No one goes to the back alleys of Laroux City with good intentions. The main streets are already debaucherous enough, with any your seven deadly sins easily satiable on any street corner as long as you have the currency to claim them. The city is massive, a technological Babel-esque superstructure of endless towers of steel and reflective windows, welded together with every sort of small seedy shop you could ever desire. Laroux is where you go to get everything you ever wanted all at once, everything in a day. Laroux is where people live when they like things fast, easy, and under the table. Perhaps that's what leads us to worry about the intentions of our young wild dog as he turns the corners off the main street and proceeds down the long, oil-stained alleyway past junkies and dealers into the bowels of the city, where only refuse resides.
Oliver had his hands in his pockets, gripping his phone and his wallet in each respective pouch of his pants to make sure no pickpockets got ahold of anything as he walked briskly down those dim alleyways. A pureblood painted dog, he had a striking spotted coat and black hair that he kept short, a clean shave with only a peppering of stubble that stuck out amidst his creamy colored face fur. He dressed casually, trying not to wear anything that would've made him a target for any of Laroux's less law-abiding citizens, a grey band shirt and blue jeans, black hi-top sneakers that were slightly wet from having stepped in a puddle earlier in this trek down the alley. That mattered little, though, in comparison to why he was here. Oliver was out for something only Laroux could give him, a souvenir to keep for the rest of his life.
The back alleys were lined with little divots of shops, as well as doors both locked and unlocked, the latter being something you only entered if you knew exactly why you were doing so. The population began to grow as he slowed his brisk pace to a casual walk, now keeping his eyes peeled for someone who would provide what he was seeking. In the dim light of the distant everpresent glow of the outer city, citizens were a bit shadier and hard to see, but the object he was seeking was unmistakeable. It wasn't substance he was after, nor any illicit films or products, but something a bit more personal. He would pull his phone from his pocket only for a moment to check the time, and to swipe through a few messages he'd sent to the stranger he was currently trying to find. All these back alley streets beared some resemblance to eachother, and it was hard to tell one concrete hallway of depravity from the other.
Eventually he would find it, though, just as the message had told him. A rusted metal door with a red neon beam to the right of it, like a barber's pole informing you you'd found the correct place to make your mistakes. Just past the shop with the old Eastern dragon woman who sold strange horns and murky solutions in glass jars, Oliver had been told, he'd find a door. It has a pull handle door with a thumb latch, industrial presentation like one would in a warehouse. It will be unlocked. Oliver found himself with several sets of eyes on him dotted around the alley as he depressed the thumb latch and entered, letting the door shut behind him.
Oliver would find himself in a narrow hallway immediately, the walls covered in that shortpile carpet that felt like the floor of an office building. The end of the hallway had a bead curtain obscuring it, and to the left halfway down the hall was a plexiglass window with a slot in the middle of it for handling transactions. Oliver moved slowly down this narrow hallway, illuminated in that same erotic red glow as the outside neon, finding himself at the plexiglass where he peered in to see a rather greasy looking middle-aged rat, button-up shirt partway unbuttoned and male pattern balding, sitting in a stool, watching a tiny tube TV. He looked exactly how the young wild dog expected the shopkeeper would look, and he would cut his eyes over then back to the TV. A few seconds later his eyes cut over again, and he asked "well?", to which Oliver would straighten up, nervous.
"I-It's my first time here."
"I can tell. No one told you how it works?" the rat would ask.
Oliver shook his head.
"Five bucks for half an hour, eight bucks for an hour. Pick a video, pick a booth, have fun. Clean up any mess you make. No outside food or drink."
"Oh," Oliver would say, grabbing his wallet and starting to fish out a ten-dollar bill, sliding it under the plexiglass shield as he informed the shopkeeper to "keep the change, and thanks for the help".
The wild dog would move farther down the hallway to his destination. Booth A4, he had been told. As he brushed aside the bead curtain into the middle ground, though, he was in a large room with almost four entire walls of pornography. Floor-to-ceiling racks lined the two side walls and almost all of the front and back walls, save for the doorways. Everything one could think of masturbating to, they had it. Vanilla to kinky, and farther than that. Oliver wasn't...exactly there to pay attention to the film, but he still intended to get something that wouldn't be distracting for the plans he had. He settled on a rather cheesy "horror" theme to suit the mood, a man being fucked by a burlier "monster" that was clearly just a buff guy in a costume. Corny, but kinda cute, and Oliver picked it up and headed down the hallway opposite the bead curtain.
The carpeted floor stopped at the porno shelves, and the hallway before him was long, tiled with black and yellowed-white checkered linoleum. On both sides were four doors, a little bit of noise coming from behind a few of them. It was clear some were occupied by more than one person, which made the young painted dog feel a bit at ease realizing he wasn't the only one using the booth for a purpose other than what was intended. He walked slowly, though, down to the last door on the left. A4. He knew the risk he was taking, and there was a sick feeling in his stomach realizing he'd crawled through the foulest intestines of Laroux City to find himself at some seedy smut shop, and had now proceeded to make his way to the dingiest dark corner of the store and was about to lock himself in a dimly lit box with a total stranger and do something that would horrify a normal person. Still, his hand turned the handle, and he stepped inside.
The booth was fairly small, a slightly rectangular cubicle with a cushioned bench seat against the back wall, linoleum floors. Next to the door was a small stand where a Tube TV sat with a DVD player next to it. It was dirty, the cushion had rips and weathering in the leather, and the smell was strongly musty with sterile overtones from half-ass cleanings after every use. The cubicle was dimly lit with a less saturated red light, and a man sat on the cushioned bench with his hands in his lap. He'd rise as Oliver entered.
"There you are" said a voice with a somewhat relieved tone to it, and that docility gave Oliver a bit of relief as he shut and locked the door, turning to meet the man he'd come to see.
Before him stood a taller male. Whereas Oliver was probably around 5' 8" or so, the male before him was certainly around 6' 1". A fruit bat, with shaggy black hair that he had pushed back, staying in place from the sweating he was doing. His fur pattern was a mixture of brown and ashy greys, and his green eyes looked to Oliver before looking away. He had taken off his shirt to help with the heat, but was dressed in black denims and black sneakers similar to Oliver's. He had several piercings in his ears and one through his nose, all done with safety pins. There was a tattoo in his right ear, but Oliver had trouble making out what it was.
"Was...worrying if you were gonna come or not. You still wanna?" the bat would ask, and Oliver would look to him and nod.
"Yeah, I do. Positive."
On the bat's waist was no belt, but his belt loops had two things secured to them: a metal cage muzzle, and police-quality handcuffs. The bat would reach and scratch the back of his head as he let out an uncertain "well, uh...if you're sure. Been a while since I did this."
The bat would draw from his pocket his cell phone and check the time, seeing it was about 8:45 PM. 
"Okay, so, I only took half a dose of suppressants yesterday, that tends to make it start around 9. Might wanna go ahead and set up." On that note, the bat would unhook his muzzle from back belt loop and hold it to his face, looking to Oliver as he raised his eyebrows, shrugging before securing it tightly onto his face, showing Oliver his mouth couldn't but a centimeter or so. Oliver had read about how this worked many times before, and he'd assured his partner that he knew what was expected of him. A trust exercise was on the horizon, with the promise of something new and thrilling for the young painted dog. He'd also began to sweat with excitement, and he'd pop the DVD in to occupy some of the noise before turning to his hookup partner, unhooking the handcuffs from his belt look as the bat turned around and let them be applied to him.
The DVD had began to play, and the bat would sit back and relax on the bench and spread his legs a bit. Oliver approached him and got on his knees. The floor had a slightly tacky texture to it, and he could feel the knees of his jeans sticking a little from all the aerosols that had been sprayed in the room just wafting to the floor and settling there. His partner had a strong odor to him, but Oliver knew to expect it. Men like him couldn't shower, and Oliver knew that going into it. His musk was strong even outside his jeans, but the painted dog would lean down and press his nose to the bulge in the front of those distressed black denims and groan. The smell was strong, sharp, and the wild dog wasted no time unzipping the denims and tugging them down below the curve of the bat's ass to let free a flaccid, uncut dark dick that glistened with sweat and unhygienic sheen in the red light. He was generously gifted, as his species tended to be, about nine inches. The smell had only gotten stronger now that it was free in the open air.
Oliver wasted no time easing that flaccid dick into his maw, letting the incredibly salty taste settle on his tongue as he began to savor his sweat, the taste of his musk. The bat's pubic hair was thick at both the base of his dick and on his balls, and Oliver would alternate between them slowly as the bat quickly stirred to erection, a long enough foreskin that he still had full coverage when entirely erect. The painted dog would give the bat a slow, loving blowjob for the five or ten minutes, teasing him, listening to how the bat's breathing had suddenly started to get hard, fast. He was beginning to hyperventilate, and he began to sweat much more profusely than he had already been doing. It was starting. His body was getting feverish, and he would get the occasional muscle spasm that caused him to jerk a bit as the first wave of symptoms kicked in. 
As the next few minutes went on, the bat would begin to move about erratically, his legs starting to kick occasionally and splay out, his head craning around. He began to drool profusely, and sometimes as he stared down at Oliver he'd drip spit on his head, the wild dog casually brushing it back through his hair as he continued to nurse the head of the bat's cock as symptoms progressed. The bat began to snarl, his breathing growing snotty and aggressive as he started to struggle against his restraints. 
Oliver knew that this was his time. The bat was fully symptomatic now, and Oliver would rise off of him as he took off his shirt, showing off that he was rather skinny, ectomorphic build. His pants and shoes came next, and the bat would see now that the painted dog was sporting full erection already, smaller than the bat's but standing proudly. Oliver then knelt and took off the bat's shoes, tugging his pants down off him entirely and letting those generously hairy balls free as he pushed the bat's legs apart. The bat, now, was baring his teeth, and his muzzle had began to develop a prominent white frothy spit, foaming up at the corners of his muzzle and oozing out the cells between the metal of the cage muzzle. He'd stopped having leg spasms, but was now struggling against his restraints as yanked at his handcuffs and gnashed his teeth, his eyes wide open and his pupils narrowed to pinpoints. 
Oliver would spit on his hand and wipe it up the crack of his ass, fingering himself a bit before spitting again on the bat's dick and slathering it generously. He'd already lubed and toyed a bit before leaving his apartment earlier in the evening, so he was partially prepped. He would crawl his skinny body onto the bat and rise up, guiding the bat's dick into place as he pushed back against it. His friend would snarl, his feral eyes darting around inspecting Oliver as the wild dog let the bat penetrate, groaning quietly as he wrapped his feet around the bat's back, his hands on the bat's shoulders as he sank down onto him. He took it so effortlessly, obviously wanting what was happening desperately. His body was relaxed, and he couldn't help but look into those raging eyes. Both the bat's maw and dick were leaking profusely, spit continuing to be coughed and snarled out onto Oliver's chest and precum oozed up into him as he began to ride his friend.
Twenty minutes into symptoms, the bat's back would start to spasm and arch uncontrollably. His muscles were getting restless, and he would throw his head back and gargle his own spit as he began to froth more severely, groaning and moaning. He had a lot of energy to be released, and while Oliver was adoring the closeness of the riding position and how it allowed him to soak up that strong, unwashable musk that soaked the bat's entire body, he knew he needed to switch positions. He would ease off the bat slowly and guide the bat to stand, pushing him back against the far wall, where the taller male's hips would thrust out and his back arch again. His hands yanked viciously at the handcuffs and Oliver put one hand on the bench as he eased his body back, using his free hand to find the bat's dick and line it up with his lax hole.
The bat would thrust forward full force just as the painted dog pushed back, slamming nine inches to a hateful hilt in Oliver and causing him to yelp a bit in pain. Still, one hand would go to his knees and the other to the cushion as he stood, bent over, and the bat's body would go into what was practically sexual convulsions, thrusting wildly forward as Oliver pushed his butt back to allow the bat to fuck him to the best of his ability.
Suppressants, if taken daily, fully suppress the virus. If a dose is skipped, symptoms typically begin around early afternoon the next day. If half a dose is taken, symptoms set in toward nightfall. Symptoms come in waves. First, the afflicted develops a profuse sweating and a rising anxiety. They may become restless. Ten or so minutes after first symptoms, muscle spasms will begin. At this point, the afflicted is considered viral, and can transmit the disease. The next wave of symptoms is agitation, rising aggression. The afflicted begins to salivate excessively, and the mouth will foam. Spasms may get worse or may stop entirely. The next wave is full aggression, erratic behavior. If unrestrained, afflicted will often be avoidant and fearful, highly aggressive if approached. Afflicted is most viral at this point. Telltale sign is the frothy mouth and aggression, thrashing. Afflicted anthros have a two hour window after symptoms set in to take emergency sedative suppressants that are to be inserted into the mouth and dissolved on the tongue to reduce symptoms. Suppressant dose is to be taken next morning at regular time.
The bat was, at this point, having full muscle seizures of the hips that were resulting in him bucking aggressively forward as his hands yanked at the cuffs, desiring to grab the ass into which he was plunging. His head was tossing back, his spit flying from his mouth and foaming around almost the entirety of his muzzle, looking as if someone had started a bubble bath in his mouth. His eyes were wide and rolled about as he snarled, beginning to groan loudly. Any other video booth would've already been banging for the pair to keep it down, but this one was known for being a great place to chase. They didn't care what you did in those rooms, as long as you cleaned up the mess.
There was little worry in that regard, though, as after a few more violent bucks of the hips, Oliver was taking the entirety of that mess up his ass, raw. He would feel the bat's engorged cock throb hard several times before it would begin to shoot off ropes of viral cum up the dog's ass. He shoved himself back and pushed his ass painfully far back on the bat, forcing him to a hilt that left his hip convulsions ramming his dick awkwardly around inside the painted mutt's ass as he took every drop of that pent up pozzed load into his guts. His eyes closed, his ears folded back. His cock was drooling on it's own, but he had no interest in cumming. He was here for other reasons, and they were currently being shot up into his ass. He would let the bat seize and thrust, spray all he had until his balls no longer were clenching up to be emptied inside the dog, and he would pull off and reach down for his pants, keeping his ass in the air. A silicone plug was in his back pocket, and he happily fished it from his pants and eased it up his ass, plugging himself for the walk home to really ensure what was in him stayed in him and properly infected him.
After he'd had his fun, though, aftercare was necessary. In the bat's pants pocket was his emergency suppressant and the tweezers with which they were to be inserted. Pinched tightly, they were inserted into the maw as it was opened and gnashing, placing the pill under the tongue and allowing it to dissolve. The bat would attempt to reject it, but the pill was so sticky that it quickly adhered to his tongue and did what it was supposed to do. A little more than ten minutes passed, and the bat had began to relax. Oliver guided him to the bench and allowed him to lay down, starting to redress him and uncuffing him. After fifteen minutes his symptoms had subsided entirely, and he laid there tired, but happily spent. He'd remove his own muzzle and hold it in his hands.
"So..." Oliver would ask as he dressed, leaving himself plugged, "are you conscious through all that?"
The bat nodded. "Yeah. Hard to explain. We're aware of what's going on during it all, just like...out of control. It's a lot of fun when you got someone that knows what they're doing. I could tell from your messages you'd studied this shit." 
The bat laughed, informing Oliver "i'm Samar, you can call me Sam."
"Sam it is, then. Sorry, I should've asked you that first. I'm Oliver."
"You look like an Oliver," Sam would say as he slowly as he sat up, clipping his muzzle and cuffs to his belt loops before rubbing his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall of the booth.
"You uh..." Oliver would chew his tongue as he checked his phone, realizing their time in the booth was almost up.
"You wanna come back to my place and explain some stuff about what I need to expect over the next few weeks?"
"Yeah, if you don't mind buyin' me dinner. I left my wallet at home and i'm starved." Sam would say, cracking a smile to Oliver, his new blood brother. Oliver was happy to oblige, and offered Sam a hand as the two exited the booth together. He'd look back to the bat and see it now, the tattoo in his ear. A biohazard symbol. Cute.