"Nnnnn." Deep down, Henry knew his mind was already made up. He wanted -- needed -- that man, that male coyote, to fuck him. But he didn't want to admit it. How could he? He was married, he was a man! He couldn't let someone else have sex with his wife!
"Wh-what do you think?" he asked Linda, already knowing what she wanted, and that she would let him choose. His question made her jump guiltily -- she had began fondling herself for the coyote's pleasure, rubbing her boobs in anticipation of their surrender.
"I... I think..." Her words trailed off, and she gazed at him helplessly. The oily precum and female fluids flowing from her nethers were answer enough.
Henry whimpered, looking back at the coyote, who had folded his arms, making him look even more powerful and in control. Henry found himself petting his own boobs, and forced his hands to his head. Think. Focus. Other options. But all he could think about was sex, and he shied away from what that would mean in a church, or trying to "sleep" in the enclosed space of the station wagon.
Nor could he consider the brothel. It was bad enough knowing he would give in to this once. But to acknowledge that this would be his life? No! The only thing he could cling to, the light shining through the red fog of lust, was the hope that in the morning they could find a cure. Wait!
"Cure!" he squeaked.
"What?" Orson was non-plussed at this answer. Henry took a deep breath, trying to get his breathy voice under control.
"Is there a cure?"
"Not in this town," answered the coyote impatiently. "Do you think I wanted to stay a big, strong coyote alpha?" The choice of words made the question ring hollow, but Orson did not seem to notice.
Henry did, however. "Ohhhhh..." The words made her -- him? -- feel so weak. Feel like...
"I need a big, strong -- ahh!" She -- he -- put a hand to her mouth. But then her -- his ears folded down, and he lowered his muzzle in submission. "A-all right, sir. I-I mean, Mr. Alvarez. If it's okay with my wife."
"Oh yes," Linda breathed.
"Then you can do what you want with us. So long as it's just us."
Orson snorted. "Of course. You two fine ladies will be more than enough. Just let me set things up..." He went to his desk, registered them in his computer. Then picked up his phone and sent a short text to his brother.
Meet me at room 203. Got some hot rubber vixens in need.
Then he came back. Pushing between the two adult foxes, he set his hands on their asses, and began guiding them out of the lobby. "Right this way, ladies. Got your room key in my pocket."
"I -- I'm not a lady," protested Henry, but she let Orson push her along, shivering at his touch on her exposed rump. Wishing for more.
He laughed. "Sure smell like one. Sure feel like one too." He gave her buttock a squeeze, bringing a very feminine moan from Henry's lips. It was all Mr. Everson could do to keep pace and not melt into the coyote's grip right there; he made no more assertions of masculinity.
"Heh." Debra's tail wagged as she watched the hotel owner manhandle her parents. So hot. I need to get me a vixen... She shook her head. "We'll get the luggage!" she volunteered, to decidedly unhappy moans from her brothers. "What're our rooms?"
"203 for your parents," answered the coyote over his shoulder. "204 and 205 for you kids. Second floor." He gestured to the desk, where he had left their keys lying, before settling his hand back on Linda's rear.
So they parted ways for the moment. As Debra and the twins went out to start bringing in their luggage, Orson brought the two older herms up a flight of stairs to a long hallway.
Once again Henry wished he could put up at least a little resistance. But though he toyed with the idea of pulling away from Orson, he didn't. And soon they stood before 203, and Orson was opening the door.
"Is it... really necessary to... to have sex with both of us?" he managed as the coyote pushed the door open. "Maybe just one... alone...?"
"The cost of a hooker down at the Sweetwater is 50 dollars an hour, give or take," Orson replied. "The cost of a room, 50 dollars, plus 10 per person. So banging just one of you? Doesn't cover the cost."
Had he been lucid, Henry might have haggled. The fact that they were being asked to break their marriage vows -- that they were exotic, rubber herms -- surely added more value to their services than cheap brothel girls.
But Henry's capacity for rational thought was well-nigh exhausted. He just wanted to let go and be fucked.
Fucked...
Fuck toy...
I'm fucked...
Blinking, the vixen realised he was in the room, having been ushered in by his host without realising it. It was a fairly nice, nondescript motel room -- clean, two queen-sized beds, TV, cabinets, and so on -- even a microwave and minifridge. Although -- without anyone noticing it -- as soon as the latex foxes entered, it began to warp into something at once more luxurious and more erotic.
They did not notice because Orson was eager to get started. Seeing that Linda had already stripped, he casually picked her up and tossed her on the nearer bed. A few hours ago that would have been impossible for either of them. But Linda, while still comfortably hefty, had lost a fair bit of weight in becoming rubber. And Orson, while still no bodybuilder, had gone from a merely lean middle-aged anthro to a tough, toned athlete.
"Oof!" Linda was too shocked to say anything else. And too horny. The cool fabric of the bedspread (which turned to luxurious silk) on her hot latex drove her crazy. She rubbed her legs together, relishing the squeak of lubed rubber and the jostling of her balls.
"Hey!" Henry protested weakly.
"What, slut?" Orson asked. He was rapidly disrobing, tearing off his casual dress shirt -- literally as he disregarded the buttons -- and tie. He shot the "husband" an arch look. Receiving no answer but a meek whimper, he chuckled, undid his belt and fly, and let his slacks and boxers drop.
"Huh. Thought that was human before," he muttered as a dark canid shaft, pre-knot bulging, shot up from its sheath. He shrugged. "Oh well. This feels better. More natural. Speaking of..."
He turned to the bed. Grabbing Linda's cock, he used it to turn her onto her back. Then with a single tug, he pulled it and the attached ballsack free with an audible pop. Linda gasped as the overwhelming sensation shrank away from her detached member down into a fat little clitoris that was all that remained. The feeling of fullness from her balls was gone, allowing the emptiness of her cunt to occupy all her attention.
"You won't be needing this." He tossed what was now a dildo onto the carpeted floor. Linda gasped again -- she could still feel it, faintly, and the hard contact sent a thrill of sympathetic pleasure through her clit, up her stomach and into her nipples.
"H-how..." Henry clutched at his own manhood in fear, suddenly knowing by his sex toy intuition that he was "customizable" too. Orson looked bemused a moment, also questioning how he'd known to do that, then he shrugged.
"It's obvious," he said simply. "Now get into bed and wait for Farrell like a good girl. Or do you need help too?"
"N-no..." Obediently Henry too began to strip, his body trembling. God how he hated -- and loved -- the feel of his silken stockings as they peeled down over his long limbs. Shivered as the pressure of her thong was released from her over-sized ballsack. He stared at the fluid pulsing from the end of his dick; it was not only inhuman, but larger than he remembered. Yet the endowment, leaking for the thought of being fucked like a bitch -- like the toy he was -- only made him feel more effeminate.
Then he climbed into bed, like his wife struggling to control himself as the cool expanse pressed against his overheated rubber. He blinked back tears, feverish with the conflict of need and shame.
And Orson, stepping out of his pants -- digitigrade paws easily withdrawn from loafers meant for plantigrade feet -- climbed onto Linda. They stared into each other's eyes a moment, coyote yellow and foxy gold each filled with a reciprocal hunger. Then Linda broke contact, looking over at Henry as her husband settled on his side, watching them. Regret stabbed her innards at being cuckolded right in front of him. Yet it was alloyed with desire -- desire to break that taboo, to succumb and let the instinct of bestial plaything overwhelm her conscious will.
Then she felt Orson's fingers on her muzzle. "Eyes on me, slut," he growled, forcing her to meet his gaze again, before pressing his jaws down over hers. Whines poured out around invading tongue, but she felt herself welcoming him in. And, below, her legs spread in equal welcome to another, hotter, harder member as it teased her lower lips. Instinct had won and shameful bliss swallowed her.
Then --
"Oh yeah!" Orson growled.
Linda's cry was inarticulate as the thick coyote meat speared into her torrid rubber hole, spreading her apart in a way neither of the two former humans had felt before. Orson had not been wrong; until now, he had had a human cock. But the fox, though fleshed in rubber, still had animal desires, and had shaped him to better match the animal within.
As the coyote's rhythm quickly picked up, the watching Henry could do nothing but tremble and whimper, his mind lost in his own emotions.
So many emotions. Deep down, the male human was horrified, emasculated and humiliated at watching his wife be fucked in front of him. But the growing instincts of the vixen were proud to see her partner performing so well. And her nipples ached, oh! and her pussy; and her cock was bouncing tight against her belly; and the vixen could not help but rub at them in anticipation of being pounded so mercilessly herself.
Himself.
The most present emotion of his human half was fear -- anxiety that he was losing his self, that he would soon cease to be who he was. That his tenacious grasp on his old identity would fail, and he would lose his manhood and his humanity in his mind as he had already lost them in his flesh.
That in the end, he'd be happy as a fuck toy...
Her feverish musings were broken as the door opened once again.
"Orson, what in the hell was that... text... Oh my God."
Henry propped himself up in unconscious sexy pose, his triple rack bouncing nicely, to see another coyote male standing in the doorway. His pussy clenched, electrifying the butterflies in his stomach. This must be Farrell, Orson's brother, and Henry's bespoken master -- er, customer? -- for the next hour.