Fate of Fortune: A Deadly Bargain!
By: Mikolai
The Ferris wheel turned lazily against a sunset sky so bright it made the cotton candy stands look dull by comparison. Kids shrieked on the rollercoaster, their voices cutting through the smell of fried dough and caramel, while parents fanned themselves with park maps, sticky with melted ice cream. Somewhere near the carousel, a balloon popped, and a toddler wailed before being swiftly pacified with a glittery helium replacement.

Near the park's center, a crowd thickened around a raised platform stage draped in garish red velvet. The stage wasn’t large, just enough for two wooden beams, each supporting a noose that swayed ever so slightly in the breeze. A banner above it read "$1 MILLION, FOR THE BRAVE" in looping gold letters. Most people glanced at it, chuckled nervously, and moved on. A few lingered, eyes darting between the ropes and a clipboard at the edge of the stage where names could be signed in smudged ink.

The horse stood at the microphone, his chestnut coat gleaming under the stage lights. He adjusted his bow tie with practiced ease, his hooves clicking against the wood as he cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his voice smooth as buttered popcorn, "our next drawing begins in five minutes. Remember, folks, it’s not just about luck. It’s about legacy." A murmur rippled through the crowd. A teenager elbowed his friend, snickering until his mother jerked him back by the collar.

Near the clipboard by the stage, a woman hesitated, her fingers trembling above the pen. Her husband nudged her forward. "C’mon, Martha. Think of the kids’ college fund." She swallowed hard before scribbling something down, then stepped away quickly, as if the paper might burn her. Behind them, an elderly couple shuffled past without a glance, their faces set in the same bored expression they’d worn since the spinning teacups.

A teenage girl broke from the crowd, her neon pink sneakers squeaking against the stage steps. She snatched the pen, signed with a flourish, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Do it for the grandparents," she announced to no one in particular, earning scattered laughter. The horse at the mic chuckled indulgently, though his eyes flicked toward the nooses with something unreadable. "That’s the spirit," he said, too cheerfully. "Remember, folks, winners don’t just get riches. They get immortality." In a messed-up way, the horse wasn’t lying per se. The crowd tittered, but beneath the laughter was a low, collective hum, like bees before a storm.

Behind the stage, a family of four, two parents, two gap-toothed kids clutching stuffed unicorns, stood in the shadow of the velvet curtain. The father bounced on his heels, whispering to his wife, "It’s just like the lottery, but better odds." She didn’t answer, just pressed her lips into a thin line as their youngest dropped her toy. Nearby, a vendor hawked commemorative T-shirts: “EVERYTHING WILL KILL YOU. PICK SOMETHING FUN!" in bold, carnival-font letters with the grim reaper smoking a bong. Sales were brisk.

The horse tapped his finger against the mic stand, the dull thud cutting through the crowd’s murmur. "Time’s up, ladies and gents," he announced, his voice slick as greasepaint. A collective inhale rippled through the audience. From stage left, a sleek Siamese cat in a sequined vest sauntered forward, balancing a glass bowl between her paws. Inside, folded slips of paper fluttered like moth wings against the glass. The cat’s tail flicked once, twice, before she set the bowl on a pedestal with exaggerated care, as if it held dynamite instead of names.

The horse plunged his hand into the bowl, stirring the slips with deliberate showmanship. The huge crowd leaned forward. He withdrew two slips, unfolding them with theatrical slowness. "Our lucky winners," he declared, "are..." A pause stretched, taut as the nooses behind him. Then, crisp as a carnival barker’s call: "Andy McCray and Dax Hargrove!" A gasp, then two bursts of whooping from opposite sides of the crowd, one from a cluster of teenagers in matching football jerseys, the other from a neatly dressed couple clutching a toddler between them. The horse squinted into the glare of the stage lights, scanning the sea of faces. Movement near the front, two boys pushing forward, their expressions lost in the shadows.

The first boy, Andy, scrambled up the steps with the kind of energy only a thirteen-year-old could have. His Growlithe fur, a vibrant mix of burnt orange and cream with black stripes, gleamed under the lights, his slim frame practically vibrating. He wore a grass-stained T-shirt with a Pokéball logo peeling at the edges, cargo shorts riding low on his hips, and scuffed sneakers that had seen a summer’s worth of adventures. His green eyes sparkled brighter than the stage lights as he grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "We won!" he crowed, ruffling his own short, messy hair like he couldn’t believe it. Behind him, his parents clutched each other, his mom’s face crumpling even as she forced a smile. His dad’s knuckles were white around his phone, already halfway through dialing a number, maybe a lawyer, maybe a funeral home, or maybe family members to give them the good news.

Then there was Dax, the fifteen-year-old horse boy. He climbed the steps more slowly, methodically, as if he were measuring each one. His fur was sleek as polished mahogany, his frame broad-shouldered and muscular beneath a fitted black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. His blue eyes, sharp as a winter sky, scanned the crowd, lingering on a cluster of younger kids, his teammates, probably, before settling on an older woman in a faded sweater near the back. The orphanage matron. She clutched a handkerchief to her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Dax’s lips quirked, just slightly. His dark hair, buzzed short on the sides and left slightly longer on top, didn’t move in the breeze. He wore his varsity football jersey under his hoodie, the number 23 stitched in gold thread, and black joggers that clung to his powerful legs. He flexed his hands once, then twice, calloused fingers curling and uncurling.

The horse announcer beamed, his teeth flashing unnaturally white under the stage lights. "Well, well! Look at our brave young men," he boomed, clapping his hands together. The sound echoed like a starting pistol. "Tell me, boys, happy you won?" Andy practically bounced again, his grin splitting his face. "Hell yeah!" he yelled, punching the air. A few nervous laughs bubbled from the crowd. Dax merely nodded, once, his jaw set. The horse chuckled, a sound like coins rattling in a tin. "No jitters? No last-minute questions?" He swept a hand toward the nooses, their loops swaying gently, the knots thick and precise. "Need me to explain what comes next?"

Andy's grin faltered for half a second before he shook his head hard, his Growlithe ears twitching. "Nah, nah, I know. Saw it happen last summer, some dude up here, right?" He mimed a jerking motion at his neck with one hand, laughing breathlessly. The crowd murmured, some shifting uncomfortably. Dax exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. "School assembly," he said flatly. "Last month." His gaze flicked to the orphanage matron again; her handkerchief was now soaked through. The horse's smile never wavered. "Excellent! Then you know the drill. Clothes off, gentlemen. All of them."

Andy blinked, then shrugged, already yanking his shirt over his head with practiced ease, revealing a lean torso dusted with faint orange fur. His shorts hit the stage with a slap, followed by his briefs, kicked aside with one foot. His cock hung thick and soft between his thighs, a ruddy pink against his cream-furred groin, curls of darker fur at the base. He scratched idly at his hip, utterly unselfconscious, even when the crowd's murmurs got louder. Dax moved more slowly, peeling off his hoodie with deliberate calm, the jersey underneath following. His equine musculature rippled under mahogany fur as he unbuckled his belt, the clink of metal loud in the sudden quiet. When his joggers pooled at his hooves, his cock, heavy, flaccid, and already noticeably larger than Andy's, swung free, the shaft dusky against his darker fur, thick veins visible even at rest. A few gasps scattered through the audience.

A sleek lynx in a starched uniform darted forward, her ears pinned back as she gathered the discarded clothes with quick efficiency. She barely glanced at either boy, her movements brisk, professional, until she paused at Dax's jersey. "Number 23," she murmured, almost reverently, before bundling it with the rest and disappearing backstage. The horse announcer chuckled, patting his bow tie. "Such cooperation," he crooned. "Refreshing!" His grin widened as Andy bounced on his toes again, his cock swaying with the movement. Dax, meanwhile, stood statue-still, his jaw tight, his blue eyes fixed somewhere beyond the crowd.

From the opposite wing, another assistant emerged, this one a burly wolf with a coiled rope looped over his shoulder. His muzzle twisted into something between a smirk and a snarl as he approached Andy first. The boy barely flinched as the wolf seized his wrists, yanking them behind his back with practiced roughness. The rope rasped against his fur, cinching tight enough to dimple his skin. Andy hissed, then laughed, high and nervous. "Whoa, dude, easy, " The wolf silenced him with a jerk of the knot, then moved to Dax. The horse boy didn't resist, didn't even twitch as his arms were wrenched back, the rope biting into his wrists with a creak of tension. The wolf exhaled sharply through his nose, impressed, maybe, before stepping away.

The announcer clapped his hands, his hooves clicking against the stage. "Population control at its finest, folks!" His voice dripped with jovial menace. "These brave lads are doing their part; fewer mouths to feed, fewer dreams to crush. Efficient, don't you think?" The crowd's murmur was a thick, uneasy thing, punctuated by the occasional forced chuckle. A mother near the front clapped a hand over her child's eyes, her own gaze darting toward the exit but never quite committing to leaving.

The wolf assistant returned, this time carrying two polished wooden steps, which he placed beneath each noose with a thud. He grabbed Andy first, his grip unyielding as he guided the boy onto the platform. The Growlithe's breath hitched when the rough hemp brushed his throat, his earlier bravado flickering like a dying bulb. The wolf adjusted the noose with clinical precision, tightening the knot behind Andy's left ear until his fur flattened under pressure. "Snuff, Inc. thanks you for your donation," the wolf muttered, lips curling. "Prime sex dolls for the factory." Andy's laugh came out strangled. "Sick," he whispered, then gulped when the rope pressed into his windpipe.

Dax ascended the step without prompting, his hooves clacking against the wood. He tilted his chin up as the noose settled against his throat, the fibers catching on his short fur. The wolf lingered, nostrils flaring as he inhaled Dax's scent, sweat, cheap soap, and something muskier underneath. "You'll fetch a premium," he growled, thumb brushing the vein pulsing in Dax's neck. "Horse boys with big cocks always do." Dax's nostrils flared, but he held still, his gaze locked on the matron, who'd crumpled to her knees in the dirt. The wolf gave the rope a final tug, then stepped back, licking his chops.

Andy's breath came in shallow bursts, his paws flexing against the wooden stool. The noose felt heavier than he'd imagined, the scratchy weave digging into his throat when he swallowed. He twisted to face his parents, his mom's face blotchy with tears, his dad's jaw working like he was chewing glass. "Hey," Andy called, forcing a grin that wobbled at the edges. "College fund's covered now for my siblings, right? And, and tell Jake I better get the sickest headstone ever, like, with flames or some shit!" His voice cracked on the last word, but the crowd laughed, a few even clapping. His dad's shoulders hunched, but he nodded once, sharp.

Dax stood motionless, his hooves planted wide on the platform. The lynx assistant had vanished, leaving only the faint scent of starch and something metallic lingering in the air. He inhaled deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring as he scanned the crowd one last time. His gaze landed on the matron, now being helped up by a younger girl with messy braids. "Tell Coach I kept my stance perfect," Dax said, his voice low but carrying. "And the pantry at St. Agnes' better be stocked for winter." The matron pressed her sodden handkerchief to her mouth, nodding so hard her glasses slipped down her nose. A murmur rippled through the crowd, softer this time, almost reverent.

The announcer cleared his throat, theatrically tapping his hoof against the stage. "Now, now, folks! Before we proceed, " He paused, letting the tension coil tight. "I’ve got good news for our gallant young gentlemen!" The lynx assistant reappeared, her paws clasped around something small and glinting. She held it up, a silver coin, its edges worn smooth from handling. The announcer plucked it from her grasp, flipping it with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Heads or tails, boys," he purred. "Winner gets triple the prize. Loser? Only one and a half times." He grinned, teeth gleaming. "Snuff, Inc.’s generosity at work!"

Before the announcer could finish his spiel, Andy practically leaped forward, his tail wagging in a blur of orange fur. "HEADS! Definitely heads!" he blurted, bouncing on his toes. The crowd erupted into laughter, some shaking their heads, others nudging their companions. Even Dax’s stoic expression cracked for a moment, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. The announcer chuckled, ruffling Andy’s hair with a hand. "Spunky little thing, aren’t you?"

The lynx assistant flicked the coin high into the air, its surface flashing silver under the stage lights. Time seemed to slow as it spun, end over end, before landing neatly in her upturned palm. She slapped it onto the back of her other paw, then lifted just enough to peek. A pause, then her whiskers twitched. "Heads," she announced, her voice crisp. The crowd roared, louder this time, a mix of cheers and disbelieving whoops. Andy let out a whoop of his own, jerking against his restraints like he might high-five someone, if only his arms were free. "Told you!" he crowed, grinning so wide his fangs glinted.

Dax exhaled through his nose, his shoulders shifting imperceptibly beneath the rope. The announcer clapped his hands together, his hooves clicking against the stage. "Triple for the Growlithe, one and a half for the stallion!" His voice dripped with mock sympathy as he leaned toward Dax. "Bad luck, champ." Dax didn't react, but his tail flicked once, sharp, like a whipcrack. In front of him, the orphanage matron sobbed openly now, her hands clutching at the girl with braids, who stared at the stage with wide, wet eyes.

The announcer adjusted his bow tie, then casually lowered the microphone, angling it away from the crowd. His voice dropped to a murmur, smooth and intimate, the kind of tone reserved for backroom deals and bedside confessions. "Listen close, boys," he said, his breath warm against Andy's twitching ear. "You're brave. Hell, braver than most." His gaze flicked to Dax, lingering on the thick muscle of his neck. "But here's the thing, that drop? Won't kill you." Andy's breath hitched, his paws flexing against the rope binding his wrists. The announcer smirked. "Oh, you'll wish it did. But Snuff, Inc. doesn't waste a good show or products." He tapped his temple with a hoof. "Potential buyers are watching this feed live. Your performance? Determines their bids. Scream, cry, thrash just right, " His eyes gleamed. ", and your families get a bonus depending on how high the winning bid is."

Andy swallowed hard, the noose rasping against his throat. His grin wobbled, then steadied, teeth bared in something fierce and feral. "Hell yeah," he rasped, tail lashing. "I'll give 'em a show they'll never forget." In front of him, his parents clutched each other, his mom's nails biting into her husband's arm. Dax exhaled sharply through his nose, his nostrils flaring wide. His gaze locked onto the orphanage matron, still crumpled in the dirt. Then he nodded, once, curt. The announcer chuckled, stepping back with a flourish. "Atta boys."

The lynx assistant reappeared, her paws clutching a polished remote control for the stage. The crowd hushed, breaths held. The announcer raised his hoof, counting down with theatrical slowness. "Five." Andy's chest heaved, his cock twitching against his thigh. Dax flexed his fingers, the rope creaking. "Four." Someone in the crowd whimpered. A vendor dropped a tray of popcorn, kernels skittering across the ground. "Three." Andy's mom muffled a sob into her hands. Dax's teammates, his former teammates, shuffled closer, their jerseys bright under the midday sun. "Two." Andy kicked the stool before the count finished, his legs pistoning wildly, his whole body thrashing like a hooked fish.

The noose jerked tight, silencing Andy's gasp mid-breath. His paws scrabbled at his bounds, claws catching in the fibers as his legs cycled through the air. His cock, half-hard now, bounced obscenely with each convulsion. The crowd surged forward, mesmerized. Dax waited until the announcer's "One" faded before nudging his stool with a deliberate tap of his hoof. It toppled with a hollow clatter. His drop was cleaner, his body descending in one smooth motion until the rope snapped taut. His thick neck muscles bunched, his jaw clamping shut to stifle any sound. Only his tail betrayed him, lashing side to side violently.

Sweat beaded on Andy's chest, tracing glistening paths through his orange fur. His thighs trembled, his cock fully erect now, jutting proudly from his groin. He twisted his hips, letting the crowd see the way his balls drew up tight beneath it. His parents' horrified faces blurred in his vision, replaced by the flashing cameras and slack-jawed spectators. He arched his back, exaggerating the choke of the noose, his tongue lolling pink between his fangs. The lynx assistant circled, murmuring numbers into her headset, bids climbing with every desperate twitch of Andy's tail.

Dax's body gleamed under the stage lights, sweat darkening his mahogany fur to near-black. His cock stood thick and flushed against his belly, veins standing in sharp relief. Unlike Andy's frantic display, he moved with controlled tension, his powerful equine muscles flexing in deliberate waves. Each slow roll of his hips sent his heavy length swaying, drawing gasps from the crowd. A thin line of drool escaped his clenched jaw, dripping onto his chest as he maintained eye contact with the orphanage matron, his message clear, watch me earn this.

Andy's thrashing grew erratic, his kicks losing their earlier rhythm. His cock pulsed visibly, pre-cum beading at the tip before streaking down his shaft with each convulsion. His green eyes rolled back, whites showing, but his tail still wagged in jagged spasms, keeping time with the lynx's rising bid counts. His parents' screams merged into white noise beneath the roar of the crowd, their son's desperate performance eclipsing their grief.

Dax's hooves scraped against empty air, his body swaying in slow, pendulum arcs. His nostrils flared wide with each restricted breath, veins standing out along his thick neck like cables. When his cock finally twitched to full hardness, it wasn't the frantic showmanship Andy displayed, just an inevitable biological response, heavy and undeniable. The orphanage matron stopped sobbing long enough to whisper prayers.

Andy convulsed in sharp, theatrical jerks, his orange fur slick with sweat now. He timed his struggles perfectly, just when the lynx assistant paused between bid updates, he'd arch violently, making his erection bounce. The crowd gasped when a pearly string of pre-cum snapped free from his tip, arcing through the air before splattering on the stage. His parents weren't watching anymore, his father's face buried in his mother's hair, her shoulders shaking.

Dax's performance was quieter, more methodical. He rotated his hips in slow circles, letting the rope dig deeper into his throat with each movement. His cock, thick and veiny, twitched in time with his choked breaths. A vendor near the stage fainted when Dax's balls visibly tightened, his equine length pulsing against his stomach. The orphanage matron pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, but her eyes never left him.

Andy's thrashing reached a fever pitch, his legs bicycling wildly as his cock dribbled streaks of pre-cum down his thighs. His parents had stopped crying; now they just stood frozen, their faces slack. Every time Andy arched his back, the crowd roared louder. The lynx assistant's voice grew hoarse from shouting numbers into her headset. "Thirty-two thousand, no, thirty-five! Thirty-five for the Growlithe!"

Dax moved with brutal efficiency, his powerful equine body twisting in calculated spasms. His nostrils flared wide with each restricted breath, veins standing out along his neck like tree roots. When he rolled his hips forward, his cock slapped wetly against his abdomen, drawing a collective gasp from the spectators. The orphanage matron clutched the braided girl's arm so hard her knuckles blanched.

Andy's performance had devolved into frantic jerks and twitches, his orange fur matted with sweat. His tail lashed wildly between his legs, occasionally slapping against his own straining erection. A thick rope of saliva dripped from his lolling tongue, mixing with the pre-cum pooling beneath him on the stage. The lynx assistant circled him like a vulture, murmuring numbers into her headset. "Forty thousand now for the Growlithe, no, forty-two!"

Dax's movements were slower, more deliberate. His hooves pawed at the air with methodical precision, his muscular thighs trembling with the strain. His cock, flushed a deep red and pulsing visibly, left wet streaks across his abdomen with each controlled roll of his hips. A woman in the front row fainted when his balls suddenly drew up tight against his body, his entire length twitching violently.

Andy, meanwhile, had given up any semblance of control. The rope had twisted with his spinning, turning him in slow, uneven circles that made his limbs flail uselessly. His kicks were weak now, his paws barely twitching at the ends of his limp legs. His cock stood painfully erect, the tip gleaming with pre-cum that dripped in erratic pulses down his quivering thighs. His tongue lolled further from his mouth, his breathing reduced to wet, shallow gasps that did nothing to loosen the noose's grip.

Then, suddenly, his whole body seized. His spine arched violently, his thighs clamping together as his cock jerked in rapid, desperate spurts. Thick ropes of cum streaked across his chest, splattering his chin, his neck, the stage beneath him. The crowd roared, some cheering, others recoiling as Andy's orgasm wracked his dying body. His tail gave one last, feeble wag before going still. His eyes rolled back, his vision tunneling, no parents, no crowd, just a blinding white light swallowing everything. Those wide eyes that used to be full of life were now glazing over.

His thoughts were slow, syrupy. His siblings, Jake with his dumb comics, Lila with her soccer trophies, flashed in his mind. His baby sister enjoyed Andy’s antics. ‘Hope they buy something cool’, he thought, or maybe didn’t think, as his lungs burned for air that wouldn’t come. The light pulsed, warm, like summer pavement under his paws. Then nothing. His body hung limp, swaying gently, cum still dripping from his softening cock onto the stage below.

Dax watched Andy’s final spasms through blurred vision, the edges of his sight tunneling. He’d seen it before, in training videos, the way the body betrays itself at the end, muscles seizing, bowels loosening, cock spurting like a faulty hydrant. His own hooves scuffed against air gone thick as molasses. ‘Control it’, he told himself, but his legs kicked weakly now, more reflex than defiance. The orphanage matron’s face flickered in his mind, her chapped hands handing him extra toast at breakfast, her voice sharp when he skipped curfew. ‘Worth it’, he thought, and then his body decided for him.

The rope twisted, spinning him slowly, the stage tilting in nauseating circles. Beside him, Andy’s corpse swayed, still twitching in residual death throes, his orange fur matted with sweat, and streaks of drying cum. Dax’s vision swam, his throat beyond pain now, just pressure, relentless and absolute. He felt it building despite himself, that final betrayal, his cock throbbed against his belly, heavier than ever, veins standing taut under slick fur. The crowd’s roar louder as his hips jerked involuntarily, his balls drawing up tight.

His orgasm hit like a cattle prod to the spine. Thick spurts erupted, arcing across the narrow gap between them, painting Andy’s lifeless chest in sticky stripes. The crowd shrieked approval, some recoiling, others leaning closer, phones outstretched. Dax’s hips stuttered through each pulse, his cock twitching long after it was spent, drooling feeble dribbles onto Andy’s slack body. The orphanage matron wailed something lost beneath the noise, but Dax’s ears rang, his thoughts reduced to static.

Then, clear as chapel bells, a melody. High, crystalline notes weaving through the stench of sweat and popcorn. Dax blinked sweat from his lashes, his vision swimming. Above the stage lights, impossibly bright, a figure shimmered. Not the lynx tallying bids, not the wolf adjusting ropes, but something gossamer-winged and glowing. Its song curled around the screams, sweet as the lullabies the matron hummed to the littlest kids during thunderstorms.

Dax's hooves twitched weakly. His throat burned, his lungs starved, but the melody poured into him like honey. The orphanage kitchen flashed behind his eyelids, the matron counting pennies at the chipped table, the younger boys' shoes lined up by the door, soles worn thin. The song swelled, and suddenly he knew, knew the money would buy winter coats with real wool lining, knew the pantry would burst with fresh fruit, knew the scholarship fund would fatten enough to send at least three of them to trade school. The angel's wings brushed his cheek, cool as mint leaves, and Dax exhaled his last breath into the song.

Andy's soul came loose first, peeling away from his limp body in a shimmering wisp of orange and cream. He blinked, or whatever souls did instead of blinking, as the otter angel cradled him in translucent paws. "Whoa," he tried to say, but his voice was just warmth now, just light. The angel's laughter chim like wind chimes as she gathered Andy against her chest, her fur softer than his mom's old cashmere sweater. Below them, his parents still clutched each other, his dad's face wet but his shoulders squared, already calculating which debts to clear first.

Dax's soul resisted. It clung to his powerful equine frame like a foal refusing to leave the stable, even as the angel hummed that same crystalline melody into his flickering ears. His soul was darker, richer, the deep brown of well-turned soil. When it finally separated, the angel caught it deftly, tucking it against Andy's with a murmured, "Easy, stallion." Dax's soul shuddered once, pride, maybe, or the ghost of a reflex to stand tall, before settling. The orphanage matron's keening rose above the crowd's murmurs, but Dax's soul didn't look back.

The otter angel's wings shimmered like sunlight on river rapids as she ascended. Below, the stage lights dimmed, the announcer already droning about "processing the product," his hoof nudging Andy's limp paw like a butcher inspecting meat. The lynx assistant wiped Dax's cum from her tablet with clinical efficiency. The crowd dispersed, some clutching commemorative pennants, others wiping their palms on their jeans, all of them already half-remembering the boys' names.

The angel's melody faded into celestial static as she carried the souls through layers of cotton-candy clouds. Andy's essence pulsed bright as a firefly, darting around her paws with restless energy. "Whoa, check it out!" his voice echoed without sound, as his soul streaked ahead, leaving shimmering orange trails. Dax's soul followed at a steadier pace, its deep mahogany glow rippling like a quiet current. The angel chuckled, a sound like wind chimes in a storm, and gathered them closer.

Below, the horse announcer tapped his hoof against the stage, his polished smile never slipping. "Three hundred thousand for the stallion," he murmured to the lynx assistant, who scribbled furiously on her tablet. "Told you the equine lots fetch premium." His nostrils flared as he glanced at Dax's body, still swaying gently, the noose creaking. "And the Growlithe?" The lynx sniffed. "Sixty-five thousand. Buyers liked his... enthusiasm." She gestured to Andy's limp form, his orange fur streaked white with drying cum.

The crowd had thinned, but a few lingered, morbidly fascinated as the boys' bodies underwent the final indignities. First, Andy's bladder let go, a weak yellow stream pattering onto the stage beneath him. His cock, soft now, twitched once as urine dribbled from the tip, pooling around his dangling paws. A teenager in the front row gagged, then snapped a photo. Dax followed seconds later, his piss arcing stronger, splashing against the wooden platform with audible splatters. The orphanage matron had long since been led away, but his teammates still there, their faces unreadable as their heads were down praying for the boy.

The horse announcer chuckled, hand resting on his hip as he surveyed the scene. "Ah, always the same," he mused, shaking his head. "Folks think they're ready until the bodies start leaking." He turned to the lynx assistant, who was already typing notes into her tablet. "Triple the usual clean-up crew bonus this week," he said brightly. "They'll earn it scraping stallion jizz off the stage lights." The lynx's whiskers twitched in distaste, but she nodded, adding the figures without comment.

Dax's body swayed gently in the breeze, his once-powerful frame now slack, his cock softened against his thigh, still glistening faintly. His hooves scraped against empty air, his tail hanging limp. One of Dax's former teammates, a lanky fox with a battered baseball cap, lingered near the stage, his fists clenched at his sides. "Fuckin' waste," he muttered to no one, before spitting on the ground and walking off.

Two months later, in a rural town far from the neon glitter of big city lights in another state, a two-story mini mansion stood at the edge of town, its dark wood exterior blending seamlessly with the surrounding forest.

Inside, the town's mortician, Derek, a 24-year-old hyena, stood naked under the steaming spray of his shower. The water cascaded over his slim, athletic frame, lean muscles honed from years of lifting bodies onto embalming tables and working out. His fur, a mix of sandy brown and darker speckled patches, clung wetly to his skin.

Derek tilted his head back, letting the water soak through his short, spiky black hair. His gray eyes, sharp and analytical, were half-lidded with relaxation as he scrubbed soap into his fur. His cock hung flaccid between his thighs, thick and heavy even at rest, a dusky shade against the lighter fur of his groin. A dense patch of coarse black fur curled at the base, water droplets clinging to the wiry strands.

He turned off the shower with a quick flick of his wrist, stepping onto the tiled floor with practiced ease. The mirror was already fogged, but he didn’t bother wiping it clear, he knew his reflection by heart. Instead, he grabbed a towel, rubbing briskly over his lean frame, his fur fluffing up as it dried. His tail flicked lazily behind him, betraying his rare, good mood.

The bedroom was dimly lit, just how he liked it, with only the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the sheets. And there they were, exactly as promised, laid out side by side on the king-sized bed like some macabre gift. Andy’s orange fur was fluffed and clean, his youthful face slack with death’s permanence. His eyes are fully open, yet no signs of life in them. Dax’s larger equine frame took up more space, his powerful legs slightly parted, his mahogany coat gleaming under the low light. Their bodies were pristine, no marks, no signs of the nooses that had taken them, just smooth skin and fur waiting to be touched.

Derek’s breath hitched as he approached, his own cock already stirring at the sight. He trailed a clawed finger down Andy’s chest, feeling the coolness of death beneath the soft fur. The metallic cock-ring around the Growlithe’s shaft caught the light, a sleek silver band snug at the base. Derek flicked the tiny switch embedded in it, and like magic, Andy’s cock twitched, then began to fill, rising stiff and proud against his belly. Pre-cum beaded at the tip almost instantly, just like it had onstage. “Still eager, huh?” Derek murmured, thumbing the wetness, spreading it down the length.

He turned to Dax next, the stallion’s thick equine length resting heavily against his thigh. The cock-ring here was wider, designed to accommodate girth, and when Derek activated it, the effect was obscenely gradual. Dax’s cock swelled inch by inch, veins rising under the skin like topography, until it stood fully erect, the flushed tip leaking. Derek exhaled sharply through his nose, gripping the base, feeling the heat despite the artificial pulse thrumming through it. “Fuck,” he muttered, stroking once, watching another pearl of pre-cum roll free.

The hyena’s own cock ached now, stiffening against his thigh as he climbed onto the bed between them. His claws traced the injection ports discreetly hidden in their inner thighs, tiny silicone patches where Snuff, Inc.’s techs had installed the reservoirs. Derek knew the drill; he’d prepped the syringes earlier, one loaded with thick, pearlescent fluid for Andy, another with a heavier, creamier batch for Dax. He pressed the first needle into Andy’s port, thumbing the plunger slowly. The Growlithe’s cock twitched violently, balls drawing up tight as the synthetic cum flooded his system. Dax’s reaction was more controlled when Derek emptied the second syringe into him. The stallion’s powerful thighs tensed, his cock pulsing in slow, deliberate waves as the fluid filled him. Derek then made sure to put the syringes up.

Dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed, Derek gripped Dax’s thick equine shaft with both hands, his fingers barely meeting around the girth. He dragged his tongue along the underside first, tasting the faint musk preserved by the embalming gel, the synthetic pre-cum already beading at the slit. When he took the head into his mouth, the cock-ring vibrated faintly against his lips, triggering a pulse of pre-cum that spilled over his tongue, salty, chemical, perfect. Dax’s hips jerked reflexively, the motion mechanical but convincing, his hooves scraping the sheets as Derek swallowed him deeper.

The hyena’s own cock throbbed untouched between his thighs, dripping onto the carpet as he worked. He hollowed his cheeks, bobbing until his nose pressed into the coarse fur at Dax’s groin, the stallion’s balls heavy against his chin. The cock-ring buzzed again, and suddenly Dax’s hips moved forward, his length fucking into Derek’s throat in short, brutal thrusts. The hyena gagged, claws digging into Dax’s thighs, but didn’t pull away, just let his body be used, saliva streaking the mahogany fur as the programmed thrusts grew erratic. Then, with a shudder, Derek felt through his teeth, Dax came.

Thick pulses flooded his mouth, the synthetic cum warmer than he expected, viscous enough to coat his tongue like honey. He drank it greedily, swallowing around the twitching shaft until his throat ached. The taste was clinical beneath the sweetness, that unmistakable Snuff, Inc. preservative tang, but Derek moaned around it anyway, his own cock jerking as he imagined the real thing, Dax alive and snarling above him. The stream tapered off, but he kept sucking, milking the last few drops until the cock-ring’s vibration ceased with a faint click. Derek pulled back with a wet pop, licking his lips as he thumbed the switch off.

Dax’s cock softened slowly, the thick length wilting against his thigh in increments, still glistening with Derek’s saliva. The hyena traced a claw along the prominent veins, watching them fade from prominence beneath the mahogany fur. He dragged his gaze upward, past the stallion’s powerful abdomen, the sculpted chest, finally settling on his face. Death hadn’t stolen Dax’s rugged handsomeness; if anything, the slack jaw and half-lidded eyes made him look more debauched, like he’d passed out mid-fuck. Derek’s breath hitched. He reached out, thumbing Dax’s lower lip, imagining the sounds that mouth might’ve made if it could still scream.

He leaned in, his own cock twitching against his stomach, and pressed their mouths together. Dax’s lips were cool, softer than he’d expected, yielding under his with an eerie pliancy. Derek licked into him, tasting the faint preservative tang, the ghost of mint from whatever embalming rinse Snuff, Inc. had used. Then, there. The tip of Dax’s tongue, just behind his teeth. Derek moaned, deepening the kiss, sucking at it like he could draw life back into the muscle. It didn’t move, didn’t respond, just lay heavy and still against his own, a dead weight in every sense.

With a shuddering breath, Derek broke the kiss, dragging his tongue along Dax’s slack lower lip one last time before gripping the stallion’s hips. He rolled him onto his stomach with practiced ease, the body limp but surprisingly pliant, limbs settled where they were placed. Dax’s ass, round and muscular even in death, rose invitingly, his tail flicked to the side by Derek’s impatient hand. The hyena traced a claw down the cleft, parting the cheeks to reveal the snug furl of muscle, already prepped, Snuff, Inc. spared no detail for premium buyers.

Derek spat into his palm, slicking his cock with quick, rough strokes before pressing the blunt head against Dax’s entrance. He pushed in slowly, groaning as the tight ring of muscle yielded to his girth, the sensation cooler than living flesh but no less gripping. His hips stuttered forward, inch by inch, until his balls pressed against Dax’s thighs, the stallion’s body stretched around him. “Fuck,” Derek hissed, claws digging into Dax’s hips as he adjusted to the tightness, the preservative gel inside lending an unnatural slickness that made every movement glide.

He pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, setting a brutal pace from the start. Dax’s body jolted with each thrust, his flaccid cock swinging limply beneath him, slapping against his thighs in time with Derek’s movements. The hyena’s breath came in ragged pants, his own cock throbbing with each snap of his hips, the friction perfect, the resistance just right. He leaned forward, biting at Dax’s shoulder, tasting the faint chemical tang of embalming fluid beneath the stallion’s musk.

Derek’s claws scraped down Dax’s back, leaving reddened trails in the mahogany fur. His balls tightened, slapping wetly against the stallion’s ass with every frantic thrust. Sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with the damp fur on Dax’s shoulders as he fucked into him with abandon.

The hyena couldn’t help but chuckle breathlessly, his cock twitching inside the colt’s tight passage. “Gods, you’re perfect,” he groaned, hips pistoning faster. The preservative gel ensured Dax’s body stayed pliant, his muscles yielding just enough to make each stroke deliciously snug. Derek reached beneath them, groping the stallion’s limp cock, fingers tightening around the softening length as he jerked it in time with his thrusts.

Derek’s breath came in ragged bursts, his orgasm coiling low in his gut like a spring wound too tight. His claws dug into Dax’s hips, the sharp points pricking through fur to dent the cold flesh beneath. “Gonna,” he hissed, and then his hips stuttered, his cock pulsing deep inside the stallion as his climax hit. Hot ropes of cum flooded Dax’s passage, the hyena’s body shuddering through each violent spurt. He fucked himself through it, grinding deep, milking every last drop until his thighs trembled with overstimulation.

Collapsing onto Dax’s back, Derek laughed breathlessly, his chest heaving against the stallion’s still form. His cock slipped free with a wet sound, softening against his thigh, dripping remnants of his release onto the sheets. He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to admire his purchase. The stallion’s ass was reddened from the force of his thrusts, the fur matted with sweat and spit. Derek smirked, delivering a sharp slap to the rounded cheek, the sound cracking through the bedroom. “Worth every damn dollar,” he chuckled, watching the pale imprint of his hand bloom against mahogany fur.

His attention drifted to Andy’s prone form beside them. The Growlithe lay motionless, his orange fur fluffed from Derek’s earlier attention, cock still erect and twitching thanks to the persistent thrum of the cock-ring. Derek licked his lips, looming above Andy’s youthful frame. With a clawed finger, he traced the seam between the boy’s jawline and throat, finding the nearly invisible silicone patch hidden there, Snuff, Inc.’s premium upgrade. He pressed it firmly, activating the subcutaneous heating coils. Andy’s skin warmed beneath his touch, the chill of death receding in slow increments until his body mimicked living warmth perfectly. Derek exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers curling into the fur at Andy’s chest. “Damn,” he muttered, marveling at the illusion. “They weren’t kidding about the tech.”

Leaning down, he caught Andy’s slack jaw between his palms, tilting the boy’s face toward his own. The Growlithe’s lips parted slightly under the pressure, soft and plush, still holding the faintest hint of whatever gloss the embalmers had used. Derek pressed their mouths together, licking into the warmth, the illusion so convincing he could almost imagine Andy kissing back. His tongue swiped along the boy’s teeth, teased at the stiff, unresisting muscle behind them, but the heat made it feel alive, electric. Derek groaned into the kiss, grinding his softening cock against Andy’s thigh, the friction delicious against his oversensitive flesh.

Breaking away with a wet sound, Derek thumbed Andy’s lower lip, watching it bounce back with artificial resilience. His claws trailed lower, skating down the boy’s throat to circle a nipple, the pink bud stiffening under his touch despite the lack of true nerves. He pinched it roughly, twisting until the skin around it flushed, another premium feature, subcutaneous microcapsules releasing localized dyes to simulate arousal. Derek smirked, giving the other nipple the same treatment before palming Andy’s cock, pumping it slowly. Pre-cum beaded at the tip instantly, slicking his strokes with syrupy ease.

His own cock twitched back to life against his thigh, the sight of Andy’s body responding to his touch, even artificially, stoking his hunger. With a grunt, Derek shifted between the boy's legs, grabbing the boy’s ankle and lifting it toward his muzzle. The pads of Andy’s paw were soft, slightly tacky from preservative gel, but warmed now by the heating coils. Derek dragged his tongue along the arch first, tasting the faint salt of embalming chemicals beneath the synthetic musk.

He sucked the first toe into his mouth, rolling it between his lips with obscene reverence. The memory from the live stream flashed unbidden, Andy’s foot twitching onstage, his toes curling in mid-air as the noose squeezed the life from him. Derek moaned around the digit, his cock throbbing as he imagined the boy’s dying gasp, the way his legs had kicked in those final, desperate spasms. He moved to the next toe, biting down just hard enough to leave indents in the plush pad, reveling in the way Andy’s body jolted when he flicked the cock-ring’s vibration setting higher.

Pre-cum dripped steadily from Andy’s cock now, pooling in the divot of his navel as Derek worked his way up the boy’s calf. His tongue traced the delicate bones of the ankle, lapping at the preserved scent clinging to the fur there, musk immortalized by Snuff, Inc.’s proprietary embalming techniques. When he reached the tender hollow behind Andy’s knee, he bit down sharply, tasting the faint metallic tang beneath the synthetic skin. The Growlithe’s thigh twitched in response, a programmed reflex that sent Derek’s pulse skittering.

With a growl, he dropped Andy’s leg abruptly, letting it thump back onto the mattress. The cock-ring pulsed again, drawing another weak spurt of clear fluid from the boy’s tip. Derek ignored it, crawling forward instead to grip Andy’s hips, his claws dimpling the soft flesh beneath the fur. He hauled the boy’s lower half upward with practiced ease, positioning Andy’s limp body until his ass hovered just above Derek’s lap. The hyena spat into his palm again, slicking himself roughly, his cock hot and heavy against Andy’s entrance.

Derek exhaled sharply through his nose, the head of his cock catching against the tight furl of muscle, already loosened slightly by Snuff, Inc.’s meticulous prep work. He pressed forward, watching with rapt fascination as Andy’s body yielded to him inch by inch. The Growlithe’s hole stretched obscenely around his girth, the synthetic skin warm now from the subcutaneous heating coils, almost too convincing. Derek groaned, bottoming out in one brutal thrust, his balls slapping against Andy’s thighs with a wet smack.

The illusion of life was staggering. The boy’s passage clenched around him in programmed pulses, mimicking the involuntary spasms of a living partner. Derek gritted his teeth, hips stuttering as he adjusted to the snug heat. “Fuck,” he hissed, claws digging into Andy’s hips hard enough to leave crescent indentations in the orange fur. He dragged out slowly, reveling in the way Andy’s body resisted, clinging to him like it didn’t want him to leave. Then he slammed back in, harder this time, rattling the bedframe.

Derek’s cock throbbed, the sensation too perfect, too real. He could almost hear Andy’s breathy whines, see the boy’s tongue lolling as he took it. His thrusts grew erratic, each snap of his hips punctuated by a wet slap of skin against skin. Andy’s cock bounced with the movement, still hard, still leaking, the cock-ring ensuring the illusion never faltered. Derek groaned, wrapping a hand around it, stroking in time with his brutal pace. “Should’ve been me,” he panted, thumbing the slit, smearing pre-cum down the shaft. “Should’ve had you first.”

The hyena’s claws scraped higher, raking through Andy’s chest fur until he found the boy’s throat. His fingers curled around it, squeezing just enough to imagine the choked gasps Andy might’ve made. Derek’s hips stuttered, his cock pulsing inside the tight heat, the friction unbearable. He leaned down, biting at Andy’s shoulder, tasting the artificial warmth, the ghost of sweat preserved beneath the fur. “Bet you would’ve begged,” he snarled, fucking into him harder, deeper, chasing the thought of Andy alive beneath him, squirming, desperate.

Andy’s body jolted with each thrust, his cock spurting another weak dribble of pre-cum, the cock-ring vibrating mercilessly against his swollen base. Derek’s own orgasm coiled low, his balls tightening as he pistoned into the boy’s pliant form.

Derek snarled, thumbing Andy’s nipple roughly, feeling the programmed resistance mimic true sensation. The Growlithe’s body shuddered violently beneath him, his cock pulsing in erratic twitches as the cock-ring triggered its climactic sequence. Andy’s hole clenched rhythmically around Derek’s length, synthetic muscles contracting in waves designed to milk him dry. A thin stream of artificial cum spurted from Andy’s tip, painting streaks across his belly, a cruel facsimile of pleasure Derek knew the boy would never feel.

“Yeah, yeah, just like that,” Derek growled, hips snapping forward, chasing the illusion. His claws raked down Andy’s chest, leaving raised welts that bloomed pink before fading slowly, another premium feature. The hyena’s own cock throbbed, swollen and oversensitive, but the sight of Andy’s limp body convulsing beneath him pushed him toward another peak. He fucked into the boy harder, each thrust jostling the cooling puddle of his first release still dripping from Dax’s ass.

Derek’s breath hitched, his balls drawing up tight as pressure built low in his gut. Andy’s hole clenched around him in pre-programmed pulses, milking him with cruel efficiency. The hyena snarled, biting into the boy’s shoulder as his hips stuttered, losing rhythm. His orgasm hit like a lightning strike, white-hot and violent, his cock pulsing deep inside Andy’s pliant body. Ropes of cum flooded the boy’s passage, thicker than before, the sheer volume making Derek groan as it spilled out around his shaft in sticky rivulets.

Collapsing onto Andy’s chest, Derek panted against the fur, his claws flexing against the boy’s ribs. The cock-ring’s vibrations ceased abruptly, leaving Andy’s cock twitching weakly against his belly, still half-hard. Derek smirked, dragging a fingertip through the mess on the boy’s stomach, bringing it to his lips. The synthetic cum tasted cloyingly sweet, laced with preservatives, but he swallowed it anyway, savoring the fantasy.

Slowly, he pulled out, hissing as Andy’s hole clung to him even in death, reluctant to let go. A thick strand of his own release stretched between them before snapping, dripping onto the sheets below. Derek chuckled, patting Andy’s thigh. “Damn, kid,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re better dead.”

He crawled toward the headboard, his muscles pleasantly sore, and grabbed the boys’ wrists with practiced ease. Dragging them up by their limp arms, he arranged them against the pillows like lovers, Dax’s powerful frame slouched to his left, Andy’s smaller form curled to his right. Their fur was mussed from his attentions, one body still warm from the subcutaneous coils. Perfect. These boys are great for his collection of dead boys in a special bedroom to maintain his sex dolls.

The remote clicked, and the wall-mounted screen flickered to life with the telltale blue glow of Snuff, Inc.’s proprietary encryption. Derek thumbed in his credentials, smirking as the footage loaded, crystal clear, 4K, the boys’ final moments from every angle. The crowd’s gasps filled the room as the nooses tightened, Andy’s orange fur flailing against the stage lights, Dax’s stoicism fracturing into panicked snorts. Derek exhaled sharply, his softening cock twitching against his thigh as he watched Andy’s toes curl mid-air, the exact moment his bladder let go.

He paused the playback, zooming in on the Growlithe’s face, the way his tongue lolled, eyes rolling back. Perfect. The hyena’s claws tapped against the remote, already scrolling to his wish list tab, where three dozen thumbnails blinked enticingly, live auctions, upcoming executions, fresh inventory. His gaze lingered on a rabbit, barely thirteen years old, trembling in his mugshot. Derek’s tongue darted over his fangs. Maybe next year he will pay to snuff a boy himself. Maybe sooner, if the mortuary business stayed lucrative. He never knows what might happen to him in the future. But Derek looks forward to it and adding another sexy boy to his growing collection.