luxury and having his whims catered to, instant gratification the standard by which the teen was used to measuring the coolness of various activities, Terry quickly made himself at home, sitting on the cushioned seat facing towards the rear of the car.
"So, about those questions you're gonna answer," began the mouse as the fox settled comfortably onto the seat facing towards the front of the car.
"Ah, but of course," answered the handsome fox, luxuriant in his surroundings, seeming to be a creature naturally adapted to the high life, while Terry, in his baggy jams, black hoodie and backwards baseball cap, looked like a gangsta wannabe, an escapee from the high life, looking for fun in the grunge. "I suppose it would be best if I started . . . well, if not at the beginning, then close to it. Enough so you know what you need, or at least what you want." The flame-furred male smiled a bit wider at this. "The two aren't the same, you know - I can tell right away that what you want is to get into trouble, and what you need is a firm, guiding hand to give you lots of attention and discipline. Well, I'll be giving you chances for both, I assure you. But enough of future matters - let's focus more on the past, since that's where the answers you want lie."
There was the slightest of rumbles as the limo started, and Terry settled back, helping himself to some of the snacks and drinks he found in the minifridge by his feet. He figured that he might as well get comfortable, since he was probably going to be listening to this weird guy for a while, and there was no telling where or when the trip would end.
"That urban legend you just heard from Mister Scar back there tells you who I am - the Slavemaster of Skate City. I own this town, to a decent degree, and I make sure it stays relatively safe from other big players. The Howling Hellions are small fry, but I still keep tabs on them, just to be safe. They're gangsters after my own heart, though, and they behave themselves when they come into Skate City, and so I don't interfere with their activities much. But calling me the Slavemaster is a bit wordy, I admit." The fox grinned toothily, making Terry shudder despite himself. "You can call me Master."
Settling back as the limo wound its way with smooth ease through the late afternoon traffic, just narrowly avoiding the rush hour that would start in the very near future, the Slavemaster regarded Terry now, fixing his intent green eyes on the mouse's sweet blue ones, catching the younger male's attention completely, like a butterfly in a net.
"The Gift you've seen and felt," continued the fox, "is one I got through . . . deals. That's all you need to know right now. With any luck, you'll never learn any more. I used to be nobody before I made those deals, really - just a pretty face and a tight tail, selling my body and bits of my soul every day just to eat. Selling it all at once for a much bigger payoff wasn't a hard decision, really."
"You sold your soul?" Terry asked, blinking in surprise, his face quizzical, even though his attention was quite rapt. "You mean, like, to the devil and stuff?"
"Something like that," replied the fox, his smile a bit tighter now, indicating his displeasure at being interrupted, though he didn't say anything about it. "It's more complicated than that, though, and not something I like to talk about."
"Cool, cool," said the mouseboy, grinning as he leaned back on the soft limo seat, chugging his soda. "Keep goin', all right?"
"At your pleasure," said the fox, the sarcasm in his voice quite wasted on the young mouseteen. "After I got my power, I decided to put it to good use in the least public way possible. So I started to carve out a small part of the underworld - my part. I'm in charge of the prostitution rackets in most of the state, though I don't put the squeeze on my various operations very often. Just enough to live well, and keep the cops paid off. Nobody can resist my Gift."
"So you've got that Dwight pig guy paid off?" interjected Terry, interrupting again. "That's why he let me go?"
"Yes, but not with money," the fox answered, his jaw tightening once again as his eyes grew fiercer now, more savage, and much less friendly. "That stallion you saw is his payment. I've been warping the young stud's mind. Officer Dwight Nord is a strong-willed fellow, and he's got some cunning tricks for avoiding my power, most of the time. He could probably hurt my operations, if he wanted. But he has his weaknesses. One of the strongest is that he suffers painfully from," the fox flicked out his tongue, slowly licking his chops, as though savoring an especially fine gormet dish, "lust. He lusts for the flesh of his fellow males, and it is his undoing. Though he could hurt me, I could hurt him far worse with blackmail. But I don't, and he doesn't. Instead, I give him what he wants. And what he wants, at least for right now, is that hot young stud, as an obedient, tight-bottomed slave. He does what I want, and each time he does, I give young Hank another 'treatment' with my Gift, weakening the horse's will a bit further each time, making him steadily more compliant and eager to please. Now it's just a matter of time before Dwight does me another favor, and Hank becomes his slave, forever."
"Man," exclaimed Terry, shaking his head. "That bear pig's got problems, huh? I mean, all obsessed with guys - that is just too gross!"
"It's an acquired taste," said the fox, his eyes now flashing with fury, "and one that you'll acquire yourself, very soon. Starting with now: kneel before me."
Terry felt the pressure instantly, washing over him like the unstoppable tide of the ocean. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself on the plush carpeted floor of the limo, looking up at the fox blankly.
"W-wait . . ." the mouseboy tried to get out, before he felt the gentle touch of the fox upon his cheek, teasing through his soft, light grey fur, that touch all it took to silence him.
"It's rude to interrupt your elders and betters," said the fox, his voice as soft and achingly sweet as before, but this time with a steel-strong force behind it. "You have a lot to learn, Terry, about obedience and proper manners. And I am going to be the one to teach you. After all," the male smirked cruelly, "you will be spending much of the rest of your life as my slave."
"No!" cried out the teen, trying to struggle to his feet, only to feel the paw of the fox on his chin, holding his head still, his eyes fixed on those of the dominant male.
"Yes," said the fox, Terry's temples throbbing harder and harder the more he fought to resist . . . and then less and less as his mental stamina faded. "That's it, don't fight it. You're far too young to suffer the pain that would come if you really resisted. But if you give in . . . that's it. That's right, little mouse, you know what to do. And you know it will only bring you pleasure."
Terry's hands were working almost without him being aware of it, undoing the front of the fox's suit pants, drawing down the zipper, and then opening them up. It ashamed him as he heard himself gasp, part in fear and part in anticipation, as he opened the flap of the fox's silk boxers, and a pink vulpine erection sprang up before him, almost as big as the one Terry had just seen hanging between the legs of the alpha wolf back in the lockup. It ashamed him even more as he realized that his own erection was back, throbbing rock hard between his legs, tenting out the front of his jams.
"You know what I want," said the fox, one light hand guiding Terry's head downward, until his lips were touching the tip of the massive cock before him, a bead of salty precum wetting the mouseboy's lips. "And I think you know exactly what you're supposed to do now."
His mind screaming in protest, Terry found his body wasn't listening to him any more, as he kissed the fat, dripping cockhead bobbing before him, with more passion and relish than he'd even kissed any girl in his life. His short mousy muzzle parted, and he pressed his head downward, without any further urging, taking as much of that massive foxcock as he could, before it bumped the back of his throat, and he almost gagged himself.
"That's enough for now," said the fox soothingly, running his clawtips gently through Terry's tousled blonde hair, nudging his baseball cap off, letting it fall to the floor. "No need to choke yourself on the first time. Mmm, but I can tell you'll be a good cocksucker with a bit of practice. You even kept from touching me with your teeth without being told - that shows great promise indeed."
Terry felt a strange warm glow at receiving such lewd praise, as though being worthy to receive it were the most wonderful thing in the world. He'd never felt that sort of pride before in any of his accomplishments in school, and only haughty pride in his body, focusing on trivial things that would fade in time. But now he was being praised for a natural talent he had, and he sensed he would develop greatly in time, and it made him tingle all over, from the tips of his ears, to the end of his tail. Responding to this praise, he drew his petite muzzle back, looking up at the fox (his Master!) with wide, adoring blue eyes, shivering slightly as he felt the Master's gentle fingers teasing his sensitive pink ears. Letting conscious thought go, Terry began to bob his head, to move his muzzle around the length of wonderful-tasting male meat, to show his new Master just how much the mouseboy worshipped him.
The fox watched the eager young mouse with a smile, feeling impressions of the skaterboy's will somewhere beneath the surface, struggling to break free, to take control once more. But that will was growing weaker with every passing moment as the mouse eagerly slurped and suckled on the Slavemaster's cock, his naked pink tail wiggling lightly in pleasure as the fox idly stroked the tender ears of the young male. He knew how sensitive the ears of mice and rabbits could be, and knew just how to exploit that sensitivity.
"That's enough of that for now," said the fox suddenly, and Terry obediently slid back, giving a final lick to his master's glans before he sat back on the floor, looking up at the fox expectantly. The fox didn't disappoint, soon peeling off his suit, folding each article of clothing neatly, and setting them one by one into a drawer beneath his cushioned seat. Just as Terry knew it had to be, the Slavemaster was beautiful everywhere, his body sculpted like a work of art, as though he'd be more appropriate as a figure in a classical sculpture or painting rather than a living, breathing being that ate and breathed and had sex. He then motioned to Terry, and leaned back, licking his chops eagerly while he watched, as the young mouse looked frightened at first, and then began to peel off his hoodie, revealing his slim, toned body beneath, with his sleek swimmer's build. The mouse's shoes and jams soon followed without the slightest protest. And then, suddenly, Terry stopped as his hands rested on the hem of his boxers, and he blinked, gasping in horror at what he'd done, and at what he'd been about to do.
"W-wait!" he cried out, stumbling back, tripping over his pile of clothes and sprawling out onto his back as he clutched his head. "Oh stop it - what're you doing to me? Stop it!"
"No, I won't," said the fox, drooling eagerly as he felt the mouse's youthful will battle against his Gift - and start to lose. "My, but you seem eager to stay in control. How foolish of you. Especially when it's obvious that you were enjoying it."
Terry looked down to follow the gesturing hand of the fox, and gave a choked sob as he saw the erection that was already staining his boxers with the wetness of his dripping precum. Shaking his head, Terry tried to scramble away from the monster that was even then trying to get back into his head, trying to steal the mouse away from himself, rolling onto his hands and knees to try and crawl away in desperation.
"It's appropriate that a mouse should try and scurry to some hole," chuckled the fox, reaching out and easily catching Terry's tail in his grip, bringing the sobbing, trembling mouseteen to a halt. "Hold still."
This last command had the full weight of the Slavemaster's Gift behind it, and Terry couldn't resist, his will almost worn to the breaking point, his emotional reserves strained to their limits at the horror of realizing that he'd been sucking on the cock of another male, and (worse yet) enjoying it. There was nothing he could do except sob piteously, pity that was never shown by the cruel Master who now knelt behind him, pulling out a spreader bar and a set of padded pawcuffs from another drawer. Soon poor Terry's ankles were fixed into the spreader bar, holding his legs wide open, while his wrists were writhing behind his back in the tight grip of the cuffs. As the Slavemaster's influence on him was gradually released, he opened his mouth to cry out, to scream for help, to swear at the filthy fox that was doing this to him, to do something besides just lie there and be used like a toy by this monster that kept raping his mind, and was going to rape his body too in the too-near future. But all this did was give the fox a perfect opportunity to slip a ball gag into the mouse's muzzle, cutting off all except his sobs and whimpers.
"There," said the fox as he straightened up to admire his handiwork, dusting off his paws. "That's much better. Truthfully, I like the deflowering of a tight little tailhole like yours to be done while my newest slave is fully aware of what's happening - in control of their own mind. It makes it so much more enjoyable, don't you think?"
Terry shook his head in denial, as though he could make this horrible situation vanish just by not believing it was happening. But as he felt his boxers being pulled down, and then ripped right off, tossed in a heap onto the pile with the rest of his clothes, the poor little mouseboy couldn't escape the cold reality of the hot breath now steaming against his uplifted bare bottom, firm, gentle hands stroking his naked pink tail, keeping it hiked up nice and high.
The first touch of that smooth wet tongue against Terry's tailhole made him cry out. He tried to jerk forward, and then to jerk back - anything to escape what was being done to him. But the strong paws now gripping his firm, rounded rump kept him still, as though knowing just what he would do before he could do it. Then, gradually, revulsion gave way to rhythm as the rimming continued, steady and gentle, letting Terry relax, and then rhythm became rapture as one of those hands left his rump, reaching around to grasp his still-hard cock, giving it a squeeze, before starting to stroke the mouseboy. After that, there was nothing left for Terry except to enjoy it, pressing himself back into that wonderful tongue, reveling in his sluttiness like a whore.
Chuckling, the fox slid back, and straightened, giving a laugh as he heard the mouseboy whimper as the attentions to his sweet, virgin pink tailhole were temporarily paused. His grin widened predatorily as he pressed his rampant cock to the teen's tailhole, listening to the frightened whimper this elicited, loving the look in the poor young male's bright blue eyes, unshed tears shining as he looked back at the fox, shaking his head, his expression silently pleading for mercy. Mercy that would never come.
"You know," remarked the fox casually, giving Terry's erection another squeeze, making the mouseboy whimper once more, "I'd almost believe that you really didn't want me to do this, if it weren't for this bad boy here. But you're as hard as a rock, and I'm not doing anything to you now. Not - one - thing." He drove each word of that last sentence home with a firm nudge against the mouse's tight tailhole, accompanied at the same time by another squeeze to Terry's dangling mousecock. "You want this bad, mousie. Anybody can see it - you were meant to be a willing slave. I'm just gonna give you what you need."
Terry tried to protest, to do something that would prove the fox wrong. But he couldn't, not fast enough anyway, to stop the huge foxcock behind him from slowly, carefully, spreading open his tight bare backside. And then the fox's hips thrust forward, hard, and Terry gave a startled squeak! as he was penetrated, followed soon after by a long, drawn-out moan of commingled despair and pleasure as he was filled, stretched open so incredibly wide by that massive pink prick, until he felt the fox's heavy balls bump against his own smaller ones, forcing out a spurt of mousepre from the poor, overtaxed teenager.
The back of the limo soon filled with the sounds of rough, harsh vulpine grunting, and the gasps, whimpers, sobs and pleasured moans of the squirming mouseboy. He'd never had his prostate stimulated before, and the moment the fox's cock had hit that fleshy bump inside of him, his mind had been lost to him, the pleasure taking over completely. He could only revel in the most intense sexual experience he'd ever had in his young life, looking up at his reflection in the glass that separated the driver's area from the passenger area, the sight of the aggressive, feral fox claiming him from behind, holding his tight bare bottom high in the air, dominating him utterly like the prey he was, was such a turn-on that it overwhelmed the last of his mental defenses. His sensitive ears could hear everything: the slap of fur on fur, of heavy vulpine testicles bumping against his own still-developing balls, not quite finished with his last growth spurt, the lewd squishing and slurping as the fox pumped his cock in and out of Terry's anal rosebud, splitting the younger male open wide, the frantic pumping of the fox's hand as he stroked the mouse's slender pink cock, just compounding the pleasures the mouse was already going through. It was too much for Terry, too much for anyone to endure.
"Cum!" ordered the fox, and Terry could see his sharp-toothed muzzle out of the corner of his bright blue eyes.
"Yes Master!" squeaked the mouseboy, before his eyes rolled back into his head, and he squeaked again, louder this time, crying out in his high, youthful voice as the pleasure overwhelmed him, his cum spurting out in hard, hot jets onto the vinyl in the middle of the floor. And then, just as he thought he'd reached his peak, he felt the rush of the fox's own orgasm hosing down his insides, and another massive spasm of pleasure blasted over his senses. It was too much, and he was too young and inexperienced to handle so much all at once. His whole world reeling with pleasure, Terry's eyes rolled back into his head, and he passed out.
*
The Slavemaster sat on the plush seat of the limo, still naked, leaning back against the soft seatback, basking in his afterglow. Beside him was his rather messy new slaveboy, sleeping peacefully, a happy smile on his pretty face. The mouse had been a good hump, and the Slavemaster knew that he would deeply enjoy the pleasure he would yet squeeze out of his new toy.
"Akim," said the fox, touching the intercom to the front of the limo, "be ready to take young Terry home this evening. I'll be showering him off and giving him some final instructions once we get back to the house. Oh, and how far away are we now?"
"Yes sir, and about fifteen minutes now, sir," came the reply in that wonderful rumbling baritone that still sent shivers up the fox's spine.
"Excellent, Akim - drive on. Perhaps I'll even let you have this tight teen before we send him back tonight."
"Very good, sir. I would enjoy that greatly."
Turning off the intercom, the Slavemaster leaned back, smiling contentedly. While Terry wouldn't remember a thing about his training or his time with the fox, he'd be spending his days after school at the Slavemaster's, and all of his free time, except for a little allowed him so that his friends wouldn't be too suspicious. The Slavemaster wanted Terry, who was a popular fellow, to keep his friends, because they would be a source of much future pleasure when Terry would begin to lure them, one by one, into the clutches of the Slavemaster. In time, the fox mused that it was very likely that a good part of the population of the high school where Terry Rasmussed attended would be under his thrall.
But that was for later. For now, it was best to focus on the moment. And at the moment, the Slavemaster's cock was hardening again, just looking at the cute young mouseboy while he slept. One gentle hand guiding the dozing teen's muzzle by the chin, the fox pressed his cock against Terry's lips, and sighed in gratification as the younger male accepted the fox's penis into his mousy mouth, suckling unconsciously at the lightest mental suggestions of the Gift.
Life in Skate City was good. Oh yes indeed.