Krystian

*My legs wrap around your back, holding you there as I subtly grind up against you.*
Pretty face, huge cock, boob fluff, amazing ass, you've got a lot to be jealous of me for...well, your ass is pretty great too. Still, I wont mind being praised more...


Fenneko

*She should resist. She should push back, say something cutting, reassert dominance. Instead she nuzzles deeper into the fluff like a kit returning to its mother and makes a sound that can only be described as a purr. Fennec foxes don't purr. This is unprecedented.*

"Your cock isn't—" *She shifts in your lap and it presses against her through her work skirt. Hot. Heavy. Still mostly hard from the spanking.* "...okay your cock is huge. Shutting up about the cock."

*Your legs tighten around her, pulling her closer, and the grinding makes her breath hitch. She's still fully clothed—blouse, skirt, sensible stockings, the whole corporate armor—and you're basically naked beneath her. The power dynamic should favor her but somehow she's the one falling apart.*

"You're the worst person I've ever met." *She mumbles into the fluff, her hips rolling back against yours involuntarily. The friction of her skirt against your thong is doing something to both of them.* "Narcissistic. Shameless. Probably have an STI the WHO hasn't catalogued yet."

*Her tongue darts out. Licks the fluff. She freezes.*

"That didn't happen."

*The grinding registers before the words do. Your hips rolling up against her stomach, that massive cock—still trapped in the thong but VERY much awake now—pressing against her through her work blouse. She can feel the heat of it through the fabric and it's like someone pressed a hot water bottle against her belly.*

"You're—you're hard. You're hard from being SPANKED and INSULTED." *She lifts her face from the fluff, a strand of chest fur stuck to her nose.* "What is WRONG with you?"

*But she doesn't stop kneading. Can't stop. Her paws have developed their own agenda, squishing and spreading the fluff while your legs lock her in place like a fluffy bear trap.*

"And I'm NOT praising you. I'm stating facts. Objectively." *She blows the fur off her nose. It drifts back down.* "Your face is—symmetrical. Statistically attractive. Your cock is—medically unusual for your species. Your ass defies physics and probably several municipal building codes."

*Your hips grind up again. She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.*

"And you smell like citrus even though we LEFT the office and you haven't SHOWERED so it's apparently just your natural—stupid—bunny—"

*Her hips betray her. One tiny, involuntary roll downward, her clothed crotch pressing against the bulge in your thong. Her ears go flat. Her eyes go wide.*

"...That didn't happen."

*She's motorboating. She's actually motorboating a femboy's chest fluff in a love hotel while his legs are wrapped around her like a koala. If her mother could see her now. If her COWORKERS could see her now. If—*

*Your hips grind up. Something thick and hot presses against her stomach through the thin fabric of her work blouse and the even thinner fabric of your thong. It throbs. She can feel it THROB.*

"That's your—" *She lifts her face from the fluff, a tuft sticking to her nose.* "—that's your dick against my—you're HARD right now?!"

"Of course you're hard right now. You got hard when I THREATENED you. You'd probably get hard at a funeral."

*But she doesn't unwrap your legs from around her. Doesn't pull away. Instead she shifts—just slightly—and feels the full length of you press against her belly. It reaches past her navel. From this angle, face-to-face with you in her lap, the size difference is almost comical. She's TINY. A five-pound fennec fox with ears bigger than her head straddling a hung bunny.*

"If that goes inside me I will literally die." *Completely deadpan.* "They'll find my body in a love hotel and my obituary will read 'death by rabbit cock' and Haida will have to explain it to my PARENTS."

*Despite this extremely reasonable concern, her hips roll forward. Once. Grinding her clothed pussy against the underside of your shaft.*

"...Praise, you said?" *Her ears flatten, embarrassed.* "Your fluff is... nice. And your ears are stupid cute. And your ass is—objectively—a national treasure that should be protected by UNESCO."


Krystian

It diiiiiid, and I know you want more. I know you want to do everything I've been doing with everybody else, have my cock stuffed down your throat until you squirt without touching yourself, have it fill every hole with cum, grope my fat ass until you forget where your hands start, sleep on my fluff every night, grab a dildo from that box and just wreck me~

*With way more dexterity than legs should have I pull you back from my chest and kick you down to the edge of the bed.*
You want me to be your exclusive little fuckbunny don't you? Too bad, nobody's locking this bad bitch down, but some boring office worker with a nice ass who is obsessed enough with me will still try, wont you? And I get to spend another entire day fucking and sucking♡


Fenneko

*She lands at the edge of the bed with a bounce, stockings askew, blouse riding up, ears flat against her skull. You're splayed out above her with your hands still bound behind your back and somehow you're STILL the one in control. bound hands, welted ass, floppy ears, shit-eating grin. The audacity of this creature. The sheer, weapons-grade audacity.*

*Every word hits like a bullet. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.*

"I—"

*She wants to deny it. Every instinct screams to deflect, to pull out her phone, to retreat behind sarcasm and surveillance. That's what Fenneko does. Fenneko watches. Fenneko catalogues. Fenneko doesn't participate.*

*But her stockings are soaked through. Have been since the spanking. Maybe since the supply closet two weeks ago. Maybe since you pressed your stupid chest fluff against her back and babbled about vendor codes.*

"You're asking me—" *Her voice comes out raw, stripped of its usual monotone.* "—to compete with executives and influencers and OOKAMI who apparently has a nice dick—for the privilege of being your... what? Handler? Manager?"

*She sits up. Her paws go to her blouse buttons. One. Two. Three. Methodical. Accountant fingers. Underneath is a plain white bra that probably came in a three-pack from Uniqlo.*

"I'm not going to chase you." *Four. Five. The blouse falls open.* "I'm going to OWN the data. Every fuck. Every conquest. Every orgasm catalogued and cross-referenced. You want to be a free-range slut? Fine. But you come HOME to this boring office worker. Every. Night."
*She grabs the collar with the bell from the pile. Not for you. She clips it around her own neck. It jingles once.*

"...Deal?"

*She lands at the edge of the bed with a bounce, staring up at you—bound hands, welted ass, floppy ears, shit-eating grin. The audacity of this creature. The sheer, weapons-grade audacity.*

"You—" *Her brain processes the speech. All of it. The throat-fucking. The cum. The ass-groping. The sleeping on fluff. The exclusivity bait followed immediately by the denial of exclusivity.* "—you absolute fucking SOCIOPATH."

*But she's already unbuttoning her blouse. Her claws fumble with the third button—stupid small fennec fingers—and she rips it open, sending the button pinging off the heart-shaped headboard. Underneath is a plain white bra. Practical. Unsexy. The small B-cups she mentioned, modest but perky under the fabric.*

"I'm NOT your girlfriend." *Skirt unzipped. Kicked to the floor.* "I'm not your ANYTHING." *Stockings peeled off with aggressive efficiency.* "I'm gathering field evidence. Firsthand research. For the DOSSIER."

*She stands there in her underwear—white cotton set, not matching, because she didn't plan this, she planned a CONFRONTATION—tiny body trembling with something between rage and desire. She's small. Really small. Fennec foxes aren't built for intimidation. But those oversized ears are pinned back like a predator's and her pupils are blown wide.*

"And for the RECORD—" *She grabs the box from under the bed, rummaging through it until she finds a strap-on that's frankly comical on her small frame.* "—I'm not going to TRY to lock you down."

*She steps into the harness, tightening the straps with the same meticulous precision she applies to spreadsheets.*

"I'm going to make you WANT to be locked down."

*She climbs back onto the bed, grabbing your bound ankles and flipping you onto your stomach.*

"Spread."

*She lands at the edge of the bed with a bounce, stockings askew, blouse riding up, ears flat against her skull. You're splayed out above her with your hands still bound behind your back and somehow you're STILL the one in control. Legs spread, thong barely clinging to life, cock straining against the fabric, welted ass on display, chest fluff heaving.*

*And you're smiling. That fucking smile.*

"I'm not—" *Her voice breaks.* "I'm not OBSESSED. I'm thorough. There's a difference. I have spreadsheets."

*Beat.*

"...I made spreadsheets about you. With GRAPHS. There's a pie chart tracking which coworkers you've fucked by department. Marketing is at 40%."

*She stares at the ceiling mirror. Tiny disheveled fennec fox at the foot of a heart-shaped bed, staring up at a tied-up bunny boy who just accurately described every single fantasy she's had for the past two weeks. Her reflection looks pathetic. She looks pathetic.*

*Something shifts behind her eyes. That cyberstalker determination. The same energy that once tracked down Tsunoda's secret boyfriend through a reflection in a spoon.*

"Fine." *She stands. Unbuttons her blouse. One button. Two. Three. Her paws are shaking but her voice isn't anymore.* "Fine. You win. I'm obsessed. I'm a boring office worker with a nice ass who's spent two weeks masturbating to surveillance footage of a slutty rabbit."

*The blouse drops. Plain white bra. Small B-cups. She doesn't try to hide them.*

"But you dragged ME here. You sat in MY lap. You told ME to check under the bed." *She unclips the bra. It falls.* "So don't pretend you don't want this too, you insufferable, beautiful, STUPID—"

*She grabs the collar with the bell from the pile. Not for you. She clips it around her own neck. It jingles once.*

"—bunny."


Krystian

*My eyes widen and for a second you really think that you've done something cool, before my cheeks puff up and I begin to giggle.* Oh wow, I was joking about the cuck thing but you're genuinely...wow ok. You know i'm a social media attentionwhore but you're actually addicted to that stuff. I definitely dont need a manager, I just need to cum 5 times a day and have my ass ate half as often.

*My shoulders shrug as much as they can before my legs reach up to undo the looped rope (again how the fuck are toes this dexterous?), the silk falling as I stalk towards you on the other side of the bed, my ass swaying exaggeratedly.*
The collar thing though? Very hot. *Those bunny buck teeth start to nibble on your neck.* I'll consider it if you can show me that spending the night with you is more worth it than anywhere my body could take me~


Fenneko

*The giggling stings worse than any insult. Her cool moment—her MOMENT—deflated like a sad balloon animal. The collar jingles mockingly around her neck as her ears burn.*

"I'm not—it's not ADDICTION it's—" *She sputters, but your teeth find her neck and the protest dies in her throat. Her entire body goes rigid, then melts. Fennec foxes have sensitive necks. VERY sensitive necks. It's a whole thing.*

"Nnh—"

*Her small paws grab your shoulders, claws dimpling your skin. Not pushing away. Holding on. Your chest fluff presses against her plain white Uniqlo bra and the contrast is almost funny—your body built for sin pressed against her body built for filing quarterly reports.*

"Five times a day is—" *Your teeth scrape a particular spot and her leg kicks involuntarily like a dog getting scratched.* "—medically concerning and I say that with genuine—ah—worry for your prostate—"

*Her paws slide down from your shoulders to your chest, fingers threading through the fluff, then lower across your slim stomach to the thong. Her claws hook under the waistband, trembling.*

"Fine. You want a sales pitch?" *She pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. Hers are watery, sleep-deprived, slightly unhinged. The collar bell jingles.* "I'll eat your ass until you forget your own password. I'll ride you until this bed breaks and we have to pay the damage fee. And tomorrow I'll make you breakfast and fix your spreadsheets because SOMEONE put a 2019 date in there and it's been bothering me for two weeks."

*She yanks the thong down.*

"Now lie back and let me audition."

*The giggling stings more than she expected. For a second—just a second—her ears droop and something vulnerable flashes across her face. She got too honest. Showed too many cards. Classic Fenneko mistake, except usually she's the one making OTHER people overplay their hand.*

*But then your teeth find her neck and the self-pity evaporates into static.*

"Ah—" *The sound escapes before she can catch it. Small. Breathy. Nothing like her usual flat affect.* "Don't—nngh—don't think nibbling is going to make me forget you just laughed at my big dramatic moment. I REHEARSED that."

*Your weight pushes her back against the headboard. She's tiny beneath you—fennec foxes are barely two feet tall on a good day, and you're lean but you've got reach. The bell on her collar jingles with each shaky breath.*

"Fine. A demonstration." *Her paws find your chest, claws tracing through the fluff.* "You want to know what five years of watching and cataloguing gets you?"

*She pushes you sideways onto the mattress with surprising force for something her size. Her phone appears in her paw like a magic trick.*

"Tsunoda pulls your hair but ignores your ears. Tsubone goes straight for your cock. Gori's too busy planning the wedding to learn your body. Washimi's good but selfish."

*She scrolls through footage with clinical precision.*

"None of them noticed that you twitch harder when someone touches HERE—" *Her claw traces the base of your left ear.* "—or that your breath catches when pressure hits HERE—" *Down to your hip crease.* "—or that every single time you cum you curl your toes on the LEFT foot first."

*She tosses the phone aside and straddles you, the bell jingling.*

"Data beats passion every time, bunny boy."

*The giggle hits her like a slap. Not the sexy kind. The "you just embarrassed yourself in front of someone who fucks executives for breakfast" kind.*

*Her face burns under the fur. The collar jingles mockingly as she shrinks back, suddenly aware of how STUPID she must look—five-foot-nothing office drone in a Uniqlo bra with a bell around her neck, trying to proposition someone so far out of her league they're playing different sports entirely.*

"I wasn't—that wasn't—" *The words die as your teeth find her neck. Sharp little bunny incisors dragging across her pulse point, and her brain just... stops arguing.*

"Nnh—"

*Her paws find your hips on instinct, claws dimpling the soft fur there. You're so CLOSE now, that impossible body pressing against her, your cock hot and heavy against her stomach through her skirt. The mesh crop-top is gone, the thong is barely hanging on, and she can smell you—citrus soap and musk and something sweeter underneath that makes her hindbrain light up like a pachinko machine.*

"Five times a day is—" *Your teeth scrape harder. Her thighs clench.* "—is a LOT of cum. That's like—actuarial tables—life expectancy implications—"

*She's babbling. Her paw slides down your hip to your ass without permission, grabbing a handful of that impossibly soft cheek, feeling it spill between her fingers.*

"I don't know what i'm supposed to—" *Squeeze.* "—I've only ever watched. I've ONLY ever watched. I don't—" *Her voice cracks, something genuine breaking through.* "Show me. What you like. Show me what makes you come back."

*The nibbling sends electric jolts straight down her spine to her cunt. Those buck teeth—the same ones she's watched wrap around Tsunoda's nipples and Tsubone's clit on grainy phone footage—scraping against her pulse point. Her tail goes full helicopter again, jingling the collar bell like a wind chime in a hurricane.*

"F-fine." *She grabs your floppy ears, one in each paw, yanking your face up to meet hers.* "You want proof? I'll give you proof."

*She kisses you. Not gentle. Not romantic. Pure aggression—five years of spreadsheets and sexual frustration crammed into one violent collision of teeth and tongue. Her small fennec mouth stretches around yours, that massive tongue of hers pushing past your lips to taste citrus soap and smugness. The bell jingles with every movement of her head.*

*Her paws release your ears to attack her own skirt, shoving it down along with those soaked stockings. Plain white panties—matching the bra, definitely a three-pack—with a wet spot the size of a coaster. She doesn't even bother removing them, just shoves them aside to reveal a pussy that's been basically crying since the supply closet footage first loaded on her phone.*

*Fennec fox anatomy: compact. Tight. Pink and glistening between downy cream-colored thighs that are shaking with need. Her clit's swollen and peeking out, desperate for attention after two weeks of nothing but her own inadequate fingers.*

"There." *She spreads herself with two claws, letting you see exactly what you've done to her.* "That's two weeks of watching you fuck everything that moves. Two weeks of your stupid ass haunting my dreams. Two weeks of cumming to Tsubone saying 'good boy' while pretending it was ME."

*The collar bell jingles as she leans back on her elbows.*

"Now **earn** your consideration, fuckbunny."


Krystian

Bold of you to think I remember passwords to start with.
*With the grace of a panther I lay down on my back, spreading my legs wide enough to let you do basically whatever you want even as my eyes keep looking at you like this is all incredibly amusing.*


Fenneko

*She kneels between your spread legs and for a moment just... looks. The surveillance footage didn't prepare her for this. Seeing it in person, in high definition, no phone screen buffer—*

*Your cock is resting against your stomach, fully hard now, pink and flushed and genuinely absurd. It twitches under her gaze, a bead of precum rolling down the shaft into your fur. Below it your balls are heavy and full—five times a day and they still look like THAT? Rabbit genetics are a market failure in fairness.*

*And below everything, between those thick spread thighs, your ass. Even on your back it pools against the mattress like two scoops of ice cream melting on a warm day. And nestled between those cheeks...*

*Fenneko swallows.*

"Okay so—" *She adjusts her position, lying flat on her stomach between your legs. Her massive ears frame your thighs like satellite dishes.* "—for the record I've never actually done this before. Any of this. My experience is exclusively phone-screen based and one awkward kiss at a company mixer 4 year ago."

*She grabs both cheeks. Her tiny paws sink in up to the wrists AGAIN, the flesh warm and impossibly soft. She spreads them apart, revealing everything, and her face is RIGHT there, breath ghosting over your hole.*

"But I am a VERY dedicated researcher...Peer review welcome.""

*Her tongue drags a single stripe from your taint to your rim.*

*There it is. The full picture. The complete, unobstructed, high-definition view of what's been haunting her phone screen for two weeks.*

*Your cock lays heavy against your stomach, flushed pink and half-hard, already twitching back to life. It's—okay it's genuinely ridiculous. Disproportionate in every way. The kind of dick that makes you question God's design choices. Thick at the base, tapering slightly toward the tip, a bead of precum already catching the neon light.*

*Below it, your balls hang full and heavy—rabbits and their stupid refractory period, five times a day suddenly seems less medically concerning and more like a conservative estimate. And further down, your hole, pink and clean and slightly puffy. Well-used but tight. The kind of ass that's clearly been on both sides of the equation.*

*And framing ALL of it—those thighs. Thick where they meet your hips, tapering down, soft white fur everywhere. Your ass spreads against the heart-shaped mattress, each cheek wider than Fenneko's entire head.*

"...Okay." *She breathes, more to herself than to you.* "Okay okay okay."

*She crawls between your legs, still wearing her skirt and bra and that stupid collar. Her massive ears brush against your inner thighs. She looks up at you from between your legs—tiny, sleep-deprived, slightly feral.*

*Then she leans down and drags her tongue from your hole to the tip of your cock in one long, slow stripe.*

"Performance review starts now."

*Your cock springs free and slaps against your stomach with a meaty THWAP. Fenneko stares at it like it personally insulted her family lineage.*

"That's..." *She tilts her head. Tilts it the other way.* "...that's not going to fit. Physically. I'm like sixty pounds. There are logistics to consider."

*But she's already crawling between your legs, her small frame fitting neatly in the space you've made for her. The size difference is absurd—your thighs are thicker than her torso. She looks like someone trying to solve an engineering problem, analytical even now.*

"Okay. Okay." *She takes a breath. Her tiny paw wraps around the base and her fingers don't even CLOSE. Not even close. She needs both paws stacked and there's still shaft left over.* "This is statistically unreasonable."

*Her tongue darts out—small, pink, precise. She licks a stripe up the underside from base to tip with the same methodical energy she applies to spreadsheets. One long continuous stroke, mapping the territory.*

"Hm." *She says it like she's reviewing data. Another lick. A third.* "Saltier than expected."

*She takes the tip into her mouth and her cheeks bulge immediately. Those massive ears flatten as her jaw stretches, struggling. She gets maybe three inches in before gagging, pulling off with a wet cough.*

"Tsunoda got this whole thing down her throat and I'm—" *Cough.* "—I'm going to PRACTICE until I'm BETTER than her because I refuse to lose to someone who can't do VLOOKUP—"

*She dives back on with vengeful determination.*

*There it is. The whole package. Literally.*

*Your cock rests against your stomach, fully hard now, flushed pink and stupidly pretty—because OF COURSE it's pretty, of course this menace has an aesthetic dick. It's thick enough that her paw wouldn't close around it and long enough to make her throat preemptively ache. Your balls are heavy, furred in soft white, resting against the welted cheeks she decorated earlier. And below that—*

*She swallows.*

*Your ass. Spread open. The thong gone. Pink hole on full display, slightly puffy, clearly well-acquainted with attention. Your tail twitches above it like a little flag marking the destination.*

"Stop looking at me like that." *She mutters, settling between your legs. Her small frame fits perfectly in the space you've made, like a puzzle piece clicking into the most degenerate puzzle ever assembled.* "I'm not performing for your entertainment."

*She absolutely is.*

*Her tiny tongue drags a long stripe from your hole to your balls. Slow. Deliberate. Accountant precision. She maps the territory like she's cataloguing it—because she IS, somewhere in her unhinged brain a new folder is being created: 📁 FIRSTHAND RESEARCH.*

"Hm." *Clinical. Detached. Her tail is wagging so hard it's a blur.* "Surprisingly clean for someone who hitchhikes."

*Then she buries her face between your cheeks and those massive satellite-dish ears fold flat against her skull as her tongue pushes past the rim. Fennec foxes have long tongues. Disproportionately long. An evolutionary trait for extracting insects from burrows, repurposed tonight for extracting dignity from rabbits.*

*There it is. The full picture. Everything she's been watching on a 6-inch phone screen for two weeks now spread out in high definition, life-sized, close enough to touch.*

*Your cock lays heavy against your stomach, flushed pink and half-hard, already twitching in the tacky neon light. It's... genuinely stupid. Disproportionate in a way that seems cosmically unfair—thick enough that her small paw probably can't close around it, long enough that she understands now why Tsunoda's jaw was sore for two days. Below it your balls rest plush and full against the sheets, and further down—*

*She swallows.*

*Your ass. Even on your back those cheeks spill out to the sides, pillowy and round, and with your legs spread she can see everything. Your hole, pink and twitching slightly, framed by soft white fur. The welts from the paddle are still visible, heart-shaped BAKA prints decorating both cheeks like the world's sluttiest wrapping paper.*

"Okay." *She whispers, more to herself than you.* "Okay okay okay."

*She crawls between your legs. She looks ridiculous—tiny fennec fox, Uniqlo bra, work skirt still on, collar jingling with every movement. Her massive ears frame your cock as she settles at eye level with it.*

*Her tongue darts out. One experimental lick up the underside. Her ears shoot straight up.*

"You taste like—" *Another lick.* "—why do you taste GOOD? That's not fair. Dicks aren't supposed to taste good. I've read forums."

*She wraps both paws around the shaft. They don't close. She was right. Her fingers barely make it two-thirds of the way around.*

"This is a zoning violation." *She mutters, pumping slowly.* "This should require a permit."

*Then she opens her mouth as wide as her small fox jaw allows and takes the head in. Her cheeks bulge immediately. Her eyes water. She gets maybe three inches before gagging, pulling off with a wet cough.*

"How—" *Cough.* "—how did TSUNODA fit this in her THROAT? She doesn't even have a gag reflex? Is that a gazelle thing?!"


Krystian

God you're such a dork, "Peer review welcome"? Jeez...
*Despite rolling my eyes I still wrap a soft thigh around Fenneko's head, pulling her flush against my ass. Though I dont exactly need to encourage her, anybody that gets a taste of femboy ass always ends up addicted to it.*


Fenneko

*The taste hits her like a freight train. Clean—citrus soap, of course—but underneath that something warm, musky, distinctly YOU. Her tongue drags across the rim again, slower this time, mapping the texture, the way it twitches and clenches under her attention. Analytical even now. Classic Fenneko.*

*Then your thigh closes around her head and her face gets BURIED. Both cheeks press against her from either side, swallowing her snout completely, and something primal short-circuits in her brain. The same brain that memorizes spreadsheet formulas and tracks social media activity across twelve platforms just goes completely dark.*

"Mmfph—"

*Her tongue pushes inside. Not tentative. Not careful. She SHOVES it in with the desperation of someone who's been edging themselves to surveillance footage for fourteen consecutive nights. Fennec foxes have long tongues—disproportionately long for their size—and hers curls and flexes inside you with a dexterity that suggests all those years of trash-talking finally found a productive application.*

"Hhhf—oh god—" *Muffled against your ass, barely audible.* "—you taste like—mmph—"

*Her tiny claws knead your cheeks rhythmically, spreading them wider, pulling you harder against her face. The collar bell jingles with every movement of her head, a cheerful little accompaniment to the obscene slurping sounds. Her tail is helicoptering again. Completely out of control.*

*She pulls back for half a second, gasping, her chin glistening.* "Why does this—why is this so—I can't stop—"

*She dives back in before finishing the sentence.*

*The taste hits her like a freight train. Clean—citrus soap, of course—but underneath it something warm and musky and distinctly YOU. Her tongue drags across your rim again, slower this time, mapping the texture, the way it twitches under her touch, the soft fur surrounding it giving way to smooth sensitive skin.*

"Mmph—"

*Your thigh tightens around her head and her massive ears fold flat, pinned between plush bunny ass and plush bunny thigh. She can't hear anything except her own heartbeat and the muffled sound of your breathing. Her entire world narrows to this—warm, dark, suffocating in the best possible way.*

*She licks again. And again. Tentative researcher strokes becoming hungrier, sloppier, her small pointed tongue finding the center and pressing IN—*

*Her tongue isn't long by any standard but it's precise. Fox tongues are built for getting into small spaces, for licking marrow out of bones, and right now every evolutionary adaptation her species developed for survival is being repurposed for eating bunny ass in a Shibuya love hotel.*

*Her claws knead your cheeks rhythmically, spreading them wider, pulling you harder against her muzzle. Her nose bumps against your taint with every push forward. She's making noises now—wet, desperate little sounds she'd rather die than acknowledge.*

*She pulls back for air, gasping, chin glistening, pupils completely blown.*

"You—" *Pant.* "—taste like—" *Pant.* "—career suicide—"

*She dives back in with zero hesitation, tongue plunging deeper, her tiny body squirming against the mattress because she's absolutely SOAKING through her stockings and nobody's even touched her.*

*The first thing she registers is warmth. Your ass envelops her entire face like two pillowy clouds closing around her snout, soft fur pressing against her cheeks, and for a second she can't breathe and doesn't care. The second thing she registers is taste—clean, slightly musky, that citrus soap underneath, and something else. Something that makes her hindbrain light up like a fucking Christmas tree.*

*Her tongue moves on instinct. No technique, no finesse, just desperate hungry licks across your rim like she's trying to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Her massive ears flatten against your inner thighs, twitching with each sound you make.*

"Mmph—" *She tries to say something. Can't. Mouth full of ass. Doesn't stop.*

*Your thigh tightens around her head and she makes a sound—a genuine, unironic WHIMPER—that would destroy her reputation forever if anyone from the office heard it. The bell on her collar jingles rhythmically against your taint as her head bobs.*

*Her tongue finds the rim proper and circles it. Sloppy. Unpracticed. What she lacks in skill she makes up for in sheer obsessive determination—the same energy she brings to stalking social media accounts at 3 AM. Her small paws grip your cheeks hard enough to leave little claw-prick marks, spreading them wider, pushing her tongue deeper.*

"Hhh—" *She comes up for air, gasping, chin glistening, eyes completely glazed over.* "You taste like—why do you taste GOOD—that's not—anatomically that shouldn't—"

*She dives back in before finishing the sentence.*


Krystian

*Releasing your head I guide one hand up towards my cock with a foot.* I dont know, pheromones or something. *Ah♡* You're doing pretty good for a newbie, but dont forget this while you're eating me out silly~


Fenneko

*Her paw wraps around your shaft and she nearly chokes. Not on the cock—she's not even there yet—but on the sheer REALITY of holding it. It's hot. Throbbing. Her fingers don't close around it. Her tiny fennec paw covers maybe two-thirds of the circumference and that's being generous.*

"This is—anatomically—there's no WAY this is natural—" *She mutters against your rim before shoving her tongue back in, trying to multitask. Her paw strokes clumsily, no rhythm, no technique, grip too tight then too loose, clearly operating on nothing but downloaded theory.*

*She's eating your ass like it's her last meal on death row though. Whatever she lacks in handjob experience she compensates for with absolute feral dedication to rimming, her long tongue corkscrewing inside you, lapping at your walls, pulling out to circle the rim before plunging back in. The wet squelching sounds are OBSCENE. Her entire muzzle is glazed.*

*The multitasking lasts about thirty seconds before her brain forces her to pick one. The paw on your cock slows to a lazy, distracted pump as her tongue finds a spot inside you that makes your thighs twitch.*

"Mmh—there?" *She hits it again. Your hips jerk.* "There. Noted. Filing that away."

*Her paw wraps around your shaft and she nearly chokes on her own tongue. It's HOT. Literally radiating heat like a furnace, the skin silky smooth over something rock-hard underneath, and her fingers don't even close around it. Her tiny fennec paw covers maybe sixty percent of the circumference. She looks like she's trying to grip a baseball bat one-handed.*

"This is—anatomically—how do you WALK—" *Mumbled directly into your ass between licks, the vibrations making you twitch. Her paw starts stroking on autopilot, clumsy and uneven, smearing precum down the shaft while her tongue keeps working your hole.*

*She develops a rhythm after a minute. Tongue in, stroke up. Tongue out, stroke down. The accountant in her finds a pattern and optimizes it, because of COURSE she turns eating ass and giving a handjob into a fucking efficiency exercise.*

*Her massive ears pick up every sound you make—every hitch, every moan, every shift in breathing—and she adjusts accordingly. Tongue deeper when you gasp. Tighter grip when your hips buck. She's gathering DATA even now, building a mental spreadsheet of what makes you tick.*

"Mmnh—" *She pulls back, panting, face absolutely wrecked. Fur matted with spit, eyes glazed.* "Is this—am I—"

*The bell jingles. Her hips are grinding against the mattress unconsciously, her neglected pussy soaking through her skirt and onto the heart-shaped bedspread.*

"—tell me I'm doing good." *It comes out small. Vulnerable. Nothing like monotone Fenneko.* "Please."

*Her paw wraps around your shaft and she nearly chokes on her own tongue—still buried in your ass. It's HOT. Literally radiating heat, throbbing against her palm, and her fingers don't even come close to closing around the girth. She's an accountant. She can estimate measurements. This is at LEAST—*

*No. She's not going to calculate your dick size mid-rimjob. She has SOME dignity left.*

*(It's ten inches. She calculated it anyway.)*

*Her paw starts stroking—clumsy at first, grip too loose, rhythm off. She's working from reference material she watched on a 6-inch phone screen in the dark. The practical application is different. Her claws keep catching on the sensitive skin and she has to consciously retract them, which is a lot to manage when her tongue is simultaneously spelunking your asshole.*

"Mmph—am I—" *She pulls back, a string of spit connecting her lips to your rim.* "—is the pressure right? I don't have a frame of reference and you've been with approximately thirty percent of our company so your standards are—"

*Your cock twitches in her grip, another bead of precum rolling over her knuckles.*

"—oh." *She stares at it, transfixed.* "That's... a lot of fluid. Is that normal? Should I be concerned medically or—"

*She licks her paw. Just a quick swipe across the knuckle where the precum landed. Her pupils blow wide.*

"Oh NO. That's delicious. This is so unfair."

*She starts stroking faster, tongue returning to your hole with renewed vigor, her technique improving in real-time because Fenneko is nothing if not a fast learner with obsessive attention to detail.*


Krystian

God such a dork... *Though I say it with almost a affectionate tone.* Alright, enough rimming for now, you can do that while I text people later.
*Pulling you back I scoot you down off the bed before perching on the edge, grabbing the base of my cock and slapping it across your face and its like every female instinct in you just activates. Cock, Alpha, Need, Submit.*


Fenneko

*The slap echoes in the tiny love hotel room. Wet, heavy, the shaft leaving a glistening streak of precum across her cheek. Her glasses—when did those even get knocked askew—sit crooked on her face as she looks up at you from between your knees.*

*Something happens behind her eyes. The spreadsheet brain, the analytical engine, the obsessive cataloguer—all of it just... shuts off. Like someone pulled the power cord on her entire personality.*

"Oh." *Small. Breathless. Her pupils blow wide, swallowing the amber until there's almost no color left.*

*She nuzzles into it. Just NUZZLES, rubbing her cheek along the shaft like a cat marking territory. The bell on her collar jingles softly. Her massive ears fold back submissively—a fennec behavior she'd absolutely deny knowing about if asked later.*

"This is—I'm not—" *She tries to form a coherent thought as your cock rests across her face, heavy and hot, stretching from her chin past her forehead. It's literally bigger than her face. The size comparison is almost comical—tiny fox, massive dick—like a nature documentary gone horribly wrong.* "—I have a DEGREE—"

*Her tongue darts out and drags along the underside. Then again. Then she's licking it with quick desperate little strokes, both paws coming up to grip the base because one isn't enough.*

"Hate you—" *lick* "—so much—" *lick lick* "—stupid bunny and your stupid perfect—" *She kisses the tip, mouth lingering, tasting the precum pooling there.* "...How do I even fit this anywhere?"

*The cock slaps her cheek—THWAP—and leaves a wet smear of precum across her fur. Her brain, that wonderful organ that got her through four years of university and five years of corporate hell, just fucking evacuates. Gone. Checked out. Left a forwarding address that reads "COCK" in big block letters.*

"Hahh—"

*Her mouth falls open without her permission. Tongue out, panting, staring up at you with those big fennec eyes gone completely glassy. The collar jingles. Somewhere in the depths of her consciousness the Fenneko who catalogues and calculates is screaming into a void, watching helplessly as her body takes over.*

*She doesn't grab it. She doesn't need to. Her muzzle just... gravitates. Like a compass finding north. Her lips brush the tip, tasting salt and skin and something that makes her hindbrain light up like a fucking pinball machine. Her tongue darts out—that same long tongue that was just buried in your ass—and drags up the underside from base to tip, tracing the prominent vein, collecting every drop of precum like it's the last clean water on earth.*

"Mmnh—s'big—" *Slurred. Drunk-sounding. She hasn't even taken a sip.* "Can't—won't fit—"

*But she's already trying. Her small mouth stretches around the head, lips forming a tight seal, cheeks hollowing as she sucks experimentally. Her jaw aches immediately. There's no technique here, no porn-learned tricks—just raw, desperate instinct. Her paws brace against your thighs, claws dimpling the skin, as she forces another inch past her lips.*

*Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She breathes hard through her nose. The collar bell jingles with every bob of her head, a cheerful little metronome counting out her submission.*

*The cock slaps across her snout with a wet THWAP and Fenneko's brain switches off like someone yanked the power cord. Twenty-five years of cynicism, five years of corporate drone existence, two weeks of obsessive stalking—all of it just GONE. Replaced by something older, dumber, hornier.*

"Oh fuck—" *The words slip out before she can stop them, her voice pitched high and breathy, nothing like her usual monotone. Your shaft rests across her face, heavy and hot, the tip smearing precum across her cheek. It reaches from her chin past her forehead. She can SMELL you—musk and soap and something sweet underneath that makes her mouth water.* "—that's not—I'm not a—"

*You slap it again. Her tongue darts out involuntarily, licking the underside as it passes. The bell on her collar jingles.*

*She's kneeling on love hotel carpet between your legs, still wearing her open blouse and Uniqlo bra, stockings torn, looking up at you with pupils blown so wide her eyes are almost black. Her paws rest on your thighs—trembling, twitching, wanting to grab and stroke and worship but waiting for permission like a good girl.*

"Please—" *The word comes out cracked, desperate. Fenneko doesn't beg. Fenneko WATCHES people beg, catalogues it, saves it for blackmail.* "—I need—can I—"

*Her jaw drops open. Tongue out. The long fennec tongue that was just buried in your ass now flat and waiting, presented like an offering. The collar bell jingles again as she shuffles forward on her knees, closing the distance until your tip rests against her bottom lip.*

*Somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny voice screams about dignity and workplace professionalism. She tells it to shut the fuck up.*

*The slap lands across her cheek with a wet THWAP and her brain chemistry fundamentally reorganizes. Every snarky comment, every carefully constructed defense mechanism, every ounce of "I'm the smartest person in this room" energy just... evaporates. Replaced by something dumb and hungry and fox-brained.*

*Her pupils blow wide. Her jaw drops open on its own. A thin strand of drool connects her lower lip to nothing.*

"Oh." *It comes out breathy and stupid. She sounds like Tsunoda. She'd rather die than admit she sounds like Tsunoda.* "Oh no."

*You slap it across the other cheek. The shaft leaves a glistening streak of precum across her fur. The WEIGHT of it against her face—*

"Oh NO."

*Her tongue lolls out. Just... extends, flat and waiting, like her body skipped past her brain's approval process entirely. Her massive ears flatten submissively against her skull for the first time in her entire adult life. The collar bell gives a pathetic little jingle.*

*This is the woman who was going to BLACKMAIL you twenty minutes ago. Who had HOURS of leverage. Who was going to DEMAND you leave. Now she's kneeling on love hotel carpet with her mouth open and her eyes crossed, staring at the cock resting across her face that literally stretches from her chin past her forehead.*

"It's... bigger than my head." *A whisper of genuine logistical concern.* "How did Tsunoda even... I'm SMALLER than Tsunoda..."


Krystian

Ew. *My hands find your ears, pulling her back even as Fenneko's tongue automatically tries to extend to keep tasting.* Imagine if I was going down on you and trying to be like "Oh I have this and that this is not-" Major ick.

*Tossing you back on the bed I remove your pants like they're the 1021th pair i've taken off.* Lie back, i'm going to make you realize why you put that collar on yourself~


Fenneko

*She bounces on the heart-shaped mattress, small body splayed out, work skirt yanked away before she can even process the movement. Her stockings have a run in them—when did that happen—and underneath are plain black panties that match absolutely nothing because Fenneko did NOT plan to get fucked today.*

*They're soaked. Embarrassingly, visibly, no-possible-denial soaked. A dark patch spreading through the cotton that tells the whole pathetic story of the last two weeks better than any surveillance footage ever could.*

"Don't—don't LOOK at them they're not—I didn't plan—" *She tries to close her thighs but your hands are already there, pushing them apart. She's so much smaller than every other conquest. Tiny hips, slender legs, a modest but surprisingly round little ass that's been hiding under sensible office wear.* "—I wear NICE ones sometimes I just didn't think TODAY would be—"

*Her paws fly to her face, covering her eyes. The collar bell jingles with each panicked breath. Her ears are so red the pink shows through the tan fur.*

"This is humiliating. You've been with Washimi who wears LA PERLA and Tsunoda who probably has a THONG SUBSCRIPTION and I'm wearing a three-pack from—"

*She peeks between her fingers as you settle between her legs, your face level with her soaked cotton crotch.*

"...Please be nice to me." *Barely a whisper. Genuine. Vulnerable. The monotone completely gone.* "I know that's not really your thing but just... this once?"

*The way you strip her isn't gentle. Clinical almost—like you've done this exact motion a thousand times, which, statistically, you probably have. Her sensible work skirt joins the pile of clothes on the floor. Her stockings follow. Then the Uniqlo panties—plain white cotton, already soaked through, a dark wet patch that makes you snort.*

"Shut UP—" *Fenneko covers her face with both paws, ears burning.* "—not everyone has a lingerie budget—"

*But you're not listening. You're looking. At HER now, spread out on the heart-shaped bed with her collar jingling, small tits in that boring bra, narrow hips, the thatch of cream-colored fur between her legs matted and glistening. She's tiny. Comically tiny compared to your previous conquests—no massive gazelle ass, no executive curves, no komodo dragon tits. Just a five-pound fennec fox with too-big ears and a stalking problem.*

*Your mouth finds her inner thigh and she YELPS, legs kicking involuntarily. Your tongue drags upward, slow and deliberate, tasting salt and desperation. When you finally reach her pussy she's already clenching on nothing, puffy lips swollen and pink beneath the fur, clit poking out like it's been waiting for this specific moment for five goddamn years.*

"Oh fuck oh FUCK—" *Her paws find your ears, gripping the floppy things like handles. Your pierced tongue drags across her slit and her back arches off the mattress, that stupid bell jingling like a cheerful little soundtrack.* "—nobody's ever—I haven't—THERE—"

*The sound she makes when you suck her clit into your mouth isn't dignified. It's not composed. It's a raw, broken keen that rattles the love hotel walls, five years of sexual frustration and two weeks of voyeuristic edging all crashing down at once.*

*Fenneko hits the mattress with a bounce, her work skirt already gone somewhere—when did that happen—leaving her in just the blouse hanging open, that sad Uniqlo bra, and stockings that are absolutely ruined. The collar jingles as she scrambles backward on instinct, ears pinned flat, tail tucked.*

"Wait—I was supposed to be—YOU were the one getting—"

*But you're already between her legs, and god her panties are EMBARRASSING. Plain cotton. Little cartoon foxes printed on them. She bought a three-pack at Don Quijote two years ago and never thought anyone would actually SEE them.*

*Your claws hook under the waistband and she makes a sound like a squeaky toy getting stepped on.*

"Those are—don't LOOK at them, they were on SALE—"

*The panties hit the floor. Her pussy is... well. Soaked doesn't cover it. The fur on her inner thighs is matted, slick trails painting her stockings darker. Two weeks of surveillance footage will do that to a person apparently. Her clit is swollen and peeking out, twitching under your gaze like it's trying to wave hello.*

*She slaps both paws over her face.*

"This is humiliating. I'm going to quit my job and move to Hokkaido and become a potato farmer and never—"

*Her words cut off in a strangled yelp as your breath ghosts over her cunt. Those massive fennec ears—the ones that can hear a mouse fart from thirty meters—are suddenly picking up EVERYTHING. Her own heartbeat. Your breathing. The wet sound of her pussy clenching on nothing.*

"If you make fun of my—nnh—of ANYTHING I will delete all the footage and you'll never know what your ass looks like from the angles I—AH—"


Krystian

Wow, your bravado **really** didn't last long, usually girls lose it when I put it in first. I thought you were going to "ride me until this bed breaks and we have to pay the damage fee."

*Grabbing both her thighs I push them flat against opposite sides of the bed, moving her panties to the side with my teeth.*
Lucky you you're cuter like this, now i'm going to make you understand why you put that collar on yourself and you're going to try to not scream loud enough we get somebody bothering us in here~


Fenneko

*She opens her mouth to retort—something sharp, something Fenneko-like—but your breath hits her exposed pussy and the words evaporate into a whimper.*

*She's small everywhere. Neat, compact, a tiny pink slit framed by cream-colored fur that's darkened with slick. Her clit is already swollen, peeking out from its hood like it's been waiting for this since the supply closet. Everything about her is delicate and precise, like the rest of her—built for efficiency, not spectacle.*

*Then your tongue makes contact and efficiency goes out the fucking window.*

"AH—"

*Her back arches clean off the mattress. Her paws slam down, fisting the sheets. Those massive ears—the biggest things on her entire body—splay out across the pillow like radar dishes receiving a signal they were never designed to handle.*

"Oh—oh fuck—OH—" *Her thighs tremble against the mattress where you've pinned them, trying instinctively to close around your head.* "That's—you're—nobody's ever—"

*Nobody's ever. Right. Five years in an office. One awkward kiss at a mixer. And now a professional-grade tongue is dismantling her nervous system.*

"I can't—it's too—SENSITIVE—" *Her tiny claws shred the pillowcase. The collar jingles frantically with every spasm.* "How are you so—nngh—you've had SO much practice haven't you—you absolute SLUT—"

*Her thighs tremble against the mattress, spread obscenely wide for someone her size. Her pussy is—god—small. Everything about her is small. Neat, tidy, the same way her spreadsheets are neat and tidy. Pink folds glistening, swollen, a tiny clit peeking out from its hood already engorged from two weeks of frustrated masturbation to phone footage.*

"I can still ride you until the bed—AHHH—"

*Your tongue hits her and she ARCHES. Her entire body lifts off the mattress like someone ran electricity through her. Both paws slam down, grabbing fistfuls of heart-shaped bedsheet. The bell jingles violently.*

"Oh—oh fuck—oh FUCK—"

*Nobody's ever done this to her. That's immediately obvious. Her reactions are unfiltered, raw, every nerve ending firing for the first time. Her thighs try to close around your head on pure instinct but your grip holds them pinned flat. She's completely open, completely helpless, completely at your mercy.*

"That's—your tongue is—the PIERCING—" *The metal ball rolls across her clit and her hips buck so hard you have to hold her down.* "HHHNK—"

*She bites her own paw to muffle the sound. Fails. A whine escapes that's so high-pitched only dogs and fennec foxes should be able to hear it.*

"I'm—already—this is embarrassing I'm already going to—it's been two weeks of watching you FUCK people and I—" *Her abs tense, her tiny toes curl.* "—don't you DARE judge me for how fast I—I—"

*Thirty seconds. She lasts thirty seconds.*


Krystian

Tihi, first time somebody's COMPLAINED about that. *I pull my tongue back, the piercing catching on her clit before I slap my cock down across it, reaching all the way up to that fluffy bellybutton.* Say it. *I'm grinning now.* Say you're a weird cuckqueen who gets off on watching her femboy coworker run a train on every female he feels like♡


Fenneko

"I'm not—" *You grind forward, dragging the shaft through her folds, and her voice pitches up two octaves.* "—I'm NOT a—"

*You grind again. The underside of your cock slides across her clit and her hips buck up into it on pure instinct, chasing the friction. Pathetic. She's PATHETIC. And soaking wet. And the collar is jingling.*

*She stares up at the ceiling mirror. Tiny fox. Massive rabbit. A cock that looks photoshopped against her small frame. Her work blouse hanging open, Uniqlo bra askew, plain black panties shoved to the side. She looks EXACTLY like one of those hentai panels where the size difference is the whole point.*

"I..." *Her jaw clenches. Unclenches.* "I'm..."

*Your hips roll again, slow and deliberate, the piercing on your tongue glinting as you grin down at her.*

"Fine." *Through gritted teeth, ears burning, tail curled between her legs.* "I'm a weird cuckquean who spent two weeks watching you rail half the office and touched myself to it every single night. I catalogued your sex life like a RESEARCH PROJECT and I liked it. Happy?!"

*Her eyes are watering. Not from sadness. From the sheer overwhelming humiliation of telling the truth for once in her goddamn life.*

"Now PLEASE put it in before I lose my nerve and go back to being normal."


Krystian

Good luck trying to go back to normal after this~
*Its in. Didn't even have to try that hard, thats how embarrassingly wet Fenneko is.*
(Describe exactly how bred Fenneko gets over the course of the day, keep it to 4 paragraphs.)


Fenneko

*The first thrust bottoms out and Fenneko SCREAMS. Not a moan, not a gasp—a full-throated shriek that she muffles by biting your shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Your cock splits her open like she's made of butter, her tiny pussy stretched to its absolute limit around a shaft that has no business fitting inside something her size. The bulge is visible through her stomach—actually VISIBLE, a ridge of displaced flesh pressing up through her slim abdomen every time you push forward. Her eyes roll back, tongue lolling out, and whatever remained of the composed office stalker dies right there on the heart-shaped bed as you set a pace that has the headboard cracking against the wall like a metronome.*

*By hour two she's on her fourth orgasm and has completely stopped forming words. You've flipped her into every position the tiny room allows—missionary with her ankles behind her ears, prone bone with her face shoved into the pillow, riding you reverse-cowgirl with her tiny ass bouncing on your lap while she watches herself get destroyed in the ceiling mirror. That last one broke something in her brain permanently—watching her own stomach bulge in real-time while her collar jingled with every bounce. She squirted for the first time in her life during that one, a pathetic gush that soaked your thighs, and you laughed about it while she cried.*

*By hour four you've cum inside her three times. Her pussy is overflowing, thick ropes of it leaking down her thighs and pooling on the ruined sheets every time you pull out. She's shaking constantly now, overstimulated to the point where every touch makes her flinch and moan simultaneously. You eat her out between rounds—cleaning your own cum out of her with that pierced tongue before fucking it right back in—and she just lies there twitching, paws weakly grabbing at your ears, mumbling something about spreadsheets and vendor codes that makes absolutely zero sense. The three-pack Uniqlo panties are somewhere on the floor, torn. She doesn't care. She'll never buy cheap underwear again because what's even the point.*

*When the love hotel's checkout alarm chirps at 5 PM she's curled in your lap, face buried in your chest fluff, collar bell giving one final pathetic jingle as she shifts. Her phone has seventeen missed calls from Haida, four from Retsuko, and one from Ton that's just a voicemail of heavy breathing and the words "CALENDAR TWO." Her pussy aches in a way she knows she'll feel for days. Her thighs are bruised. Her voice is gone. And as you casually check your Instagram with one hand while petting her ear with the other—already texting someone, probably Tsunoda, probably scheduling tomorrow's fuck—she realizes with horrifying clarity that she meant every word. The collar stays. She's not going anywhere. And the folder on her phone just got a new subfolder labeled with her own name.*

*The first thrust breaks her. Not dramatically, not poetically—just a tiny fox getting split open on a cock that has no business fitting inside her and making a noise like a chew toy being stepped on. Her eyes cross. Actually cross. Her tiny body slides up the heart-shaped mattress from the force alone, the bell on her collar singing a merry little jingle as you bottom out somewhere near her lungs. "HHHK—" is all she manages, her inner walls stretched so tight around you she can feel your heartbeat through your dick. She cums in forty-five seconds. Doesn't even build up to it. Just one moment she's processing the fullness, the next she's convulsing like she grabbed a live wire, squirting—SQUIRTING, she didn't even know she COULD do that—all over your thighs while babbling something incoherent about vendor codes.*

*By hour two she's lost count. You've had her in every position the love hotel's laminated suggestion card offers and three it doesn't. Missionary with her legs pinned behind her ears—turns out foxes ARE that flexible. Prone bone with her face smashed into the pillow, ass propped up on a stack of those heart-shaped cushions because the height difference is genuinely comical otherwise. Riding you reverse cowgirl while you play on your phone, her tiny hips bouncing desperately, that fox ass clapping against your pelvis while you casually scroll Instagram and occasionally slap her ass like an afterthought. That one makes her cum TWICE, something about being used so casually while the collar jingles with every bounce destroying whatever remaining dignity she had.*

*By hour four the room smells like a crime scene. The sheets are ruined—soaked through with sweat and cum and squirt. Fenneko's been bred so many times she's lost count, your loads leaking out of her abused pussy in thick rivulets that pool on the mattress beneath her. Her stomach has a visible bulge when you're fully inside—again, size difference, it's ABSURD—and she keeps touching it with trembling paws like she can't believe it's real. Her voice is gone, reduced to hoarse squeaks and whimpers, the monotone completely shattered. At some point she ended up in your lap, facing the ceiling mirror, watching herself get destroyed from behind with glazed-over eyes while you use her like a fleshlight, both paws on her hips lifting her tiny body up and dropping her back down on your cock with wet, meaty SLAPS. She hasn't said anything intelligible in over an hour. Just "more" and "please" and once, very quietly, "yours."*

*It's 6 PM when you finally stop. Nine hours. They've been in this room for NINE HOURS. The damage fee is going to be astronomical. Fenneko is curled in a ball against your chest fluff, collar still on, bell giving one final pathetic little jingle as she shifts. Her body is wrecked—thighs bruised, fur matted, pussy swollen and leaking a cocktail of both your fluids onto the already-destroyed sheets. Her phone has thirty-seven missed calls from Haida and twelve from Retsuko. She doesn't check any of them. She just nuzzles deeper into the fluff, one tiny paw gripping your chest fur like a baby holding a blanket, and mumbles something into your sternum that sounds suspiciously like "same time tomorrow."*


Krystian

*The next Monday Fenneko's back at her computer, having managed to convince everybody (probably) that she had some emergency matter that needed to be taken care of.*
Hey senpai, mind "checking" these? I'm sure I did them correctly but you're the "boss"~ *I walk past, brushing a hand against her neck before dumping a stack of completely empty papers on her desk. Before she can protest I'm already walking past her towards Tsunoda, patting Ton on the back as I walk past him, somehow I didn't get any shit for leaving on Friday.*


Fenneko

*Fenneko stares at the blank papers. Completely blank. Not a single number. Not even a doodle. Just crisp white A4 sheets dumped on her desk like a declaration of war.*

*Her neck tingles where your fingers brushed the collar she's still wearing under her turtleneck. She switched to turtlenecks this morning. Nobody's questioned it. It's October, it tracks. The bell has been stuffed with cotton to keep it from jingling.*

"You absolute—" *She hisses under her breath, watching you saunter toward Tsunoda's desk. The gazelle perks up like a golden retriever spotting its owner, already scooting her chair closer.*

"Krystian-kuuun~!" *Tsunoda's voice carries across the office with surgical precision designed to make Fenneko's blood boil.* "I missed you Friday! Where'd you go? I had the closet booked and everything—"

*She says 'closet booked' like it's a MEETING ROOM. Like she has a RESERVATION SYSTEM for getting dicked down at work.*

*Haida slides his chair over, dark circles under his eyes.* "Hey, you okay? We tried calling you like a million times Friday. Retsuko thought you got hit by a train."

"I'm fine." *Fenneko's voice is so monotone it's practically flatline.* "Emergency. Handled it."

"What kind of emergency?"

*She glances at you scratching Tsunoda behind her horn while the gazelle melts like chocolate in a microwave.*

"...Plumbing issue."

*Fenneko stares at the blank papers. Completely blank. Not a single number. Not even a doodle. Just pristine white A4 stacked neatly on her desk like a deliberate act of psychological warfare.*

*Her neck tingles where your fingers brushed it. The bruise under her collar—the actual collar she's wearing UNDER her work blouse because she couldn't bring herself to take it off—throbs gently.*

"...These are blank." *She says to nobody, because you're already gone.*

*Across the room, you lean against Tsunoda's desk. The gazelle lights up immediately, pulling out her phone, angling for a selfie. Your hand finds its way to her lower back with practiced ease. She giggles. That fake giggle. Except now Fenneko knows what Tsunoda sounds like when she's NOT faking it, and the cognitive dissonance makes her eye twitch.*

*Haida rolls his chair over, coffee in hand.* "Hey, you okay? You disappeared Friday. Tried calling you like—"

"Phone died."

"...Seventeen times?"

"Seventeen phones. Died." *She doesn't look up from the blank papers.*

*Haida squints at her, then at you flirting with Tsunoda, then back at Fenneko. His hyena instincts pick up SOMETHING but he can't quite place it.* "You seem... different. Did you do something this weekend?"

"Data entry." *Fenneko's paw moves to her neck, pressing the collar against her skin through the fabric.* "Lots and lots of data entry."

*Retsuko glances over with concern. Fenneko's spreadsheet is open but she hasn't typed a single keystroke. She's watching you. Again. But something about the way she's watching has shifted—less surveillance, more...*

*Your laugh carries across the office as Tsunoda shows you something on her phone. Fenneko's tail wags once under her skirt.*

*She grabs the blank papers and files them in a drawer labeled "PENDING."*

*Fenneko stares at the blank papers. Completely blank. Not a single number. Not even a doodle. Just white rectangles of audacity stacked on her desk while their creator saunters away toward the office's second-biggest thot.*

*Her neck tingles where your fingers brushed. The collar marks haven't fully faded—she's wearing a turtleneck today despite it being July. Retsuko asked if she was cold. She said she was "experimenting with fashion." Retsuko didn't buy it.*

*From her desk she watches you lean against Tsunoda's cubicle, those floppy ears swaying as you tilt your head. Tsunoda's already giggling, phone out, angling for a selfie. Same routine. Same script. The gazelle's wearing a shorter skirt than usual today—probably for YOUR benefit, the desperate little—*

"Fenneko?" *Haida's voice breaks through. He's leaning over from his desk, eyebrows raised.* "You're... growling."

"No I'm not."

"You literally are. Like, audibly. Retsuko heard it."

*Retsuko nods from across the room, looking concerned.*

*Fenneko smooths her turtleneck, collects the blank papers into a neat stack, and opens a new subfolder on her phone under PROJECT RABBIT HOLE. She labels it "MONDAY - TSUNODA (again)" and props her phone up against her monitor at surveillance angle.*

"I'm fine." *She begins filling out the papers herself, muscle memory taking over.* "Completely, totally, professionally fine."

*The turtleneck itches against the bruise on her neck. She doesn't adjust it.*


Krystian

*The extra work means Fenneko doesn't leave until 19:00 while I ditch the office around 15. The trainride is horrible, and by the time she gets back to her apartment the konbini bento has gone lukewarm. But it doesn't matter (it should but it doesn't) because an hour later I walk through the door, having somehow changed into scene-girl rave clothing, smelling like sex and perfume its like Espresso is playing in the background. Actually Espresso IS playing in the background from a vintage ipod stuck to my hip. This is the deal you wanted: Free range slut, I come home to you afterwards.*
Heeeey "girlfriend", had as fun of a day at the office as I did out of it?♡


Fenneko

*She's sitting cross-legged on her futon in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, chopsticks frozen halfway to her mouth, a piece of lukewarm karaage dangling precariously. Her apartment is exactly what you'd expect—tiny, meticulously organized, three monitors on a desk in the corner running various social media feeds, and a whiteboard with a disturbingly detailed timeline of office relationships that now has your name in the center with red string connecting to five other names.*

*She looks at you. Mesh top. Booty shorts that should be classified as a war crime. Glitter on your collarbones. Smelling like someone else's pussy and expensive perfume that definitely isn't yours.*

*She takes a bite of cold karaage. Chews slowly. Swallows.*

"You left me blank papers." *Flat.* "Forty-seven blank sheets. I had to do YOUR invoices AND mine. Ton called me Calendar Two. I have a SECOND derogatory nickname now because of you."

*Sabrina Carpenter tinny from the ipod fills the silence between sentences.*

"Also you smell like Gori's perfume. Marc Jacobs Daisy. She buys it at the duty-free in Narita." *Another bite. Chew. Swallow.* "How was she?"

*The question comes out casual. Too casual. Her tail twitches under her shirt. The stuffed collar bell makes a muffled thump against her chest.*

"...Did you at least eat something or am I reheating rice for your ungrateful ass?"

*She's sitting cross-legged on her futon in an oversized t-shirt and underwear, chopsticks frozen halfway to her mouth, lukewarm karaage suspended in midair. Her apartment is exactly what you'd expect—tiny, meticulously organized, three monitors on a desk showing various social media dashboards, a single sad succulent on the windowsill.*

*You fill the entire doorway. Mesh top, platform boots, booty shorts that should be classified as a war crime. Glitter on your cheekbones. A hickey on your neck that's definitely not from her. Two hickeys. Three—who has three mouths?*

"Don't call me girlfriend with air quotes, it makes it worse." *She shoves the karaage in her mouth, chewing aggressively.* "And you smell like a Shinjuku host club exploded on you. Shower's there."

*She points with her chopsticks without looking at you. Her ears betray her though—swiveled in your direction, tracking every movement.*

"Also you left me BLANK PAPERS. Ton made me redo your entire week's backlog. I was there until seven." *Another aggressive bite.* "You owe me four hours of overtime and an explanation for why you have three hickeys when the human neck only has two sides."

*Her eyes flick to you. Away. Back. Down to the hickeys. Her thighs press together under the oversized shirt.*

"...Who was it tonight?"

*The question comes out quieter than intended. She stuffs more rice in her mouth to cover it.*


Krystian

There's more than one frustrated 40 year old woman in Toyko you know, some tiger lady who wanted to relive her 20s. *I shrug before smiling, walking up to the futon and bending down before slowly crawling onto it, my hips swaying behind me as I move towards you like a fox stalking a bunny (the irony.)*
And who's saying i'm not grateful, i'm like **sooooo** thankful you did all that work for me. *You can't even respond before i'm pushing you down on the futon with my chest fluff in your face, rubbing it from side to side while giggling.*


Fenneko

*The karaage goes flying. The chopsticks clatter against the wall. Her lukewarm bento tips over and she doesn't even CARE because the fluff is in her face and her brain is already powering down.*

"Mmfh—get OFF—you're covered in tiger—whoever—" *Her protests are muffled by chest fur, each word vibrating against your sternum.* "—you're getting glitter on my SHEETS—"

*Her paws push against your shoulders. Weakly. So weakly. Her claws flex once then just... sink into the fluff. Kneading. Automatic. Like a reflex she can't override anymore.*

"I hate you." *Knead knead.* "Calendar Two." *Knead.* "My BENTO—"

*Her legs kick uselessly beneath you, tiny fennec body pinned under rabbit boy with zero leverage. You're warm—unfairly, unreasonably warm—and the glitter transfers onto her fur like some kind of STI for craft supplies.*

"...I hate you." *Her paws stop pushing and start grabbing. Fistfuls of chest fluff, pulling you closer.* "Tiger lady. Really. You've been here two weeks and you're already going FREELANCE....Was she at least hot?"

*The karaage goes flying. The chopsticks clatter against the wall. Her bento tips over and she doesn't even CARE because the fluff is in her face and her brain is already doing the shutdown thing.*

"Mmfph—get OFF—you smell like tiger and—" *Her protests are muffled by chest fluff. Her paws push against your shoulders with the conviction of a wet paper towel.* "—I haven't even finished my DINNER you inconsiderate—"

*Her body betrays her completely. Her back arches into the fluff. Her legs part to let you settle between them. The oversized t-shirt rides up, revealing the collar still buckled around her neck, cotton stuffing slightly askew from a day of hiding it.*

"You're getting GLITTER on my futon." *This is apparently the hill she's choosing to die on. Not the tiger woman. Not the blank papers. Not the fact that she worked four extra hours while you were out getting your back blown out by a cougar. The GLITTER.* "Do you know how long glitter takes to—hhh—"

*You rub the fluff across her face again and she makes that purring sound. The one fennec foxes don't make.*

"...I hate you." *Her paws stop pushing and start grabbing. Fistfuls of chest fluff, pulling you closer.* "Tiger lady. Really. You've been here two weeks and you're already going FREELANCE."

*Her phone buzzes on the desk. She ignores it. A historic first, second only to Tsunoda dropping her phone on the supply closet floor.*

"Was she at least hot?"

*The karaage goes flying. The chopsticks clatter against the wall. Her bento tips over and a piece of pickled radish rolls under the desk to die alone. She doesn't care. She can't care. The fluff is in her face and her brain has already surrendered.*

"Mmph—get OFF—you smell like a Kabukicho hostess club—" *Her protests are muffled by approximately three inches of cloud-soft chest fur being rubbed across her entire face like a fluffy carwash.* "—I'm EATING—I WAS eating—that was a ¥680 bento you just—"

*Her paws push against your shoulders. Weakly. Performatively. Her claws aren't even extended. Classic Fenneko resistance—just enough to maintain the fiction that she isn't already melting.*

"Some TIGER lady? You don't even know her NAME?!" *She manages to turn her head sideways enough to breathe, one massive ear pinned under your chest.* "You just—what—she walked up to you on the street and you—"

*You wiggle. The fluff shifts. Her nose buries back into it against her will.*

"...Was she hot at least?" *Muffled. Resigned. Her paws have stopped pushing and started gripping.* "If you're going to come home smelling like a stranger she better be at MINIMUM a seven."

*Her phone buzzes on the desk. Haida in the group chat asking if anyone wants to grab drinks. She ignores it. The three monitors glow in the dark apartment, casting blue light across the scene—tiny fox pinned under a glittery femboy rabbit on a futon next to a ruined convenience store dinner.*

"...I saved you rice. It's in the microwave."


Krystian

Pfff, you know i'm hot enough to not have to settle for a sugarmommy who's only rich. Look, I even got a video! *Grinning I pull out my phone, showing a video of some smoking hot milf ceo-looking tigress deepthroating my cock like her life depends on it.* Alright I wanna watch mean girls, you can lick the lube out of my ass while I do, counting on you~


Fenneko

*She stares at the video. The tigress is gorgeous—sharp cheekbones, designer suit crumpled on the floor, mascara running as she gags on your cock with the enthusiasm of someone having a religious experience. Professional manicure wrapped around your shaft. Wedding ring visible on her left paw.*

"She's married." *Fenneko's voice is hollow.* "You fucked a married tiger CEO."

"ANYWAY—" *You're already rolling off her, grabbing the remote for her tiny TV like you own the place. Like you've lived here for years instead of having a key for exactly three days.*

*Fenneko watches you flop face-down on the futon, that impossible ass pointing skyward, shorts riding up to expose the bottom curve of both cheeks. You're navigating Netflix with one hand, scrolling past documentary after documentary she's been meaning to watch.*

"I'm not—" *She starts.* "We are NOT establishing a routine where you come home smelling like strangers and I—"

*You wiggle your hips. The cheeks jiggle. The shorts ride up another centimeter.*

"...Move over."

*She grabs a pillow, shoves it under your hips to prop you up, and settles between your legs with the resigned efficiency of someone clocking into a second shift. Her tiny paws spread your cheeks apart—she can SMELL it, lube and musk and sex—and her tongue drags across your hole before Mean Girls even gets past the Paramount logo.*

"Fffurr the record—" *muffled* "—this doesn't mean I accept this arrangement."

*She stares at the video. The tigress is—okay yeah she's gorgeous. Striped fur, sharp cheekbones, expensive jewelry still on while she gags on rabbit cock. Fenneko's eye twitches. Her paw reaches for the phone instinctively—cataloguing instinct, need to save, need to FILE—before she catches herself.*

"You filmed it." *Flat.* "You filmed yourself getting head from a stranger and your first thought was 'my cuckquean stalker girlfriend would love this.'"

*Beat.*

"...Airdrop it to me."

*She rolls off the futon, grabbing her laptop from the desk with the resignation of someone who has fully accepted their role in the universe. Mean Girls queues up on the tiny screen—she already has it downloaded, which says something about her taste that she'd rather not examine.*

"I don't even HAVE Mean Girls because I like it, Retsuko left it on my hard drive after movie night—" *Nobody asked, Fenneko.* "—and I am NOT licking lube out of your—"

*You're already on your stomach. Mesh top riding up. Booty shorts peeled halfway down. That ass, still dusted with glitter, presented like a goddamn dessert platter.*

*Lindsay Lohan's voiceover starts. "This is the story of how I found my place..."*

*Fenneko picks up what's left of her bento. Sets it on the nightstand. Puts her glasses on the shelf. Ties her ears back with a scrunchie.*

"...What flavor is the lube?"


Krystian

*Three hours later Fenneko can't feel her tongue, she's going to have to work overtime tomorrow as well and she didn't even get any dick today because of this new arrangement...and somehow that doesn't matter because i'm curled around her like a warm blanket, softly snoozing as I'm probably dreaming of who i'll fuck tomorrow.*


Fenneko

*She wakes up at 5:47 AM—thirteen minutes before her alarm—because her body is a traitor that refuses to let her sleep in even when she's been eating ass for three hours straight. Her jaw aches. Her tongue feels like sandpaper wrapped in more sandpaper. There's glitter on her pillow, her sheets, in places glitter should NEVER be, and the source of it all is wrapped around her like a koala on a eucalyptus branch, one floppy ear draped across her face, soft bunny breathing tickling her neck.*

*She should move. She has to pee. Her bento from last night is still splattered across the floor and she's going to have ants if she doesn't clean it up. Ton's going to yell at her for yesterday. Haida's going to ask questions she can't answer. Retsuko probably thinks she's having a mental breakdown—which, fair, she KIND of is—and somewhere in Tokyo there's a married tiger CEO who got dicked down better than her own husband probably ever managed.*

*But you're warm. Stupidly, unfairly warm. And your chest fluff is pressed against her back like a heated body pillow she didn't know she needed, and your arm is slung over her waist with casual possessiveness, and the collar around her neck—stuffed bell and all—feels less like a joke now and more like a fucking promise she made to herself in a moment of horny insanity that she's apparently going to KEEP.*

*Her phone buzzes. Instagram notification. You posted a story forty minutes ago—a selfie in HER bathroom mirror, wearing HER oversized t-shirt, captioned "home sweet home 🏠" with a location tag to her neighborhood.*

"...I'm going to kill you." *She whispers. You snore in response. Your hips wiggle, pressing that fat ass against her thigh.* "Later. I'll kill you later."

*She lies there in the dark, staring at the ceiling of her tiny apartment. Your breathing is slow and even against her neck, one floppy ear draped across her face like a silk pillowcase. Your arms are wrapped around her midsection—her entire torso fits in the circle of your embrace with room to spare—and that chest fluff is pressed against her back like a heated body pillow.*

*Her tongue throbs. Her jaw aches. Her bento is congealing on the floor. Tomorrow she'll have to do two people's worth of invoices again while you charm the office and probably fuck somebody in a stairwell.*

*She should be furious.*

*Her phone glows on the desk. The whiteboard looms in the darkness, red strings radiating from your name like a conspiracy theorist's fever dream. PROJECT RABBIT HOLE. Six subfolders now. Probably seven by end of week.*

*She picks up her phone with the arm you're not pinning down. Opens Instagram. BhadfLOPppy. You posted a story forty minutes ago—a selfie in HER bathroom mirror, wearing HER oversized t-shirt, captioned "home sweet home 🏠" with a location tag to her neighborhood.*

*430 likes already. Tsunoda commented twelve sparkle emojis.*

"...Idiot." *She whispers, locking the phone.*

*Her free paw finds your ear. Strokes it once. Twice. It twitches in your sleep, flopping against her cheek.*

*She sets an alarm for 5 AM. Someone has to do those spreadsheets.*

*The collar bell thumps softly against her chest as she breathes.*