I watched two moths flutter beneath the amber glow of a street lamp. Stark neon light illuminated their ashen wings as they danced through the conical projection in the humid air of a late august night. The San Diego freeway droned with commuters creeping north and south in the aftermath of rush hour. A rumbling roar rose above the freeway’s ceaseless drone as a nearby jet powered up its engines for takeoff. The aroma of kerosene lingered even as occasional ocean breezes brought marine scents and soothing coolness that did little to mitigate the heat of the night. The cone of light across the hotel parking lot shone upon the pay phone booth, itself illuminated with flickering fluorescent radiance, emitting the familiar sodium buzz. Its folding door stood half open, inviting the buoyant flutter of moths, mosquitoes, and other photophilic insects. Their errant movement in and out of darkness seemed the only perceivable motion amidst the stillness of the hotel lot. 

I sat behind my steering wheel observing the uncanny spectacle of motion and motionlessness. My fingers nervously trifled with the frayed edges of a smudged and bent rolodex card covertly lifted from the office of the prominent Westside businessman Henrik van Claude. Written in blurred type upon the tattered cardstock stood the badger’s private contact information including his home telephone number. My paw-pads ran over the ten digit catenation of numbers as if bewitched by the inconspicuous significance. The sight of the phone booth beaconed, filling me with palpable excitement not unlike erotic desire. I had always found something erotic about phone booths.  

Mr. Van Claude had recently hired me to assume duties as his chauffer. I didn’t enter into the profession with a career in mind, but rather fell into it a few years prior. I served a few of the prominent ones around the L.A. basin, all of which had their demands. Van Claude demanded more than the others. He required frequent trips between downtown, the airport, and his home in Pacific Palisades often at short notice and with urgent appointments. The badger Van Claude always remained an elusive and private employer. I know little about him aside from the observations I have made and the trade rumors spoken of him by other professionals. It has been said that he went through four previous chauffeurs and three assistants in a seven month period. I was told not to expect a long employment and to prepare for a great deal of “abuse.” I have observed Mr. Van Claude to be shrewd, laconic, and as keen witted as the best of his profession. I have always felt terrified in his presence. 

In pursuit of professionalism I kept my distance, loyally following his orders and honoring his appointments to the best of my ability. I have always remained silent as per his request. Working for Mr. Van Claude has been as lucrative as it has been stressful. My tenure as his driver lasted four and a half months, a record long employment in his service. Throughout the long L.A. summer I stood ready for him, crisscrossing the spider web of busy freeways, fording the mire of traffic, and navigating the endless grid of boulevards and side streets in the heavy black Mercedes limousine to deliver my employer on time.  My clientele is seldom talkative, but a keen ear usually picks up enough gossip and insider information on the fringes of legality to be at very least newsworthy. Unlike my previous employers I have learned little of his private life and had few interactions with him. I knew him as the deep commanding voice in the passenger compartment, the glowing cigarette, and the pristine handsomeness of his appearance. That changed two weeks ago.

Mr. Van Claude traveled to New York on business which was not unusual, in fact very common for him. Van Claude travels on business at least three times monthly. He arrived late on a Sunday evening during the wave of flights that brought back red-eyed suit-donning businessmen from their east-coast affairs or weekend trysts. This time the badger requested pick up on the fourth floor of parking structure three at LAX. Mr. Van Claude was not opposed to giving unusual or very precise instructions; nonetheless this seemed odd for him to deviate from his usual preference for curbside pickup. You never knew which Van Claude you were going to work for. He was both a man of polished habits, and strongly unpredictable.

I sat waiting behind the steering wheel of the Mercedes on the desolate fourth floor of parking structure three. My vehicle stood alone in the pale cement cavern with shallow ceilings. Sodium lights buzzed from above. The whole structure seemed to vibrate every few minutes as passenger barreled down the field. I glanced at my wristwatch and back at the rear view mirror expecting my employer to arrive at any moment. I wanted nothing more than to be on my way.  I contemplated the vagueness and strangeness of my employer’s request but tried to dismiss it as additional evidence of the increasing eccentricity of a L.A. businessman. Just after half past nine I saw him approaching in the rear view mirror. His expensive clothing rippled in the draft as he briskly strode toward the vehicle passing the corner between the concrete pillars of the parking structure. In concordance with etiquette I left the vehicle and helped him with his bags. 

After loading him and his luggage, I had climbed into the driver seat and put my paw on the ignition. As I looked back into the rear view mirror into the dimly lit passenger cabin I saw the familiar flash of his lighter and the orange glow of a cigarette tip. The smell of tobacco smoke soon followed. When he spoke his deep voice beckoned me into the passenger compartment of the Mercedes limousine. This was an unusual request from any employer and contradicted professional etiquette. It was an especially bizarre request for Mr. Van Claude whose every gesture complied with professional conduct. I obeyed, exiting and reentering the vehicle, sitting adjacent from him in the spacious interior. We sat silently facing each other for several moments. I watched the tip of his cigarette glow from orange to bright red as he inhaled. The dim fluorescent light seeped in through the filtered windows providing little in the way of illumination though I could make out the broad outline of my employer. Mr. Van Claude extinguished his cigarette and sank into the bench seat loosening his tie. In that moment he looked exhausted, drained, and troubled. I inhaled sharply, opening my lips to inquire the meaning of his request when he spoke. 

“You don’t make it very far in business without learning how to read people. Everybody wants something.” He sighed and continued unbuttoning the top of his shirt. “You see. Subtle behavioral cues, verbal intonations, minor movements and barely noticeable actions and reactions can tell a great deal about who you are. More importantly, what you want.”

I sat there, restless, not exactly knowing how to react or respond. I nodded respectfully and otherwise remained silent. “I’ve been observing you,” he said, “and I think I know what you want.” I wanted to object and question the vagueness of his statements but before I could utter a word he spread his knees apart, unfastening his belt and undoing the top button on his pants. He looked down at his lap and then up at me, head cocked with steel colored eyes focused on me in an implying stare. “I know you know what to do. You know what’s at stake here.”

I sat there shocked, not so much at the nature of his proposition which more closely resembled a command, but rather by the sheer magnitude of his observations. Truth existed to his observations, I thought, suddenly becoming aware of the totality of his stare. His terrifying intellect and succinct reasoning seemed to dissect me. He seemed to strip me of the illusions I invested myself with, leaving me exposed and naked in all but physical form. I was not safe from him, I had become his target and now he was using the keenness of his talents upon me. In truth I admired him a great deal. I remembered the sharpness of his dress, the refined crispness of his features, and the immaculate cut of his posture. I remembered his confidence and the determinacy of his composure. I had no defense against someone like him. He knew I wanted to please him, I wanted his attention, and I wanted his affection. Even with the infrequency of our interactions and the formality of our correspondence he could see this, and was offering me an opportunity to have what I wanted. He knew I was willing. 

He reached out and tugged me toward him by my lapel, perhaps out of impatience, or to liberate me from the paralysis of astonishment. With his guidance I leaned forward, plunging muzzle first into his lap. I had slept with men before, in fact preferred them, though I had never been with an employer. A certain taboo existed around the act. A fine line existed in Van Claude’s world, one you just couldn’t cross, not without consequences at least. At that point it no longer mattered, not in the parallel universe of a darkened limousine in the deserted vaults of parking structure three. I knew instinctually what to do.

My paws slid up his thighs as I descended, coming to rest on his hips. My muzzle buried itself between his legs. I began to nuzzle his inner thighs and around his crotch. I could feel the outline of his sheath as I nosed over his garments, smelling the faint musk of what lay beneath his clothing. I felt his broad paw come to rest on the back of my head, gently holding me captive in his lap. I closed my eyes and nuzzled the expensive fabric, brushing my nose and whiskers over the outline of maleness, feeling its decisive firmness. My paws trembling with trepidation moved to undo the fly of his trousers. With deliberate slowness I lowered the zipper, allowing my paw to pass over his maleness, tantalizingly close beneath the thin fabric of his briefs. Shaky fingers undid the last few buttons and exposed my employer’s sheath. Mr. Van Claude inhaled deeply as I first touched his bare features. His chest rose and sank with a deep breath and faint hardly discernable shudder of anticipation. I did not dare look up at him. 

His sheath fur was the same color as his belly, white as ice and soft as down. My paws stroked the fur of his sheath, squeezing the maleness within and cupped the orbs within his furry pouch. I pressed my nose and whiskers at the base and inhaled the unique male aroma of my employer. Without knowing why and feeling a certain degree of hesitation I let my tongue dart out against his balls and across the musky soft fur. My fingers felt the firmness within. My tongue lapped up his sheath, passing repeatedly over his sheath-slit from which soon appeared the pink tip of his arousal which quickly became the sole focus of my attention. As my tongue passed over the smooth surface of his cock tip, his paw, placed firmly on the back of my head pulled me downward and onto his shaft and held me there as he emitted a pleased vocalization. 

My paw crept upward with fingers spread wide up through his supple belly fur under his buttoned shirt towards his chest. With his free paw, he halted mine, directing it downward reminding me what my focus should be. His cock slipped deeper into my muzzle and continued to expand until it reached the pinnacle of arousal. His paw remained resting firmly on the back of my head keeping himself lodged deep within my muzzle. My nose and whiskers twitched, buried within his pubic fur, making it difficult to breathe. My tongue flicked around his shaft exploring the unfamiliar shape and flavor of the badger’s cock.  I tried to pull back and begin sucking in earnest, but his paw kept me in place, in fact he pushed my head down further bucking up, forcing his cock tip down my throat to the point where I almost gagged. 

“Good fox,” he said, “I could tell you’ve done this before. It seems I don’t have to coach.” His words brought a twinge of shame that ran through my body and reminded me of the reality I was part of. Here I was deep-throating my employer, unsure if I was coerced or volunteered. I was ashamed of the ease at which I had allowed myself into this situation, how I had put up no resistance, not even uttered a word of objection. I was sucking my employer’s cock, unabashed to the highest extent of my ability and I was enjoying it. What belied my doubts was my own throbbing erection confined uncomfortably within my uniform trousers and this immense primal anticipation welling up within me which I could not deny nor reject. This urge felt wrong, but so intense it paralleled the highest moment of arousal I could conceive of. I felt unsure of who wanted this more, or who did whom a favor. Perhaps he was right, he knew I wanted this, how he knew this seemed uncanny.
 
At that moment the paw on the back of my head relaxed and lifted, running gently across my scalp and ruffled my head fur. Whatever doubts I had abated as force gave way to compassion. The tender caresses against scalp and across my swept back ears became the positive feedback necessary to assure determined focus and whole-hearted commitment to the task. At that moment I was his, I was free to please him. I moved my paw, wrapping my fingers around the base of his shaft, griping him firmly and began to raise and lower my muzzle, sliding his cock in and out of my muzzle with lips clenched tight and tongue slipping along its slick surface. I knew what I was doing. I enjoyed it. 

While I savored the minutes spent kneeling in the passenger compartment of the Mercedes beneath the alternating caress and command of my employer’s paw, I speculated on why I was chosen. This was obviously arranged, but for how long? Was he attracted to me, or was I an easy target to blow off steam? Was I the first employee of his to be lured into the backseat only to find themselves sucking Van Claude’s erect cock or was I the first Van Claude suspected would enjoy it? Either way, Van Claude had invited me to share in this experience. He bared himself, allowed me to expose and touch his sheath, and surrendered his integrity to satiate an urge, but why? My questions ended there as my task demanded all of my attention. My focus shifted to the movements of my head and tongue, the delicate touch of my paws, and the interpretation of my senses. I enjoyed myself, the slickness of his shaft and softness of his sheath, the scent of male musk and expensive cologne, and the taste of his cock.

His legs parted more and his hips thrust his cock into my muzzle, clearly pleased with my efforts. I began to taste pre as I continued to suck, which I considered a good sign. I would angle my head and put my tongue to good use, pulling out every trick I knew. I could feel his muscles tense and his body shift in desirous longing for release. He would occasionally inhale and gasp sharply, sigh with relief and murr, almost as if under his breath. I took pride with each of these reactions. I was pleased that I could illicit such acknowledgement from such an impassive figure. It was then I realized that I had him. I had him vulnerable, exposed, and capitulated. He was revealing needs so primal, so telling and so antithetical to what he was or rather wanted to be. 

His cock throbbed in my paw and I noticed the musky flavor of pre growing stronger in my muzzle. His cock felt rock hard and hot against my lips as I bobbed and suckled. At this point my body and mind where set in single minded focus; to make him cum. My lips, tongue, paws, and every sinew in my body were working in unison for this task. All I could perceive were the overwhelming scents and tastes of his maleness, the slickness of his cock on my tongue and lips, and the encouraging caresses on my scalp and ears.
 
Van Claude then took a deep breath. I felt the gentle touch of his palm on my scalp become forceful once again and with an intense thrust of his hips he shoved his cock deep into my mouth. Pinned between palm and crotch with no opportunities nor desire for escape, I became the recipient of Van Claude’s seed. His cock pulsed with intense throbs as vigorous thick jets filled my muzzle and throat, forcing me to swallow what must have been a long pent up release. Badger cum flowed over my tongue, down my throat, into me.

It took a moment before Van Claude eased his paw from the back of my head, returning my freedom. In that moment I continued to suckle, feeling his cock start to soften and sense his seed spreading throughout my muzzle. Its taste and scent filled my muzzle and nasal passages with the persistent illicit aroma invocative of past intimacy. The badger had an unusual, strong scent, musky and unique. This was a new experience for me; I had never sucked off a badger before, only canines and other foxes and under far different circumstances. I savored the situation, not knowing if I would ever have the opportunity to be with a badger again, let alone this badger. 

With a swift yet tender caress over my muzzle and scalp, a tug to the back of my shirt collar indicated the completion of my task.  I let his softening cock slip from my muzzle and leaned back, returning to the seat adjacent from him. I swallowed and cleaned the inside of my mouth with my tongue, tasting the strong flavor of badger. I looked across at Van Claude as he quickly returned his sheath into his trousers zipping and buttoning up rapidly.  He looked distracted and a tad disheveled with his shirt untucked and wrinkled, his tie undone, and his jacket on crooked. I had never seen him like that. He looked up at me as I tidied my own appearance. He fumbled with his belt and spoke, “That will do Mr. Blair, thank you for your assistance. You may take me home now.”

With a sigh full of as much disappointment as relief, I nodded and understood. I gathered myself, clearing my throat and replied, “Yes Sir, right away,” and excused myself from the passenger cabin. I stood on shaky knees outside the vehicle and straightened my clothing. My swollen sheath felt uncomfortably firm and inhibited my posture. I returned to the steering wheel and took a deep breath, exhaling long and slow to compose myself. I noticed Van Claude elevated the privacy window behind me. With shaking paws, one still damp from saliva and pre, I turned on the engine and pulled away. 

The San Diego freeway calmed for the night. A marine layer crept in from the south and hovered low and ominous in the rearview mirror. Tall streetlights stood on either side of the freeway and cast their light on the hood of the Mercedes which reflected in quick, bright flashes. The vehicle glided through traffic and across lanes heading north. The road ahead turned into red and white ribbons as it snaked into the Sepulveda pass. 

When I glanced through the rear view mirror I saw the deep orange glow of a cigarette tip, the trademark appearance he perhaps wanted to foster, to nurture like an alternate self. My employer sat enshrouded with the tenebrous haze of tobacco smoke distanced by much more than glass and space. His former proximity and the weight of his touch seemed illusory, a bit of wishful thinking. Yet he had revealed himself to me, exposed his needs and made me part of them. He showed me intimacy. Was it intimacy? Or was it manipulation, was I conditioned to interpret his touch through the subtle shifts from tension to tenderness as an affirmation of desire beyond visceral release? Did we share a common desire or did he instill me with his?

It wasn’t long before I dropped off Henrik van Claude at his home. It took a moment to work up the courage to leave the car and face the badger before I went on my way south to my home for the night.  I walked on Van Claude’s side, carrying his suitcase up the many steps and along the well groomed path to his house. Neither of us looked at each other. I handed him his suitcase with a tip of my hat, keeping my muzzle averted and left.

I spent the drive home in a daze, distracted by so many factors, not least my persistent erection. It was clear that Van Claude had implied, “this never happened,” yet the situation remained very real, the lingering taste in my mouth proved that, even though it would soon vanish. I questioned if I would have a job tomorrow?  There were serious concerns I had to consider, yet what eclipsed those concerns was my own excitement and arousal which I had yet to address and which have achieved hitherto unprecedented levels. I wanted nothing more than to see Van Claude again.  I wanted to bury my muzzle in his lap and feel his proximity, to feel his paws upon me.  I wanted to smell his scent, taste his seed, maybe more. I couldn’t sleep that night, no matter how many times I pawed off. 

The phone booth lights flickered in front of me, tearing me out of my reverie. That was our first encounter. I looked down at the tattered card in my paw. I sighed nervously. I knew better than to call his home, I knew I couldn’t call his cell phone, not for this. This was “off the record,” illicit, taboo. The phone booth beckoned, inviting me as my best connection to Henrik. I couldn’t wait for him to call me, to arrange another peculiar meeting or “incident.” I needed to see him tonight. I turned off the headlights of the Mercedes, got out, took a deep breath, and took my first steps toward the phone booth.