It was impossible to say no to Mufasa Ingonyama. The lion was not a cruel, sadistic man; in fact, he was often benevolent and generous, to his employees and to the community at large. But one does not rise to the top of the capitalist food chain without accumulating a powerful and occasionally ruthless reputation, and Mufasa had full control over it. It didn’t hurt that he was such an intimidating figure in the flesh, as well-almost seven feet tall and built like an Olympic wrestler, with sharp hazel eyes and a rich, bassy rumble of a voice that could make even a seasoned boardroom warrior feel like an antelope caught in his sights.

This was all to say that someone like Andy didn’t stand a chance. When the fox was brought into Mufasa’s office, he watched as the lion locked the door behind him and shut the blinds. That was for Andy’s sake, not Mufasa’s; if they were caught in the act, it would be the fox’s reputation that suffered, while Mufasa’s sterling reputation would be barely dented. “Thank you,” Andy murmured, shifting uncomfortable in his seat.

“No trouble at all,” Mufasa said, that distant-thunder purr of his massaging Andy’s ears and making the fur on the back of his neck prickle. “I like privacy, anyway.” He motioned to Andy with a finger, beckoning him behind his desk. Without being told, the fox knelt in front of Mufasa, looking up at him with the sort of wide-eyed reverence that a peasant would have for a king.

“I think my shoes could use a good polish,” Mufasa said, smiling down at his kneeling employee. “Don’t you think so, Andrew?” Of course, it didn’t matter whether Andy thought so or not; they both knew it was a question wrapped around a command.

And so, without bothering to respond verbally to his boss, Andy lowered his head to Mufasa’s feet and immediately set to work. His tongue lolled out, licking over the toe of the right shoe all the up to the laces before dragging it back down again, tipping it off with a kiss to the brown leather. Then he would repeat the process, dutifully polishing the CEO’s shoe on all fours.

Andy didn’t know enough about shoes to know exactly what kind they were, but he could tell just from looking at them that they cost as much as sending his son to college for a semester. Even before his polishing, they shined; they were clearly hand-crafted, probably by some high-end, award-winning European shoemakers. This was in sharp contrast to the shoes Andy wore to work; drab and functional, the only award their makers would get was Least Emaciated Sweatshop Worker in Phnom Penh.

Mufasa, for his part, ignored him; he turned his attention back to his work, fingers clicking away at his keyboard. It wasn’t a way to dehumanize Andy (although the fox certainly felt that way sometimes), but rather an extension of the lion’s general ethos. If you’re doing your job well, Mufasa reasoned, you deserved to be left in peace as you did it. Ignoring Andy, then, was a sign that the lion had total trust in the fox to do a great job. In this case, that job happened to be “shoe-licker”.

Not that Mufasa was wrong to think Andy was a good shoe-licker. As the lion rested his feet upon their heels and exposed the soles of his shoes to the fox, Andy proved just how right Mufasa was. He held Mufasa’s left shoe in his hands, looking at it in a hungry, almost worshipful way, before burying his face against the sole, dragging his tongue up and down its length. Every so often, he would take in a deep breath, letting that scent of rich, earthy leather flood his mind, before getting back to work.

After some time, Andy’s tongue grew tired, and the taste of Mufasa’s shoes lingered in his mouth; he would need at least a couple of mouthwash rinses before it started to taste normal again. Not that he minded, of course, but it was getting time for a break. Thankfully, Mufasa was a perceptive sort.

“Let’s rest your tongue, now,” he said. “You may stand.” Andy got up off of his hands and knees and stood before Mufasa, the fox bowing his head slightly and saying “thank you, sir.”

“It’s no trouble,” Mufasa responded. “Now, refill this cup of coffee for me and come right back. I’ve got more I’d like to do to you…”

---

It was impossible to say no to Simba Ingonyama. You could tell just from his appearance that he was his father’s son; same chiseled-statue body, same piercing hazel eyes, same long, full red mane. There was that same regal air around him, too; whether he was at a gala with his father, walking to his morning classes, or going wild at a frat party, there was that odd sensation that he was above you, that you were to be thankful for his presence.

And yet Mufasa knew to keep that royal presence of his as subtext; the point was to suggest that you should consider yourself honored if he let you kiss his ass. Loudly declaring your superiority was fun, sure, but it didn’t always work like you wanted it to. Simba hadn’t grasped that yet; young and clumsy as he could be, he liked to take subtext and make it just plain text. 

Case in point.

“I don’t feel tongue, faggot!” Simba said, grinning over his shoulder at the fox laying on the bed behind him. “C’mon, don’t be shy with me, buddy!” Alex nodded meekly into Simba’s ass crack, sticking his tongue out and licking up and down that sweaty crevice, flicking it skillfully over the lion’s pink, puckered asshole.

Alex, as it happened, was Andy’s son, and he took to the the proud lion much like his father. He happily did Simba’s bidding, whether that was making beer runs, shooing away his latest hookup, or (in this case) worshiping every inch of the studly lion’s body. In return, Alex got...well, he got playfully bullied by the big guy. But that was good enough for him.

Simba lay on his belly, wearing nothing but a cream-colored jockstrap from wrestling practice. (He wore more colorful underwear elsewhere, like flag-patterned briefs and rainbow jockstraps, but a uniform was a uniform.) Alex crawled up behind him, hands planted firmly on those glorious, muscled, yellow-furred buns, his nose hungrily sniffing up and down Simba’s crack.

For such an unapologetically bro-y alpha, Simba was awful proud of his ass. He walked around the locker room with it fully bared, he delighted in throwing its weight around when asserting his dominance over weaker guys, and he loved attention lavished on it in bed, from boys and girls alike. And indeed, he had a wonderful ass-muscled enough to be firm and manly, but soft enough to jiggle in a tight pair of shorts, like the kind he wore to tease in the summer.

Alex slapped those big, firm cheeks, making them wobble from the attention, before diving back in. He gave big, deep sniffs, right up against Simba’s sweaty asshole, that strong masculine musk enough to make his eyes water. He spread those meaty globes, revealing that hole, before planting a big, heavy kiss on it, as though it was a pair of lips.

“Thaaaaat’s it, bitch,” Simba leered, biting his lip. “Kiss it like it’s your girlfriend.” He snorted. “God knows it’s the closest you’ll get to one.” Alex blushed, but kept going, wetly suckling on the lion’s hole and gradually sneaking his tongue inside. He didn’t mind Simba’s bullying at all-he knew that it was affectionate at its heart, and he knew Simba actually liked having him around. Of course, the fact that those insults made his toes curl and mind grow warm and fuzzy didn’t hurt matters.

“Speaking of girlfriends,” Simba said, his thumbs dancing along his phone’s touchscreen, “Jackie asked about you.” Alex made a curious noise with his face buried in Simba’s ass, and the lion continued. “Yeah, she was asking when you’d be free, whether you’d wanna go out sometime.” He looked over his shoulder, as though in thought. “I’d say you could go out tonight, but you’re a little busy with your tongue up my shithole, huh?”

Alex blushed, groaning into that sweaty crack and keeping up that fevered worship. It wasn’t easy to admit to anyone, certainly not Simba, but he wasn’t really interested in a girlfriend. Hell, he wasn’t interested in a boyfriend, either-well, not as such. Really, all he wanted was Simba: Simba’s cocky smirk, Simba’s playful ass-grabs, Simba’s sweaty jockstraps, Simba’s complete, confident dominance over, well, everything!

“I’ll just say you’re busy today, huh? Now, gimme more tongue before I fart down your throat.”