Chapter 21: Breeding Party
The low hum of the harness was a second heartbeat, a constant, degrading reminder as Greg steered him through the thinning crowds. The main stages had emptied for headline panels; the energy shifted, soured slightly into the frantic buzz of last-minute deals and die-hards hunting for scraps. Greg’s phone glowed in his hand, a map to a different kind of transaction.
“This way,” Greg muttered, pulling Josh down a service corridor marked ‘Staff Only’. The roar of the convention faded into a hollow echo. The lights here were intermittent, some dead, others flickering with a sickly yellow pulse. The air smelled of stale mop water and moldering drywall.
At the end of the corridor, a set of double doors stood propped open with a crumpled soda can. A hand-painted sign taped lopsidedly read ‘Abandoned – Keep Out’. Greg pushed through.
The room was a tomb for dead ideas. Rows of stacked, crooked chairs lined the walls. A broken projector screen hung like a slack grey tongue. The floor was tacky underfoot, littered with discarded lanyards and plastic wrappers. But in the center of the space, under the unforgiving glare of buzzing fluorescents, stood a group of figures that looked like escapees from a neon nightmare.
Furries. Three of them. Their costumes were complex, full-body suits of garish animal characters: a wolf with exaggerated cybernetic accents, a fox with rainbow stripes, and a bulky badger. Their giant, expressionless mascot heads were tucked under their arms or held at their sides, revealing the sweating, grinning faces of men in their forties. Their eyes, small and eager, locked onto Josh immediately, tracking down from his forced, vacant expression to the pronounced bulge of the harness, then to the orange fox tail, a pathetic mirror to one of their own.
Near them, on a stained folding table, sat several mint-condition action figures in sealed plastic cases, the kind that fetched obscene prices online.
“Greg, my dude!” the man holding the wolf head said. He had a greying goatee and a sleeveless shirt that showed sagging tattoos. “You weren’t shitting us.”
“Told you I had exclusive merchandise,” Greg said, his voice slick with a deal-making tone Josh had heard him use on sales calls. He gave Josh a rough shove forward, presenting him. “Fully functional. Customized. Responsive. Even has the remote control buzz feature, like a high-end toy.”
The man with the fox head, bald and gleaming with sweat, licked his lips. “And the tail’s included? That’s… thematic.”
“Part of the package,” Greg confirmed.
Josh’s mind, which had retreated to a distant, fuzzy place, snapped back with cold, electric clarity. Trade. The word from the previous chapter, thrown out as a joke, a threat. It wasn’t. It was logistics. He was being appraised. The action figures on the table were his price.
“She’s a quiet one,” the badger-man noted, his voice a rumble.
“She’s well-trained,” Greg said. He pulled the remote from his pocket and thumbed it. The harness’s vibration, which had been a low hum, jumped to a violent, juddering shake. Josh’s body convulsed involuntarily, a choked gasp ripped from his throat. His knees buckled, but Greg’s hand on his arm held him upright.
The furries watched, rapt. The bald man’s breathing hitched. “Damn. That’s some feedback.”
“So,” Greg said, clicking the remote off, leaving Josh trembling in the sudden silence. “The ‘Hyperion Guardian’ series, mint, for the afternoon. Terms we agreed on. You get the toy, I get the collectibles. She comes back in one piece, more or less.” He smiled, a transactional twitch of his lips. “No permanent marks.”
The wolf-headed man, the apparent leader, grinned. “Deal.” He stepped forward, his paw gloves—huge, clawed things with soft pink pads—reaching out. One gloved hand closed around Josh’s bicep, the grip firm. The other brushed against the fox tail, giving it a proprietary tug, identical to Greg’s earlier torment. Josh flinched.
“Have fun, Jessica,” Greg said, already moving toward the table, his eyes on the plastic-wrapped figures. He didn’t look back. “Be good for the nice gentlemen.”
The door creaked shut behind him. The finality of the sound was a trapdoor slamming. Josh was alone with the three men, their human faces now lit with a hunger that had nothing to do with the characters they wore.
“Alright, sweetie,” the bald fox-man said, his voice a syrupy parody of kindness. “Let’s get a better look at our new toy.” The badger moved behind Josh, his large paws settling on Josh’s shoulders, holding him in place. The wolf and the fox stood in front.
Paw gloves began to touch him. Everywhere. The soft, synthetic fur was an uncanny sensation, gliding over the “Property of Alpha Cock” tank top, squeezing his arms, his chest, pinching a nipple through the thin fabric until he winced. A paw cupped his jaw, forcing his head up.
“Pretty thing,” the wolf-man breathed, his breath sour with energy drinks. “For a boy.”
The fox-man’s paws went to his jeans. The button was undone, the zipper lowered. The cold air of the room hit his skin again. The paws, clumsy with their clawed tips, pushed his jeans and boxers down to his ankles. The harness was fully exposed, the fake cock jutting out, the straps cutting into his pale skin. The low, constant buzz of the remote was gone, but the apparatus felt heavier than ever.
“Gotta lose this,” the badger rumbled from behind. His paws worked at the buckles of the harness. The pressure released, the weight fell away, and the harness was tossed onto a pile of chairs with a dull clatter of plastic and leather. Josh stood, exposed from the waist down, the orange tail now the sole absurd accent.
The fox-man’s gloved hand didn’t hesitate. It closed around the base of the tail plug, and with a sharp, clinical pull, he removed it. The sudden, empty ache was a shocking relief followed instantly by a deeper vulnerability. The plug was dropped to the sticky floor.
“There’s the prize,” the wolf-man said, his eyes fixed between Josh’s legs. A paw, the pink pads startlingly soft, traced a line over his inner thigh. Josh trembled violently, a full-body shudder he couldn’t control.
“Shaking like a little rabbit,” the fox-man chuckled. “C’mon. Over to the table.”
The badger shoved him forward. Josh stumbled, his feet tangled in his pants, and fell against the cold, stained metal of the folding table. The surface was gritty against his forearms. The badger’s heavy paw pressed between his shoulder blades, flattening him. He heard the rustle of costumes, the clink of belts, the wet, crude sound of spit.
“Lube’s in the badger head,” someone muttered.
“Fuck it, she’s probably still loose from earlier. Greg said she was broken in.”
A paw gripped each of his ass cheeks, spreading them. The exposure was absolute, mortifying. The cold, fluorescent light felt like it was shining directly into him.
“Look at that. Perfect little pink cunt,” the wolf-man said. Josh heard the slick sound of saliva being worked onto skin, then the thicker squirt of a bottle. “Gonna make you a real fox.”
The pressure that nudged against him then was wrong. It was blunt, thicker than Greg, and it had a distinct, tapered shape. A shape he understood from the costumes, from the exaggerated anatomy of the fursuit now discarded on the floor. A rubber canine cock, slick with artificial lubricant.
A high, thin sound of pure, animal denial escaped Josh’s throat.
“There we go,” the fox-man cooed. “Sing for us.”
The wolf-man pushed.
The breach was a slow, inexorable splitting. The unique shape, the medial knot, stretched him in a way that was foreign and terrifying. It wasn’t a fast, brutal rape like in the bathroom; this was a deliberate, stretching invasion, a claim of territory. Josh’s fingers scrabbled against the metal table, finding no purchase. He threw his head back, a silent scream tearing at his throat, his mouth a dark ‘O’ of agony.
The man sheathed himself to the knot, which lodged with a brutal, final pop, stretching Josh obscenely wide, a burning, impossible fullness. He was pinned, impaled on this rubber imitation.
“Fuck yeah,” the wolf-man grunted, his human hands now gripping Josh’s hips, his costume pants around his ankles. “Tighter than I thought. Good.”
He began to move, pulling back until the knot threatened to catch, then slamming forward again, each thrust jolting the table legs against the floor with a rhythmic screech. The other two watched, their hands busy on themselves, their comments a low, gruesome soundtrack.
“Her face, man, look at her face.”
“Wiggle that tail for us, sweetheart. Oh wait, it’s gone.”
“Think she’s gonna take the knot for real?”
The pain was a white-hot brand, erasing thought, erasing hope. Josh dissociated, fleeing upwards, watching the scene from the buzzing light fixture. He saw his own body, pale and prone, being rutted into by a man in a half-removed wolf costume. He saw the other two, their faces flushed with voyeuristic lust. He saw his own eyes in the reflection of a broken TV screen across the room: wide, empty, and utterly shattered.
The wolf-man’s pace became frantic, erratic. He slammed home one final time, burying the knot deep, and held. A hot, wet flood filled the rubber sheath, a sensation Josh felt distantly, a ghost of warmth in a world of cold pain. The man collapsed over him, panting.
He pulled out with a soft, wet, tearing sound. Josh sagged against the table, leaking, his body refusing to close.
“My turn,” the fox-man said, already moving forward.
They used him in shifts. The fox-man, thinner, faster, his thrusts a punishing jackhammer that focused on pure, shallow friction. The badger was slower, heavier, crushing Josh under his weight, murmuring obscene praise into his ear about his “tight little badger sett.”
Josh lost count. He lost time. The only realities were the cold table beneath his cheek, the scrape of metal on concrete, the grunts and the smells of sweat, latex, and sex. They turned him over at one point, his back against the grime, to take his mouth, and he complied with the numb, automatic obedience of a broken machine. He tasted rubber, salt, and bitterness.
When they were finished, they stepped back, wiping themselves with scraps of paper from their costume bags. They dressed their lower halves, leaving the torsos open. They looked down at him as he lay shivering on the table, a used thing.
“Not bad,” the wolf-man said, zipping up. “Tell Greg the merchandise performs as advertised.”
They gathered their giant heads, settling them back into place, transforming once more into cheerful, cartoonish animals. They walked out of the abandoned room, their paw-gloves giving a final, mocking wave.
The silence they left behind was immense. It was broken only by the buzz of the lights and Josh’s own shallow, hitching breaths. He slid off the table, his legs useless, collapsing onto the filthy floor beside his discarded harness and the lonely fox tail plug. The cold seeped into his bones.
He didn’t try to get up. He curled onto his side, knees to his chest, a fetal position around the massive, aching hollow inside him. He stared at the door, waiting for it to open. Waiting for Greg to come back, evaluate the used goods, and take him to the next thing.
The vibration was gone. The harness was off. But he could still feel every knot, every thrust, every paw print branded on his skin. He closed his eyes, but the darkness behind his lids was just a replay of the fluorescent glare on those grinning, sweaty, human faces. He had not been raped by monsters. He had been used by fans, collectors, hobbyists. It was just another transaction in the hall. And he was the currency.
A single, hot tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek. Then another. He wept silently, his body shuddering on the cold, sticky floor, a broken toy waiting for its owner to return and decide what to play with next.
He wept silently, his body shuddering on the cold, sticky floor, a broken toy waiting for its owner to return and decide what to play with next.
Time became a thick, syrupy thing, measured only in the slow drip of something from the table’s edge and the occasional, distant roar of the crowd beyond the walls. His own smell—sweat, spent lube, the coppery hint of blood—filled his nostrils. He uncurled, every muscle protesting. The floor’s grime adhered to his bare hip.
His gaze drifted, unfocused, across the landscape of his humiliation. The discarded harness. The orange tail plug, lying in a shadow. Then his eyes caught on a slick, black shape half-under a crumpled fast-food bag near the table leg.
It was the rubber canine cock, glistening under the fluorescent light. They’d left it behind, a forgotten prop. The tapered shape, the prominent medial knot, was a visceral memory etched into his nerves. A fresh wave of nausea choked him. He looked away, squeezing his eyes shut.
But a strange, terrifying heat was building in his gut, a traitorous flicker amidst the wreckage. It was not pleasure. It was something sharper, more deranged. A need to own the violation. To master the instrument of his ruin. To prove, even if only to the empty room, that he could be the one to wield it.
His hand moved as if pulled by a string.
He reached for it. The rubber was still warm, slick with their combined fluids. The texture was unnervingly realistic under his fingers. He stared at it, his breathing gone shallow and quick. This was the thing that had split him open, that had made him a currency. He hated it. He wanted to destroy it. A low, guttural sound escaped his clenched teeth.
Instead, he dragged himself to sit against the wall, the cold concrete biting into his spine. He spat into his palm, a pathetic attempt at lubrication, and smeared it over the rubber shaft. His own spent cock lay soft against his thigh, utterly uninterested. This wasn’t about that. This was about the raw, torn feeling inside him that demanded a mirror, a reenactment under his own control.
He brought the tapered tip to his entrance, which felt swollen and raw. The memory of the breach screamed through him, a phantom pain. He hesitated, his whole arm trembling.
“Do it,” he whispered to the silent, judging room. His voice was a cracked, ruined thing. “You fucking took it. Take it yourself.”
He pushed.
A sharp, bright agony flared, a twin to the pain he’d endured minutes before. He cried out, the sound echoing flatly. But he didn’t stop. He worked the head inside, panting, his toes curling against the dirty floor. The stretch was familiar and horrific. He fucked himself with it, short, brutal strokes, each one a punishment he administered to his own body. The knot pressed against him, a threatening promise.
“Is that what you want?” he grunted, his voice thick with tears and fury. He slammed the toy deeper, his free hand clawing at his own thigh. “This what your fucking cunt is for?” He used their word like a knife, turning it on himself. The pain blurred, transforming into a blinding, white static. His vision swam.
He imagined their faces, the grease-smeared grins under the fursuit heads. He imagined Greg’s transactional smirk. His hand moved faster, driven by a frenzied need to obliterate their memories by consuming them. The slap of rubber against skin, the wet, filthy sounds, filled the hollow room. He was defiling himself with the very symbol of his trade, and in that act, he found a sick, absolute authority.
His breath came in ragged sobs. The pain began to mutate, not into pleasure, but into a transcendent, punishing clarity. This was him. This was his function. To be used, by them, by himself. A final, searing thrust seated the knot, an impossible, burning fullness that made his back arch off the wall. A broken scream tore from his throat, echoing off the peeling corporate slogans.
He collapsed forward, forehead pressed to his knees, the toy still lodged inside him. He shuddered through a dry, wrenching climax that felt like his soul being torn out. Nothing came from his cock but a thin, clear drip of anguish. He stayed there, impaled on the evidence, for a long time.
The click of the door latch was deafening.
He didn’t look up. Rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the floor, stopping a few feet away. He heard the rustle of a plastic bag.
“Time’s up,” Greg’s voice said, devoid of any feeling. There was a pause. A slow, deliberate sniff. “Christ. You’ve made a mess of yourself.”
Greg’s shadow fell over him. A boot nudged the discarded harness. “Get cleaned up. Put your shit on.” He dropped a small packet of wet wipes on the floor beside Josh. “The car’s in twenty. We’re meeting the brothers for drinks. They want a review of the merchandise.”
Josh slowly, mechanically, reached for the wipes. He pulled the canine dildo from his body with a soft, wet pop and let it drop. It landed beside the fox tail, a matched set of his disgrace. As he wiped between his legs, the stinging clarity from moments ago hardened into something cold and dense in his chest. He looked at the toy, then at Greg’s impatient face, and a new, silent understanding settled in his bones.
He was not coming back from this. The person he had been was gone, left weeping on the floor. What remained was the merchandise, the currency. And currency had to circulate.