Hurley Canton was a wolf on a mission.  A mission not from God, but from the hospitality department of the Cheshire.  And the Cheshire happened to be the most exclusive luxury high-rise in Trinity.  And Trinity just happened to be the center of all that was hip and happening...and rich.  The Cheshire had an opening for a concierge, and the wolf was in the market for work.

Trinity was money, and Hurley wanted some of it.  Hell, he just wanted a job.  Anyone unemployed for eight months would jump at the chance at any kind of a job as long as it kept a roof over his head and filled the gaps on his résumé.  

The wolf stood amid racks of shirts and pants, suits and slacks, looking absolutely lost.  He had already refused help from two male clerks, and they had most likely brushed him off as a browser, not a buyer.  But Hurley was here to buy, because he had to, because he wanted this job and he wanted to impress at his interview.  

He wished he could have gone to Nordstrom, where the selection was wider and the salespeople were uppity enough to know how to dress a chocolate-brown wolf with big feet.  Hurley was no slouch when it came to fashion, but sitting on his ass being alternately depressed and determined for so long had somewhat diluted what passed for acceptable.

Which was why he was in H&M, surrounded by modestly-priced textiles à la mode.  Hurley needed to dress the part without spending the money, at least not until he had the job with its thousand-dollar-per-month uniform allowance.  Walmart was obviously out; anyone living in Trinity would be able to spot Faded Glory from a mile away.  Ross would be adequate but chancy, with its limited offerings and no help from the staff.  So, with his budget in mind, the wolf had ended up here in the purgatory between poverty and pretentiousness.

Now he felt lost, dressed in khaki cargo shorts and a T-shirt from his alma mater, in need of a trim and a good mani-pedi.  He also felt bad for dismissing the effeminate rhino who had first approached him, and then the pleasant quick-lipped ermine who had tried for the rebound.  They were assisting a rabbit over in the footwear department, but the wolf could feel them watching him.  Waiting for him to fail, maybe, and walk out?  Or to come crawling back begging for educated habilitation?  Well, Hurley knew some color theory.  He could figure it out.

Five minutes later, he couldn't figure it out.  His eyes darted from the cashmere polos to the silk button-ups with English tab collars, then fell in disgrace.  Pulling hangers out from the racks, he compared each to the fur on his wrist and shook his head.  Nothing was coming together for him.  He'd never had to think about this while working the front desk at the Chamberlain Inn, his last job.  Black pants and a company shirt with a logo, good to go.  

“Fucking ridiculous,” Hurley growled, catching his claws on something made of rayon.  “I don't know where to start.”

“You've got the right idea,” lilted  a smooth alto from behind him.  Hurley turned around but had to lower his gaze.  A slim fox stood on the other side of the rack, almost as if he'd been hiding behind it.  “Starting with the wrist is the best way, unless the color there isn't your dominant color.”

Hurley glanced around the store, seeing no trace of the rhino or ermine.  Maybe they sent one of their compatriots over from the women's section for the charming third try.  Stores like these often paid commission, resulting in a kind of passive-aggressive bullpen.  But then, why had the other two given up so easily?

“Do...you work here?” asked the wolf, putting back something green and rather ugly when compared with his fur.  The fox followed it with a similar look of thinly-masked disgust.

“No, not exactly.  But...I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night,” he managed clumsily.  Clever, maybe, but perhaps a mistake.

“You're not from around here, then.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I am.  I was just trying for a joke.”

Hurley chuckled softly.  The fox's ears were back, their little black tips nearly invisible against the backdrop of casual clothing and dark carpet.  “There aren't any of those in Trinity.  I work hospitality.”  Well, I used to.

The wolf watched as the fox's neck and face floofed up a bit, the vulpine version of a blush.  What was more striking was how good the little guy looked, how assertive his clothes made him seem despite his demeanor.  For some reason, the saccharin-pink short-sleeved shirt he was wearing accentuated his natural russet, cinched by a thin black belt and tucked into creased white trousers.  Even the pleats lay perfectly flat and spaced.  It was stylish in a Birdcage kind of way.

“I'm sorry,” the fox said.  “That kind of fell on its face.  Well, anyway...hmm...can I still ask you the question I was going to ask?

“I didn't know you wanted to ask a question in the first place,” Hurley admitted.  “But sure, I guess.”

“This is going to sound really weird.”

“I'm already weirded out.  Shoot.”

“Okay.”  The fox fiddled with his paws nervously.  “I want you to try clothes on for me.”  Before the wolf could even lift a finger, he continued, “That sounded bad.  I-I meant, it's my boyfriend's birthday in a week, and he hasn't told me anything he wants yet.   I don't think he wants anything, really, except me, which is awesome, but I want to get him something anyway.”

“Okay,” said Hurley.  “And you thought a random person would have a better idea than you.”  He didn't phrase it as a condescending question; no need to.  The fox looked frustrated anyway.  

“No!  I mean, no.  Because he's a wolf, and—”

“And you thought I would somehow be 'in tune' with all things lupine?”  Now, that would have sounded condescending if Hurley hadn't been smiling and wagging pointedly.

Stamping and grunting, the fox squeaked, “It's not like that!”  He fidgeted a bit more before blurting, “You look like him...well, not exactly like him, he's grey.  But you're like his exact size and I can't just put a measuring tape on him and say, 'Oh, it's nothing.'”

“So, you need me to try clothes on,” Hurley confirmed.

“Yes!”  The fox sagged in relief.  “Please.”  Oh, but this was perfect.  Whether karma or destiny, the wolf had lucked out in his moment of need.  He didn't have to worry about style, that was for sure.  By the way the fox was dressed, not because he was gay.  But the gay part didn't hurt.  Or something.  Whichever worked more to Hurley's favor.

“I think I can help out,” said the wolf.  “If you can help me.”

Sizing Hurley up, the fox asked, “H-how so?”

“When I said I work hospitality, I meant that I used to.  I've been between jobs, but I have an interview in a few days with nothing to wear.”

“Omigod,” the fox gasped before straightening up and offering his paw.  “Lennox Worthing, foxtraordinaire, at your service.  I can totally help with that.”

“Well, alright,” replied Hurley, wagging along with Lennox.  “Are you a Lenny or a Noxie?”

“Neither,” stated the fox.  “Given name all the way.”

“Fair enough.  Alright, Lennox.  School me.”  The fox fairly beamed, his blue eyes startling against his face fur.  He reached into a back pocket and pulled out a tape measure.

“First things first,” he stated.  “We measure.”  

“Right here in the middle of the store?”

“Those guys would have done the same thing, if they cared about making a deal,” said the fox, tilting his head toward the sales counter.  Then his arms were around the wolf's belly, pulling the tape snug at his navel.  “Waist, thirty-six.”

“I need to lose a little weight,” Hurley admitted sheepishly, though Lennox shook his head.  

“You're fine.  Besides, then you wouldn't be the same size as my wolf, and this wouldn't have worked out.”  Lennox stood on his tiptoes and drew the tape around his chest, a solid thirty-eight inches.  “Nice and broad.”

“College football.  It hasn't all gone away, thank God.”  Only after saying that did Hurley notice how at ease the fox seemed now that he'd gotten the go-ahead.  His paws moved with a swift assuredness that belied his previous hesitation.  The wolf could understand Lennox's being intimidated by his species, or maybe just the fact that Hurley was taller.  But when the fox thumbed the tape against his ankle and glided up to bump his sac out of the way, the wolf was the one who flinched.  Lennox eased up the last couple inches before declaring a healthy thirty-two.  

“Pants'll be easy to find,” the fox declared.  “And I think there are plenty of shirts to sift through.  Now, I need you on your knees, please.”

“I...okay.”  As soon as Hurley came down Lennox stretched the tape along each of his arms, and then around his neck, giving the wolf a whiff of something mellow and expensive laid atop his natural scent.  

“All right, you're good.”

Hurley got to his feet.  “Don't you think you should be writing those down somewhere?”

“Why?” asked the fox, tilting his ears but not his head.  “It's only a few numbers.  I've already practically dressed you in my head, but the store may not have what I'm thinking.”  

“Okay, I trust you.”

“You should.”  A grin pricked the edges of Lennox's slender muzzle, baring the glint of a fang.  “I don't just fall out of bed looking like this.”  Hurley had to stop himself from saying something that might be toeing the line of propriety.  Would have been funny in front of his usual circle of friends, though.  Maybe there was something wrong with that...

Lennox weaved his way between racks and around display cases full of decent-looking clothing that, for some reason or another, would never work on him.  Here was a selection of fine cotton casual wear...if you had wings.  There was a stack of sleek-looking pants...but only if you happened to possess an otter's tail.  Lennox walked them right through the footwear department without even looking, giving Hurley hope the fox would not, in fact, try to shoehorn him into something.

Stopping at a round table piled high with dress shirts, the fox proceeded to sift through them.  “What did you say your interview was for again?”

“Concierge,” Hurley replied.  He didn't dare touch anything; the fox was on his own mission now.

“You wanna be a bellboy?”

“At the Cheshire.”

Lennox froze.  “Oh.  Oh, shit.  Okay, so we need formal-looking but casual-wearing, not stuffy, fashion-forward, subtle but impressive.  Easy.”

“If you say so.”  

“Gimme your wrist.”  The wolf offered it, and Lennox paired shirt after shirt with it.  After the first few, Hurley noticed a pattern:  blues, neutrals and other browns looked okay while yellow, green and anything approaching orange were hideous.  Then the fox lay something soft against his arm and it sang.  “This is it.”

“I think I agree,” Hurley muttered.  The shirt was an iridescent lavender, or maybe a shade darker, and felt like silk without the wet look.  Up against his chocolate fur it stood out in a way that was subtle but noticeable.  And Lennox was cooing over it.  

“Oh, you lucky wolf,” he said.  “If I weren't buying for someone else I would get this thing.  I rock purples.”

“And pinks, too,” Hurley added.  “I don't know why, though.”

“Me neither.  Actually, when I first put on this shirt, I knew I looked good but I didn't know why.  And I still can't figure it out.”  Hurley could have mentioned it probably had more to do with the fact that Lennox was an attractive fox—in a purely aesthetic sense—but that might seem weird.  Then again, letting this little guy dress him for what could be the most important interview of his life might be weird too.  

Lennox looked through a couple similar shirts before finding the right size.  “Thank God they have it.  Let's go to the ties.”

“Isn't the tie just an accent?” Hurley asked, making the fox stop dead in his tracks, his tail a limp extension.  It was then the wolf realized he should stop asking questions about things that weren't his forte.

Turning around, Lennox walked back to the wolf, nose-to-chest.  Sighed.  Looked up and tried to seem imposing.  Failed.  Spoke anyway.  “The tie isn't the accent.  It's the focus.”  The fox reached up and poked Hurley between the eyes, talking as he drew the pad along his muzzle and down to his chest.  “When people meet you, the first thing they see is your eyes.  Then they look down and out, and they go straight to the tie if you have one.  It completes the parallelism and symmetry of the body.  Your ears go all over the place, your tail's always moving.  But your tie—” the fox made a karate-chop motion against the wolf's breastbone “—anchors you.”  

The sudden intensity was so foreign from how the fox had first seemed that Hurley didn't know how to respond.  He couldn't be taken aback because Lennox intended no offense.  “The shirt is the base,” he continued, spreading his fingers around the wolf's sides.  “The suit, the pretty wrapping.  It's meant to go with everything, unless you're rich enough to afford one for each day of the week.  Everything else is icing.”

Hurley made sure his ears wouldn't contradict his sincerity.  “I guess I really don't know what I'm doing.”

“You just proved it,” said Lennox, smiling.  “So why not stand there and look pretty so I can make you look good.”  The wolf assented with a mock-zipping motion around his muzzle.  

Lennox led the way to a round tie table, one of several in that section of the store.  They didn't appear to be organized according to color or pattern or anything else, as far as the wolf could tell.  The fox dived right in, tracing his fingers along the various surfaces, avoiding the use of his claws.  “All the ones worth wearing are going to be silk.  Otherwise they don't lay right.  People can tell.  People at the Cheshire will crucify you.”  
 
Setting the shirt down on the table, the fox proceeded to sift through the ties, pulling most of the brown ones out.  They looked awful next to his brown-black gloves, but tasteful next to the shirt.  After bringing various ties from the other tables and narrowing it down to five that went with the shirt (Lennox didn't say a word the whole time), the fox put one at a time under Hurley's throat.  With two left, he held them up.  “Which one?”

“Do you want my opinion, or is this a test?”  

“Which one?” asked the fox again, revealing nothing in tone nor expression.  Hurley took each tie in a paw.  Both were exactly the same shade of brown as his fur, but the left had a subtle black crisscross design while the right had alternating stripes of different weaves.  Both felt the same, and both felt expensive.  Neither one was over thirty dollars, which was a relief because the wolf had seen ties worth hundreds at stores near downtown Trinity.  Without a mirror, he wouldn't be able to tell how they looked on him.

Maybe the fox expected him to be able to tell just by looking.  So he took a leap.  

“This one,” he said, handing the crisscrossed tie back to Lennox.

“Why?”  

“Because it's pretty.  That's all I know.  Did I at least get it right?”

Lennox tossed the striped tie back onto the table and grabbed the shirt.  “Yes and no.  You made the right choice, but you don't know why.”

“Would you care to tell me, or am I too much of a plebeian to deserve it?”

“The diagonal windowpane smacks of sophistication.  Of a trained eye, and it will go with the suit I'm picking out.  Coordination is key.”

“What was wrong with the stripes?” Hurley asked, following the fox to the suits.  

“What wasn't wrong?  They would have clashed with everything.”  Instead of countering that the windowpane tie was basically striped as well, the wolf merely allowed himself to be led further into the realm of fashion with questionable motives.

The business of choosing a suit was made easy, according to Lennox, by the type of job for which he was applying.  Sport combos were out completely (way too casual and not serious), as were tuxedos (Hurley was not anyone's best man).  That left something dark, understated and solid, flattering to his figure and his fur.

“Anything but black, preferably with texture,” said the fox, rifling through ranks of coats.  He talked of Z-buttons and besom pockets and boutonnieres, but all Hurley saw were different flaps and angles and slits.  He did enjoy learning which collars were inappropriate versus which ones would impress.  At the end of it all, looking at the dark charcoal set the fox had picked, he still didn't know exactly why.  Even so, he had to trust someone who was going far out of his way to help him, even if they both benefited. 

Perhaps the easiest thing of all was choosing a belt.  “Thin and black,” Lennox recited like a mantra.  And, apparently, two inches bigger than his waist size.  “A little bit more belt past the loop, the thinner the perception of your waist.  Doesn't work on chubbies though.”  Lennox actually approved of the simple black band with its silver buckle, and they moved on.  

To shoes.

Lennox led the way, covered in clothing, over to the corner of the store where the dressing rooms were located.  But when he veered off into Digitigrade Fashions the wolf's heart seemed to sink and leap at the same time.  It all ended up in his throat, where he tried—and failed—to swallow it down.  When the fox turned around, holding up a nice patent-leather wraparound sandal with a leather sole, he must have seen something on Hurley's face that told him it wasn't going to work.

“You have trouble with shoes?”

“I don't wear them.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“In the rain?”

“I try not to go out in the rain.”  Lennox quirked an eyebrow.  “I have big feet!  Nothing bad enough to get teased about, but enough to make shoes suck for me.”

Eyeing the sandal dolefully, the fox put it back on the shelf.  Placing his foot up against Hurley's, he whistled low.  To call it dainty, with its shiny blackish fur and click-clack perfect claws, would be an understatement.  “Yeah, I didn't notice it that much before.  We're different species, but still...”

“What am I supposed to do?”  Panic crept into the wolf's voice.  “I was hoping maybe, maybe this place I'm interviewing at would be ritzy enough to not care about shoes.  I know they're not mandatory formal wear, but these people...these people spend more on grooming than I made in a year at my old job.”

“Did you happen to see what the staff were wearing when you were there?” asked the fox, looking around for other options.  So did Hurley.  Everything he saw, from the Florsheim Lupine Signature Collection to the Padz Hopper I, looked either too small, too narrow or too expensive.

Hurley shrugged.  “I was too busy nodding and not believing I had a shot at landing the job.  It wasn't until I got home that I realized I had nothing to wear.”

“Okay, okay.”  Lennox nodded toward one of the fitting chairs.  “Take a seat and I'll look around.  Actually, lemme go get the size thingy.”  Sagging into the leather, the wolf steepled his fingers against his muzzle and tried not to worry.  He couldn't help but let it get to him.  All that time spent waiting in the lobby of the Cheshire and not once had he stopped to actually look at what people were wearing.  It was a miracle he'd even gotten this far, and he'd be damned if he would lose because of some fucking shoes.

A moment later Lennox returned with a metal sizing device.  “Lift.”  Hurley placed his foot on the paw-print outline and watched while the fox attempted to slide the various indicators into place.  When he found he couldn't move three of them, he shook his head.  “Wow, you really are shit out of luck.”

The wolf threw his paws up.  “Do we just put all the clothes back?” he practically growled.

Lennox looked for a moment like he might agree.  Instead he said, “Hang tight.  I'll be back.”  And once again, the wolf was left with his thoughts.  Which consisted of wondering how he'd gotten himself into this situation, and ultimately doubting whether he even deserved the concierge job.  By the time he'd started to settle into mild self-loathing, he heard a squeal from near the back of the footwear department.  Then the clicking of little vulpine claws before Lennox skittered to a stop in front of him, holding up what he'd found.

“You.  Are.  Complete.”  

“You're kidding me,” muttered the wolf, eyeing the black leather spats the fox had, one in each paw.  They looked distressed in an avant-garde kind of way.  “Does anybody even wear those anymore?  They look stupid.”

“They're darling,” corrected the fox, wiggling them until the wolf took them.  “Not as expensive as real shoes, and they serve as kind of a compromise since you can't fit anything in the store.  Take a trip to the groomer and you'll be all set.  I don't know about my man, but I just saw you in them and had to try.”

“If you say so.”  At this point, Hurley was just about fed up with the whole thing.  He kept telling himself that Lennox knew what he was talking about.  The proof would be in the fitting, and the fitting would be in the dressing room.  “Shall I put all this on?”

“Sure.  Indulge me.”  The fox appeared to be expecting confirmation, not merely waiting for a judgment.  He held the pile up for the wolf to take, and Hurley padded off to the dressing room with a growing dread.  For some reason he found it odd the fox wasn't following him, at least to the door.

H&M's setup valued privacy over loss protection:  a single hallway with doors on either side ran about fifteen feet down, with a handicapped-accessible room on the end.  Each room was its own enclosed space, and while Hurley didn't much mind, he appreciated it all the same.  Since it was a weekday (oh, the privilege of shopping while jobless!) and traffic was light, the wolf went straight to the end door.

After setting down his burden, the clothes came off.  Lennox was right about him needing a good grooming; his claws could use some clipping and filing, and he was just a little too scraggly all over.  Maybe, just maybe, he could spring for a cream bath at the local Dunk-N-Dash near his apartment.  His store-bought conditioner meant well, but didn't always deliver.

A small knock on the door made him jump.  “It's just me,” said Lennox through the gap.  “Found the finishing touch.”  Hurley rolled his eyes, but opened the door a crack and peeked out.  A pair of black silk boxers sailed onto his face.

“What are these for?”  A stupid question, yes, but still valid.

“The finishing touch,” Lennox repeated, poking his nose into the room.  “As long as you're getting everything else, you might as well top it off.  With your bottom.”

“Nobody's going to see these!”

“No, but you'll feel better.  Like how dressing up makes for better posture.  I...I can't tell you without sounding weird, so just trust me.  It'll make you feel great.”  With that, the fox withdrew.

So, his old trusty cotton boxers fell to the floor and on went Lennox's selection.  No sense in trying them on over something else, if the point was the feel.  And feel they did.  Hurley winced, not because they were so bad but because they were so good and the fox had been so right.  Of course, they fit perfectly.  And hid his almost non-existent love handles.  And swished against his fur like cool new sheets on a spring morning.  And plumped him up a bit.  He indulged in a little fluffing but quit before he became noticeably indecent.  

Doubt notwithstanding, the wolf could only shake his head as his fox-picked outfit came together.  The lavender of the shirt didn't look right until it had been buttoned all the way, and when he tucked it into the pants and cinched the belt he looked slimmer than what his tees and shorts could ever hope to achieve.  The tie did exactly what Lennox said it would, the little fucker.  Even the spats were comfortable, lined in a soft felt that cradled his ankles and gave his otherwise clumsy-looking feet a metropolitan polish.  Once the suit coat was on and buttoned, all the wolf had to do was stand there and admire himself.

“Are you decent?” called the fox, who came in without waiting for an answer.  “Oh fuck, you are very decent.  Let me have a look at you.”  He closed the door behind him and gaped.  “I knew I could design my way out of a paper bag, but...wow!”

“I have to say I doubted you for a second there.”

“You doubted me the whole time,” Lennox retorted, sidling up to the wolf and running his paws all over.  “This coat won't even need tailoring.  Look at your shoulders, the lay of the fabric is perfect!”

“Okay, I doubted you.  But I can admit when I'm wrong, and I was.  There isn't a single thing I would change about it.”  Including the boxers, he thought.  Those felt very nice.  So did Lennox's rapt attention as he picked and poked at seams and folds.

“This is so sexy,” the fox cooed.  “Well, it'll look sexy on my guy, I mean.”  He was panting, though, which for some reason wasn't creepy as much as it was flattering.  Maybe it was flattering that Lennox had his paws on the wolf's rear as well.  Maybe.  “See what I mean about the material?  The way this is sewn together just kind of lifts the butt into shape.”

“Uh, nobody's going to be looking there.  I hope.”

“Oh yes, they will.”  Lennox came around front, smoothing the wolf's shirt down, tracing claws into his collar and waistband.  “Those gaps are nice, just enough to fit but not enough to bind.  I mean, they're looking at the whole package, not just your clothes.  Though the clothes, more often than not, make the male.”

“I still have to make a good impression.”  Hurley looked into the mirror and saw the stricken expression on his own face.  Lennox's tail was up.  It could have been that the fox was happy to see his fashion sense proved.  But as he bent to inspect the spats, that tail curled right up and over his back and Hurley got a whiff of something he wasn't sure he wanted to be smelling.

Lennox nosed around the wolf's ankles, tugging and fretting but ultimately satisfied.  “Even with the angle of your leg, my inseam measurement was dead on.  And those spats just make the whole outfit,” he said, turning Hurley to the side.  “See how it straightens your profile so you don't look so crouchy-predatory?  I think the key is to make you less intimidating, subconsciously, and more approachable.”

“What about your boyfriend?”

“Oh, well, he can be however he wants.  I might look at something cut different, but I like this as it is.  It's a shame to cover these legs just for a job, but you're not there to attract attention.”

“I'm not?”  Now Hurley couldn't hide his confusion.

“You're there to look good while being transparent.”

“What happened to the total package?”  It was starting to get stuffy, despite the extra space over the other rooms.

“You can flaunt your package while blending in.  You just need some practice.”

“So...my package is supposed to be transparent.”  

“Oh no, your package is far from transparent,” murred Lennox, putting his paws over Hurley's pants and pressing.  “Which reminds me, I have to make sure of a few more things, comparison-wise.  So I'm not buying something that's impractical to use.”

The twitching of those black-tipped ears.  The slow, sultry swaying of the tail.  The scent of horny vulpine in the air.  Hurley was beginning to think he'd been had.

“Your boyfriend...”

“Yup, this material does a good enough job of hiding the bulge, but it doesn't go out of its way to disguise it as negative space.”  Now Hurley suspected the fox was just talking out his ass, using his paws to prove his point.  The wolf turned back, only to find himself literally backed into a corner.  He watched the mirror-Hurley get molested by the mirror-Lennox with dismay, and a growing firmness under the fox's touch. 

As much as Hurley wanted to be mad, or even just irritated, he found it hard while he became hard.  If one wanted to be uptight about it, one could call assault and get the police involved.  Or merely storm away without thanking Lennox for his help.  But the fox really had come through on his promise to dress the wolf, mutually beneficial as it was.  This was not blackmail and this was not seduction.  It was something, alright.  Something Hurley didn't know if he could stop, or if he wanted to.  

Fuck.

“You're a big boy.  Hm, about the same size, which is fortunate.”  Lennox nuzzled against the wolf's growing mass, dragging his whiskers along with the grain of the fabric while his paws found the subjacent bulge of his sac and stroked along it as best they could.  “Aren't those boxers as wonderful as I told you they would be?”

“ I'd...say so.”  They were better, actually.  They were sliding along his sheath in a most delicious way that didn't catch his fur like cotton and felt almost liquid.  When his tip slipped out and drizzled into the silk, the sensation improved, if that was even possible.  Where his old boxers would have gotten sticky, these things merely got seasoned.  

“Silk is great for lounging or when you're out and about but you'd rather go commando.  There's that little bit of protection between you and the zipper, but nothing's constricted.”

“Your wolf wear those?”

“Mmm.”  Vague and noncommittal at best.  The entire dressing room now smelled of fox, and a little wolf was starting to creep in as well.  Not a matter of attraction, but of response.  Lennox threaded the claw of his index finger into Hurley's fly and pulled down, slowly.  Its travel was smooth and silent, befitting a pant of quality.  “Easy access, and it's plastic, so no catching.”  The fox zipped up and down a few more times before leaving Hurley open and straining.  

The time for words—at least, words that might carry the slightest bit of protestation—had passed.  Hurley found himself merely staring at the scene and the clothes unfolding before him.  Lennox was a fox of a single mind, a horny mind, and he parted the pants the wolf had so carefully put on and reached into the boxers he had been enjoying so much and pulled his half-sheathed length into the open, balls and all.  

He licked his lips.  Hurley gulped.

“That's gonna get so big,” Lennox murmured.  “I can tell with these things.”  That was probably the first thing about the fox today that the wolf didn't doubt at all.  “You see how simple that was, to just go in there with a direct line and take it?”

“Uh, yeah.”  Hurley felt he should be occupying his paws somehow, but they stayed at his sides for lack of knowing a proper place to put them.  Lennox seemed not to mind, as he was more focused on coaxing more of the wolf's meat out from hiding.  He looked hungry.

“That's gonna be nice, getting him all dressed up.  Maybe taking him out to a fancy dinner, getting him all riled up with some footsie, and then taking it all off again after.  Starting with this.”  Lennox took the creamy sheath in his fingers and drew his tongue up, then over the head where it stuck out.  Then he pursed his lips and went down.  All the way.

For some reason, Hurley hadn't expected it to go this far.  Somehow in his mind he'd gotten the idea that it would all be some kind of show, a reverse striptease, and they would thank each other and the wolf would go home and take care of his boner by himself.  But since Lennox had skinned him to the knot with his lips and made him realize how worked up he really was, no way was he about to skip out.  Seeing his not insubstantial member disappear into the fox's muzzle, watching the scene unfold in the mirror, was a much more interesting option.

His paws now had a place to go, and that place was the top of Lennox's head.

Shuffling on his knees, the fox adjusted his height and started bobbing, hefting Hurley's sac and humming appreciatively.  The boxers had been stimulating enough, but Lennox's mouth was a whole different kind of silk.  Alternately sucking and licking, he kept the stimulation on a plateau instead of trying to bring it to a crescendo as fast as possible.  When he happened to look up into the wolf's face, his eyes were silently thankful as well as submissive and even carried a glint of playfulness.  In the mirror his tail swept to and fro along the floor, its tip twitching syncopation.

While Lennox wasn't necessarily going slowly, he was going silently.  Hurley only now noticed how little sound they made, even in this enclosed space.  No slurping, popping or smacking.  Just the rustle of fur and whatever saliva mixed with the wolf's precum.  It lent an air of naughtiness and of taboo, and best of all it blew all of his previous blowjobs right out of the water.  And all those girls had claimed to be good!  Oh, wolf of low standards.

Rather than seeming wooden, it wouldn't hurt to reciprocate in whatever way he felt comfortable.  A light scritching behind one of the fox's ears created an adorable muffled squeak and more attention to his cockhead.  Stroking from forehead to nape got a vermoid tongue working its way under the bunched edge of his sheath, spreading lubrication around until his knot slipped out like a dismounted tire.

“See,” panted the fox, a string of thick fluid connecting his lips and Hurley's tip, “no elastic to get in the way or bind things to one side.  Oh, that's gonna be tough to take.”  And he hungrily went back down.  

Hurley didn't know which he was enjoying more:  bathing in the tingle and growing glow from between his legs or watching the way Lennox did what he did.  One could say that he was a living stereotype, with his Key West getup and his softer-than-most nature, but just because he could give a killer blowjob didn't mean he was a representation of the species.  He was just talented.

Pulling back, the fox grasped behind his knot and slapped himself across the face a few times, licking the residue from his whiskers with an almost catlike efficiency.  His eyes glistened almost as much as the pink flesh before them, bobbing with Hurley's pounding heart.  “No discomfort?”  It took a second for the wolf to realize he was referring to the clothes and not the oral.  

“Still fine,” he replied.  

“ Good.”  Lennox stood up.  “I bet the material is soft and flexible enough for some real movements.  Let's try that theory, for the sake of argument.”  When the fox turned around and braced himself on the mirror, Hurley got the feeling he wouldn't get the chance to argue.  Heady vulpine scents filled his nose, making him dizzy with their thickness if not their intent.  He looked at Lennox's backside, traced the curve of rump with his eyes.  He looked down at his cock, a reddish arrow if it was anything.  He didn't know what to say, if he should say anything at all.

“I don't think I can do it,” the wolf blurted stupidly.

“ Sure you can,” said the fox.  Lennox fumbled with his belt until it fell open, then smiled at the wolf from the mirror.  “One little button and you're done.  The tail hole makes for easy access.”  And he giggled, as if presenting himself to basically a complete stranger was the most natural thing in the world.  “Just pop and pull.”  The fox wanted him to do it.  He wanted him to want to do it.

His fingers trembling, Hurley lay his paw atop Lennox's rear.  He squeezed; the fox was firm but pliable underneath.  The white jeans were form-fitting but not tight, secured above his tail with a simple button-and-flap design underneath the belt.  Pushing the leather aside, he tugged the flap over the button and let it go, allowing the jeans to fall an inch or so.  When Lennox relaxed his tail, they fell to the floor.  The hypocrite fox went commando.

Without those pesky pants in the way, the fox's tail went up and over his back.  It was almost a shame to break up the tasteful ensemble he'd been wearing, but Hurley had to admit his new view was...well...damn nice.  Shiny red fur turned to white just before the twin rounds of his buttocks merged, and within that white sat a tidy pink crease.  Not the first one the wolf had seen, by any means, but the first one accompanied by a soft furry sac below.  Something about it made Hurley want to reach out and touch it, but he held back.  As if in a trance, he gripped the fox's hips as if they were handles and pulled himself closer until his length subducted between Lennox's legs.  Their balls weren't touching, but his cock was.  Same difference.

“You're warm,” said the fox.  “I'm warmer.”  More questions about Lennox's dubious morality swirled in the wolf's head, but it really came down to being an accessory.  If the fox wanted to cheat, he was going to cheat.  He'd obviously gone to great lengths to make this happen, and the least Hurley could do was be flattered enough to fuck him.  It sounded awful, but that's what it came down to.  He gasped when he felt a cool slickness on his length, then fingers spreading it from tip to knot.

“ What is that?”

“I'm sorry, but you're not going in dry.  Foxes don't lube themselves, you know.”  He giggled.  “Most foxes.  I kinda primed myself.”

“ You planned this.”  No shit, countered the wolf's brain.  He thought about confirming it, but he knew he would find the fox's hole already slick.  He certainly felt it when Lennox guided him up and pressed him under his tail.  The fur there was short, soft and slippery.  Raw heat sat against his tip.

“I gave you a bunch of fashion advice and clothes to wear.  It's only fair I get to try something on for size in return.”  Lennox bent at the waist and sat back, spreading easily around the wolf's first few inches.  Hurley bucked forward, finishing the job up to the knot.  “Oh man.  Oh, that's nice.  Not so bad once you get used to it.”  The fox could have been speaking for either of them.  

Hurley looked at his reflection.  He saw an otherwise handsome wolf with a pained look on his face.  In that look he saw unease and undecidedness, arousal and abandon.  He also saw the satisfaction behind Lennox's grimacing muzzle even though half his face was plastered against the mirror.  What else was there to do besides keep on going?  There wasn't any pride at stake:  Hurley wouldn't lose any of his and the fox might as well have earned his by leading the wolf this far in the first place.  

Spreading his thumbs to see where they joined, the wolf felt powerful.  He looked powerful, in his smart suit and power tie and fucking spats.  He looked like he belonged behind the squirming fey fox, reddish fur bunched up between his chocolate fingers, even if he didn't feel like he belonged.  But he was already here, so when he withdrew most of his length he allowed himself to enjoy hearing Lennox moan and scrape his claws against the glass.

If the fox had something to say, he lost the ability to articulate it when Hurley sank back in, daring to push some of his knot between the valleys of white fuzz.  Lennox fucked back onto the bulge, succeeding in stretching himself before the wolf took it away for another thrust.  

Lennox would open his mouth, but Hurley would hit a spot or change pace, resulting in gritted teeth or a slack jaw.  Hurley wouldn't know how to respond anyway; he had just barely moved on from awkwardness into something more comfortable and he didn't want to add performance anxiety to something that, honestly, was becoming pretty hot.  

“You've done this before,” said the fox, his words disjointed and breathy.

“Not like this.”  

“Ooooooooh.”  Lennox grinned broadly.  “My lucky day.  Come on then, work it in.”

Hurley was glad the fox couldn't see him rolling his eyes.  “It won't fit.”

“You can make anything fit.  You just have to tailor it.”  Lennox spread his palms against the mirror and pushed the wolf back against the wall.  Waves of sensation roiled around the base of his member as the fox gave way almost to the midpoint of Hurley's knot, but backed off to catch his breath.  Hurley didn't know about tailoring, but he was sure something had to be tearing down there.  That Lennox repeated his efforts a few strokes later amazed him.

When the fox spread his trouser-trapped feet as much as he was able, it allowed the wolf a better, and better-feeling, angle of approach.  Though his strokes became limited in length, his intensity never wavered.  If Hurley waited much longer he'd start to swell even more, and by Lennox's desperate pushing he knew the fox sensed it too.  He grabbed tufts of rump and fur and slammed his hips forward, hoping to ram himself home.  After a few more heated thrusts Lennox flexed his arms and held the wolf captive against the wall, pushing and whimpering and growling until Hurley popped past and sank in.

The heat was one thing, but the pressure was quite another.  As the fox braced with one paw, he worked himself with the other, his sac bouncing back and forth against the wolf's.  And thus, the balls touched.  As if it mattered anymore, what with the tie and all.  Hurley grunted, grinding what length still remained outside of the fox until his lower half stiffened and he came in great spasms that made Lennox's tail and neck puff out to twice their size.  He barely registered, through the stars in his vision and the roaring in his ears, the fox gasping and clenching around him or the soft sound of splatters on the dressing room floor.

The next few minutes were spent in the silence of shared afterglow, and though the fox likely felt nothing but satisfaction, creepers of guilt nagged at the wolf as he cooled down.  He only hoped things wouldn't get any more awkward in the twenty-minutes-plus it would take for him to deflate.  

Lennox wiggled about, not doing the tie any favors.  “Talk about a custom fit,” he chirred.  He actually chirred.  “I wasn't expecting my hem to be let out, but I'm okay with it.  Does it look good from your end?”

“Do you only speak in innuendo?” asked the wolf.

“Only when I'm horny.”  Fair enough, annoying as it seemed now that the deed was done.

“You never answered my question about what your boyfriend's going to think when you come home smelling like me.”

Lennox paused.  Sighed.  Shrugged.  “Oh.  Well.  You know.”

“There is no boyfriend, is there?”  The fox just smiled.  “Shit.”

“Not like it matters now, does it?” Lennox queried.  “Would it have made a difference if I said yes?”

“I suppose I should feel better, then?”  He probably should have, but all the same, he didn't like being lied to, even if it got him laid.  

Lennox tug-tested, slipping free of Hurley's knot, along with the rest of him, which plopped out and threw strings of cum against the wolf's brand new suit pants.  So much for staying hard.  “If you don't feel good after that, it's not my fault.  At least you look good.”  Hurley searched for a smart retort, but there wasn't much fault to find in the fox's words.  “Could you hold me stable for a second?”

The wolf grabbed Lennox's hips while the fox bent to search his pants, offering an unobstructed view of what Hurley had done to his backside.  From tail to sac he was a mess of sticky fur and dripping cum.  For reasons he couldn't quite explain, the only thing the wolf could think about was licking that mess clean, as if a towel couldn't do the job.  

Taking a small notepad from a pocket, Lennox flipped through a couple of pages before coming to a blank one.  After some scribbling, he drew what looked to be boxes next to a list of some sort.  He put a check mark in the center box and dropped the pad to pull up his pants.  Hurley bent down, squinting to read as the fox stood and gathered himself.  

The top of the page read, “H&M Trinity Center.”  Below it was a list:  “Swimwear,” “Casual Wear,” “Sportswear,” and “Formal Wear,” the last of which had the big check next to it.  

Lennox buttoned up his tail flap and buckled his belt, looking none the worse for wear.  Though he had to be leaking out into his pants, it seemed to be of no concern.  He was all smiles as he picked up the pad and slid it out of sight.  “As you can see, I have a lot of work to do.”

Hurley stared at his reflection again, this time seeing a deflated wolf with a deflated cock and stained pants.  He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the bench, still oozing.  

“Oops, don't want that to get any worse,” said the fox, kneeling to give the wolf some more muzzle action.  When he straightened up, Hurley was not only clean, he was hard again.  “Sorry, but I don't think I can do seconds.  But I appreciate the offer,” the fox chuckled.  

The wolf gave him a withering, bewildered glance.  He wasn't able to do much else, let alone think.

“Hey,” Lennox offered.  “For what it's worth, you got a great outfit.  I know what I'm doing, right?  And...thanks for helping me out.  I usually have to work much harder to catch a guy, especially 'inexperienced' ones.  I'm off to a great start thanks to you.”

“Welcome.  I guess.”  Hurley sat there and contemplated his erection and the reason it still stood its full seven inches.  A paw on his shoulder made him look up into the fox's unencumbered smile.  Lennox gave him a quick peck on the snout.

“ Good luck on your interview.  You'll do fine in these duds.  Remember, you've got the total package now.  You just have to use it.”  With a wink, the fox unlocked the door (the wolf remembered neither hearing nor seeing that sneaky action) and slipped out like a wraith.

The mirror-wolf regarded Hurley with only a blank stare, as if to say:  Guess we're off to the dry cleaner's, aren't we?

11/16-11/19/11