You wake from the dreamless sleep of one who has not yet luxuriated in the Inception-deep level of rapid eye movement. You lie on your right side, your head resting on your arm, an ear pinned to itself. The other, however, cants to the side, twitching.

Something woke you up.

As your eyes adjust to the subtle difference between a dark room and your formerly-closed eyelids, you stare at the wall and listen. First, nothing but the mild tinnitus you only notice in the few minutes just preceding or following sleep, and then—hardly recognizable to anyone not a fox—the sound of pawpads on your doorframe. And though the next minute is nothing but silence, the scent that wafts across your nose is unmistakable.

But you wait for him to make the move, not wanting him to think he's bothering you. Being an imposition. It was hard enough to get your brother to let him stay the night in the first place.

It escapes you how such an adventurous kit has turned into a helicopter dad like your brother has, but different lives evolve in different ways. He's married with kids, and you're...well, you're single, and that's boring to the rest of the clan. It's anything but boring to you. No ball and chain, and a decent amount of pussy here and there.

Then you hear his footsteps, tentative at first but surer as he steps into your living room where you elected to sleep on the pull-out sofa so he could hog the memory foam in the master. Prince Beecher, you called him, and the prince gets the royal treatment.

You could tell he wasn't used to the concept of a free schedule. Your brother Marto's wife keeps everyone busy with a strict regimen of school and activities and appointments. No wonder Beech is so high-strung.

Pad. Pad. Padpadpad. A deep breath. “Uncle Tobias?” It's hardly more than a whisper before he clears his throat and repeats. You make your move, rustling a bit to turn onto your back, bringing a leg up and propping yourself on your elbows, pretending to blink away sleep.

He stands at the foot of the bed, so small for his age like he's always been. In a sleep-shirt and nothing else, he's still more clothed than you are under your old velour blanket. Thin arms clutch a plush fox to a thin chest, his chin down but his eyes up on you. Big blue eyes, shining in what little light enters from the other room.

“What's up, Beecharino?” The pet name usually gets the kid to giggle, but right now he just looks apprehensive. It occurs to you that you never asked Marto if his son ever got over the bedwetting phase, and for a moment you cringe inwardly at the thought of having to clean fox urine out of your expensive memory foam mattress.

“Nothin',” he lies, seeming to shrink even more. He fights with his own lowering ears before continuing, “Had a bad dream.” If his legs weren't so close together his tail would push its way between his knees.

Sitting up all the way, the blanket falls below your thighs, but Beech takes about as much notice as you do to his bottomlessness. Sub-waist clothing is simply not an issue. “What kind of bad dream?”

“Don't amember, but it was scary. I woke up and I was chewing on Rufus's ear.” He offers up the stuffed toy, one of its ears matted and close to needing stitches. You know it's a piece of contention between Marto and his wife, who wants it gone. Doing it cold turkey would traumatize the boy but she doesn't seem to care. At least Marto's standing firm on that front.

“Lemme see.” Beech comes around to your side and hands it over. You inspect it, turning it this way and that, making a show of deep concern. “We can wash him tomorrow. I don't think you did any permanent damage.”

“I hope not.” He's so precious, so soft-spoken. You want to hug him up and down and hold him and keep him safe and keep the world out, but you know that's not in his best interest. But for now you can at least be Uncle Toby. And that's good enough. “Hey...can I ask you something?”

“Why don't you crawl in here with me and snuggle, and then you can,” you say, waggling your eyebrows up and down, knowing you just answered the question he was about to ask. Beech's muzzle just lights the fuck up at that. He's not getting enough one-on-one time at home; you've known about it for a while, you've spoken to Marto about it, but you can't quite crack that egg yet.

Marto's not here right now.

Beecher smiles, chin still against his chest, arms crossed now that you're holding his stuffed best friend. “You mean it?” He looks like a kit who's been given theobromine-free chocolate for the first time. Indulgently giddy, practically dancing on tiptoe.

“Would I ever lie to you?” Only if it protected him from evil.

“Nuh-uh.”

You scoot to the far side of the bed and hold the blanket up with one paw, the other arm keeping tabs on good ol' Rufus. Your nephew's ears swivel forward, alert, unconcerned, elated. You consider suggesting snuggling up on your more-comfortable bed, but you choose to preserve this priceless moment instead. He gets one knee onto the mattress before pausing, muzzle wrinkled in thought. Then he peels off the sleep-shirt and throws it to the floor, rolling over next to you in one smooth gymnastic motion. He ends up on his back, against your chest, giggling giddily, paws and feet pedaling the air.

He pulls the blanket up to his chin. “Mmm, warm.”

“I thought you wanted to cuddle, though. I'm gettin' kinda jealous of that blanket.” From your position on your left side you reach over, easily bridging the gap, your paw alighting on his flat stomach, rubbing back and forth. Without a prompt Beecher scoots up close, cradling his thin form against your bigger body. His tail is too trapped to wag, but you can feel it trying. You reach behind and grab Rufus to give back to him, which he takes with a squeak.

You know that simply sharing a bed won't keep the bad dreams away, but your nephew doesn't have to know.

“Thanks, Uncle Toby,” he says, ending in a wide-mawed yawn. You slip your arm under his head and clutch him safely—warmly, softly—to you. And the rhythm of his shallow breathing lulls you back to sleep.

*

You're in the local Macy's looking at clothes. Endless racks of shirts, jeans and suits stretch out before you. Signs atop the displays are written in dream-gibberish, though you somehow sense what they mean anyway.

The store appears to be devoid of personnel, so you pluck a pair of acid-wash dungarees from a rack, and though no one has worn this style since 1988 you walk to the dressing room anyway. Of course, the door has no lock, and suddenly you're nude...or you've always been nude, because this is a dream.

You're trying on jeans, for fuck's sake. You never wear anything below the waist. That's how you can tell it's a dream.

All the same, you yank on one leg and then the other, pull them up and you can't close the button. Looking down you see your cock splitting the fly open.

First, you try to zip the zipper around the shaft, something that would hurt massively in real life but does nothing here. You're not worried, however. Not even when you bring your left paw up and suddenly some purplish squid-creature is attached to your fingers, devouring them hungrily.

And you wake up, instantly conscious with no head-fog like usual. The first thing you notice is the suckling sensation on your left fingertips. The second thing you notice is your rock-hard erection straining against the velour blanket. Resisting the urge to tear your paw away, knowing what that would do, you turn to look at Beecher's angelic face, three of your fingers between his lips, his tongue lapping oh-so-slowly along their length.

God, but that feels good.

The motions are automatic, rhythmic like his breathing. He's asleep, no doubt about it, his ears relaxed and his tail still. You are anything but. Reaching down to grasp your shaft, you find a copious amount of pre at the tip. This has been going on for a while.

Down goes the blanket, uncovering you both. Your cockhead shines in the moonlight streaming through the window, angry and naughty and betraying.

But sensation is sensation, no matter what or who is causing it. And you can't take your fingers away.

You look over at your nephew, peaceful on his side, arms clasped as he nurses. Absolutely no action between his legs. You wonder what he's dreaming about, what he could possibly be dreaming about. Sharing a Coke with a classmate?

It is while stroking your sheath over the base of your shaft that you get the idea, and at first you're nauseated. This kid loves and trusts you to be his guardian in his home away from home. You play XBox with him. You take him to awful action movies because they make him smile. You put your waistline at risk by saying yes to every request for ice cream.

And now he's treating your fingers like a Chinese masseuse treats the end of a session.

You could end it in a minute or less. Just some quick strokes below the head and you'll spray all over your chest, maybe clearing your shoulder. Maybe hitting Beech in the face, and then he would wake up and you could at least claim nocturnal emission. But then you'd likely have to explain wet dreams because Marto doesn't have the balls to do it himself, you know he doesn't, even though—

Holy Christ.

The memories come flooding back: not repressed, no, but forgotten until now. You and Marto after lights out, whispered secrets, shared feelings, and the exploration. Oh, the wonderful exploration. He would go down on you and make you squirm. He loved to give you your “tingles.” But sucking him back or sliding under his tail were too gay, you thought. Until you found out how good it felt, and then you didn't care.

With these pleasant pictures in your head you find your legs tucking slowly, carefully, under your ass, attempting a reversal without disturbing him. Without removing your fingers from that undulating, ceaseless tongue. You watch his eyes like a hawk, checking for the slightest signs of consciousness. If he wakes up now, you'll have some explaining to do. Hell, from this point on his life might be changed forever.

You tell yourself it's his fault for having an oral fixation. Yeah, that's the ticket. Yeah, right.

Slowly, miraculously, you're able to swivel your hips around and stretch your legs toward the couch end of the bed. A trail of slime spreads across the sheet where you dragged your dick over it. Now that dick is down by his nose and your snout is sniffing up the clover-and-vanilla musk coming from his sheath. So clean and inoffensive. You grow harder still, if that is even possible, your pulse a roar with the risk and arousal.

Angling your hips to stretch toward his muzzle, as nervous as an Apollo 13 astronaut, you slowly withdraw your digits and touch your cockhead to his mouth. The physical contact brings with it the pang of guilt, but his searching lips search out your flesh and take you in, a good two inches of you, and that's that.

You bite your wet paw to keep from yipping, and you taste him. Wintergreen muzzlewash and cinnamon gum.

That's kind of how Marto smelled. How he still smells, actually, the same overtones with different nuances.

Beecher doesn't suck the way Marto sucked though, all eagerness and impatience to swallow that load. Then again, Beecher's asleep and thinks your dick is your finger or—at the very least—a pacifier. Less damage done to Rufus the Stuffed Fox in the long run.

You stare in a silent moan because you don't want to do anything that would wake him up. You don't want to have to explain how your cock ended up in his mouth when the last thing he remembers is spooning you naked in your bed. Marto would love hearing about that, given his newfound diffidence in marriage.

The light russet fur of his thigh is outlined even in the low light, a gentle curve with the fluff of his still tail above and the rolling highlights of his scrotum below. You can still taste him, but this time it's coming from the other end, the sources of musk, the glands. It's better than pussy. You want to reach out to touch it...you even prop yourself up on one elbow so you can try...but your balance threatens to give way. For now you'll have to settle for the most awesome blowjob you've had in quite a while, from a muzzle that's likely never given one before.

It's the simplest of maneuvers, that lapping tongue, but without consciousness in the way Beecher is consistent and unwavering. Another pang of guilt sends your heart aflutter, but you're too far in now. Pushing him off might end the whole thing prematurely, and if he's going to wake up either way then you'd rather seed his throat beforehand.

Getting a leg underneath, you're able to keep stable by using his thigh as a prop. You've seen this thigh before, hundreds of times, but never in this way and never from this angle. Your thumb rests in the center of his left buttock. He's thin enough so that his hole is visible without having to spread any. It's pink there, in its sea of dun-red fur, and it's so tiny. Prying the cheek to one side yields a fresh burst of musk, of soap and sweat and pheromones, that starts you drooling.

You and Marto, playing peek-a-boo with your pajama pants.

You and Marto, pawing off together...and then helping each other a week later.

You and Marto, sixty-nining less than a minute after lights-out.

You and Marto, scared shitless, tied under the covers for ten minutes and counting, feigning sleep while your father pulls the comforter up to your chins with a wistful sigh of nostalgia. If only he'd pulled them down instead...and how did he not smell you?

Maybe he did, and left you to your little games.

Marto, whatever happened?

For a couple precious minutes you can almost believe you're nine again, bucking your hips to a dry climax as you struggle to come to terms with feelings your body doesn't know what to do with. And when you open your eyes you're back to reality, with your astigmatism and your minor carpal-tunnel syndrome and your vitamin supplements.

But you still have a mouth on your cock, slowly working you up with a consistency you've never known.

You try to tell yourself that this was a good idea, and you shout down any thoughts to the contrary. A quick glance down your torso to check Beech's eyes: no tears...no expression whatsoever, actually. Just the twitchy lids of dreamland, wherever the kit's dreams are taking him at this moment. This moment, when you can feel your pre slickening up his tongue every few strokes. You won't have any trouble making the finish line this time.

Lifting one leg frees up the last inch of your shaft, your hips pressing just a bit further in. The prick of a fang and oh god the little bugger curls his lips over his teeth. He can't be sleeping. But Beecher's never been a faker, and he especially wouldn't be good at faking this. You allow yourself a muted growl, seemingly so loud in the darkness, and his tail flicks and switches with your breath. Then it wags, and stays wagging.

You owe him.

And it is this thought (and probably a fair bit of thinly-disguised selfishness) that makes it easy to slide your thumb pad down almost to the hot button of flesh and pull. Beecher makes a soft, unidentifiable sound, but his tail is hiked so it can't be all bad. The fur of his cheeks tickles your whiskers as you slide your muzzle into the scent, taking it in, living in it. Your tongue lands on the underside of his balls and slides, wetly, up and over the wrinkles, and ends just under the cleft of his tail base. The whole area is matted and slick, your senses afire with all the new information you've just gained.

You can tell what he had for breakfast before he came over. And that's just the start.

Before you know what you're doing, two inches of your tongue has snaked its way past Beecher's ring and is now massaging him from the inside. The kit's lower half tenses up before relaxing further than before, and he suddenly becomes amazingly loose. It's the first tailhole aside from Marto's that you've explored like this, and he's so similar you'd swear he's a clone. You've come full circle in an ironic sort of way.

Maybe, if he does wake up, you could share your memories, if Beecher would be able to believe anything so adventurous about his dad. Anything so fun.

Images of the three of you in myriad positions roll like a parade of debauchery before your mind's eye, sending your muzzle as deep as it will go, your snout mashed up against his opening and half your tongue trying to clean him out. Down in your balls the tension begins to build, and about a minute from now you're going to see whether or not Beecher can swallow in his sleep.

Breathing shallowly through your nose because everything else is busy, you try to sync your tongue up with his, easier said than done since you're awake and consequently you have a lot more standing in your way, what with all the thoughts and your ever-building orgasm providing distractions.

You cant your ears forward and hear him making little squeaking noises each time you hit the nubbin that must be his prostate. Whatever he's feeling, it must be intense, so you know you're giving what you're taking at least in equal measure. Each painful clench reminds you that he might be as close as you are, maybe closer. That will be decided here in about fifteen seconds.

The bottom drops out as you cross the threshold, your nerves coming alive like firecrackers. Your balls nearly up to your kidneys, you feel the heat flow through your assorted pipes until you can't hold it back or hold it in. You are VERY loud as the first shot hits the back of Beecher's throat, causing him to jerk bodily...but instantly he's swallowing, using his tongue to lap at your volleys while you thrust carefully between his lips. Around shot number nine you're merely firing blanks but you're still riding the wave.

You almost don't notice the rhythmic spasming along the length of your tongue before you pull away, gasping. A gob of saliva splorts out of his hole and runs down over his balls. It's all you can do to keep focused on it while you finish flooding his muzzle with seed. Eventually it becomes too much and you roll away, extricating your organ with an audible pop. Even so, several hot runnels drip off your thigh onto the bed.

Once you've gathered your breath (and your nerve) you lick your lips and look over at him. Groggy, sticky and drooling spooge, Beecher stares blankly at your retreating package without really seeing it. His muzzle is absolutely wrecked, but you notice with more than a little pride that you never heard him choke or sputter.

He looks over to you, his baby-blue eyes focusing, dripping onto Rufus in the process. “Uncle Toby?” Then he leans back, exposing his sheath and a decent puddle of white underneath his belly. Something like a whine escapes him, and you prepare several excuses in your head. You never get to use them. “You made me come.” His little waif-like chest rises and falls, hitching a little.

“Beech, listen to me.”

And suddenly he's on top of you, arms around your shoulders, all over your back holding you close. He buries his cum-covered muzzle in your neck, your own scent so much more potent than his. You think he's laughing, but he's crying, and you have no choice but to merely stay where you are and see what happens.

Finally he lets go, and indeed he's got twin tear-tracks staining the fur just short of the little black triangles on either side of the bridge of his nose. “I've never done that before.”

You take a moment to understand the words. “Really?”

“Nuh-uh. Oh my gosh, thank you for being here when it finally happened! Eeeee!” His lips on yours. Him lapping at your fangs. The utter lack of resistance when you probe and he sucks your tongue right in with no clue how naughty he's being.

But he's having a seminal moment (literally) and far be it from you to spoil it.

Beecher should have bad dreams more often, you think, though it probably won't take a bad dream to make this happen again.

Still, you have to give them credit.