The fig garden had become my place of respite.  Most nights, it was empty of other souls, silent save the scattered chittering and thrumming of insect and frog song.  There were two guard post lanterns lit near the stone archways that marked the entrance from the fields and the gate into the inner grounds, shut and barred at night, of course.  But the field archway had no door, there was no need except perhaps to keep the servants from stealing figs from the ten-foot-high, bushy trees all aligned in rows down the length of the garden.  Most wouldn’t dare, though.  Not with the perimeter guards making their rounds past the gate every few minutes.  Even for the hungriest servant, denied dinner for some mistake or slight they’d made that day, the chance wouldn’t be worth it.
	No guard would bar my entrance, though.  It was a known fact that poaching fruit from the gardens was, while technically a punishable offense, a widely accepted benefit of the job.  When I’d first contacted a Clan Agent and handed over my service record, he’d mentioned that one of the primary reasons to apply to the Sura Estate was for the fringe benefits entitled to staff from the gardens.  The Estate was built over an oasis, chosen of course at first to use the aquifer for the purpose of keeping the Divine fields watered, but the Estate’s gardens used whatever excess they could draw up throughout the year, and it meant we always had ready access to produce.  Very little of what the Sura Estate grew went to market – save of course the Divine, because it could be dried and stored.  I think the plantains would be dried and shipped as well, but as a guardsman, I hardly concerned myself with such things.
	The important thing is, the fig gardens were empty at night, being as they were on the outskirts of what you’d call the ‘main’ estate grounds.  Still within the guard perimeter, clean and manicured, and isolated from the filth and squalor of the servants’ lodgings.  The dappled stone wall that surrounded them also served the dual function of blocking sight of the wide expanse of Divine fields that stretched for miles around us.  When you came here at night, you could sit amongst the fig trees, breathe clean, clear air, and pretend that you weren’t working as part of the system of malignant slavery and abuse that had once destroyed your life, and the lives of everyone you cared for.
	But not tonight.
	Tonight, Mistress Sura was throwing one of her ‘events’.  That’s all she bothered to refer to them as when she related the schedule to us each month.  It was, of course, of no concern to her lower-caste staff what type of events these were, except what menus might need to be prepared, which wine to retrieve from the cellars, and for my own purposes, what level of security we may need.  In this case, the threat level was so low, she’d called most of the guard staff off for the evening, allowing us to partake in the servants’ party.  A much less auspicious event being held . . . in the fig garden.  A likely location, since it was so far on the edge of the grounds and wouldn’t run the risk of interrupting the more lavish celebrations inside.  
	I was happy at least for the servants, having one night a year where they were given enough cheap drink and food that they could get sloppy and forget their troubles for a time, but it was intruding on my usual brooding spot, and solitude was essential for brooding.  There’s this misbegotten belief that for some reason during a celebration, you must enjoy yourself, or you’re doing it wrong.  It doesn’t matter if you had any say in being a part of that celebration, (say you had other plans for the evening that didn’t involve the celebration, but the celebration just intruded on your life).  And now you’re not allowed to brood in your usual spot without people being offended.  It’s the only time that people you hardly ever speak to on the job will come up to you and insist-
	“You look tired.”
	“Are you alright?”
	“You look like you need a drink!”
	None of these statements are in any way helpful to your current mood, of course.  They just serve to remind you of something you already know – firstly that you’re unhappy, and secondly, that other people can tell.  And I can’t think of a single time that someone has told anyone they look tired, when it wasn’t meant to imply they look terrible.  A fact of which I am well aware.
	I give noncommittal responses for the most part, trying to make it clear at least that I appreciate their concern, even if it isn’t really that.  I’ve been working on this plantation for only a few months now, long enough to know it’s a good gig and that the benefits outweigh the flaws.  I don’t want bad blood with any of the servants or paid workers, even those I will almost never see.  Why rock the boat if you don’t need to?  I’m a firm believer that nothing good comes from being unpleasant when you have no reason to be so.  Now, get on the wrong side of me, and that’s another ball of wax.  But social slights, whether intended or not, have never riled me.  
	What is beginning to bother me as I watch the festivities is an ongoing situation, a drama of sorts, unfolding in the opposite corner of the garden on the East side.  I like the East side of the garden because there are stone benches there.  Normally, when the garden isn’t full of the drunken masses, laughing raucously and clinking their pints on collars, scuffing the dirt beneath unsteady paws and chattering away about their unsatisfying, poor lives, I come here and lean back against one of these benches so I can stare at the stars.  The other nice thing about being so far from the main grounds is that there’s very little light to pollute the night sky.
	Tonight, the place is strung up with cheap, multicolored paper lanterns and even if I could see the stars, it’d be hard to wax poetic about life and circumstance with so much noise and distraction around me.  So instead, I’ve apparently fallen back into Guard duties, (hardly strange considering it’s been my vocation for most of my life, even while indentured) and have taken to watching the partygoers for signs of trouble.
	That’s how I happened to catch this little drama.  Or the tail end of it, it’s hard to tell.  One of the other guardsmen, a Dhole named ‘Luca’, (I’m not sure if that’s short for something else) has been successfully making ground with one of the serving staff from the main house.  I’ve seen her around from time to time, although I can’t remember her name right now.  She’s a petite, pretty young squirrel with a tight saree and an even tighter collar.  It’s hard to think the dainty young thing has caused enough trouble over the stay of her contract to warrant such a restrictive collar, but the fitting process is usually careful enough that that doesn’t happen by accident.  If she has been reprimanded for her behavior in the past though, it’s likely due to the kind of show she’s putting on right now.  Over the course of the last hour, Luca had coaxed her from a polite, arms-width conversation to the point now where she’s all but sitting in his lap, sharing his beer, and letting him shove his paws up beneath the hem of her saree.  
	No one else at the party seems to have noticed, or if they have they don’t care, but I’m about to do something to put this display to an end.  For one, guardsmen aren’t supposed to fraternize with any of the indentured staff except on a professional basis.  It sounds like a restrictive, unnecessary rule, but it serves its purpose.  It’s to prevent abuses between those with authority and those who serve, and it’s one of the only things that protects the servants around here.  
	For two, I know Luca well enough by now to know he’s irresponsible, prone to making bad decisions with his money, and perhaps most importantly – married.  He has two pups at home, in fact.  I’ve never met his wife, from what I heard the marriage was arranged by their families and he doesn’t ever speak of any particular love for her, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be slighted this way.  
	It’s hard to say who’s taking advantage of whom, given that the servant woman seems all too willing to laugh at his bad jokes, flirt back at him and let him shove his hand beneath her clothes, but the whole situation rubs me wrong and I’m getting ready to put a stop to it.  One mention of his wife, I’m certain, is all it’ll take.
	 It’s while I’m entrenched in thoughts of my planned meddling that someone settles down beside me.  The kid moves so quietly, I almost don’t notice until he’s right there.  What ultimately catches my attention is the jewelry.  He’s not elaborately done-up like the Mistress or many of her party-goers, but what he is wearing is catching the glinting light of the paper lanterns enough that I know it’s real gold.  The bangles he’s wearing are even intricately-carved, not just the simple hoops a well-paid worker might own.
	He’s also a hyena – the only one at the party unless you count myself, and I like to think of we Aardwolves as a separate ilk, regardless what the Clans may have to say about it.  But his fur is striped, not spotted like the Sura, and he wears a collar.  Most definitely not a member of the Clan family.
	Or is he?  I could have sworn I’ve seen him around the main estate, in the company of the Mistress, no less.  A kept servant, then?  Like one of the colorful parrots they adorn the gardens with.  A rare beast the Mistress can boast she owns, and parade about on a gold chain.
	The thought makes me shudder.
	The boy beside me is an adult, or very nearly there.  Strangely, I find the thought of owning an adult man less eerie if your purpose for him is labor.  Everything about the hyena suggests he is kept for show.  He’s clean, from his fur to his teeth, he wears expensive adornments, including a long crimson sash about his waist that ends in further gold trim and tassels, his short mane is well-combed, and he smells of coconut oil and the expensive incense they burn in the main estate.  There is a mild undertone of sweat there too, like he was exerting himself recently.  Thankfully, none of the musky scent I’d associate with a sex slave, but that could just mean he hasn’t been forced to do that recently.  He certainly looks like someone you’d find in a brothel.
	Well, an expensive brothel.  Not the kind they sold my sister to.
	“You’re. . . .” I begin, trailing off intentionally to let him fill in the blanks.
	“Ahsan,” he smiles softly at me, his voice as gentle as his demeanor.  “I’m sorry, was this seat taken?”
	“Not many here prefer to sit,” I grunt, glancing around the rambunctious party.  “Especially not so far from the beer.”  The only other bench on this side of the garden was the aforementioned one Luca and the lady squirrel were enjoying.  And the garden was much more long than it was wide, so they were only twenty feet away from us or so, which was making the situation with them increasingly more awkward.  At this point I half expected her to jerk him off right here in the garden, public place be-damned.  They certainly didn’t seem to care about having their hands all over one another.
	And really, the only other person this far back in the corner of the garden was me.  A few of the partygoers were moving in and out of the fig trees nearby, but most of them were giving Luca and the lady a wide berth.  Shit, was that intentional?  
	Well, I wasn’t alone anymore, so now I had less reason to feel awkward.  I guess.  The hyena was snickering quietly in response to my comment about the beer, and it occurred to me that it’d been a half-assed attempt at a joke, which meant he was literally laughing at my bad joke.  Like the squirrel girl had for Luca.
	Yeah, wishful thinking.  Probably.
	“You’re outta place,” I point out to the kid, realizing as soon as I’ve said it that reminding him he didn’t fit in here was probably the equivalent of saying ‘you look tired’.  
	The way his ears immediately tip back confirms that, and confirms that I should in fact feel bad about it.  “I know,” he says, his confidence wavering, “I-I just. . . I heard the party, and I was done with my duties in the main estate for the evening, and I’ve always wanted to come to one of these, so I just thought-“
	“Kid,” I pause.  “Ahsan.  I’m sorry.  Shouldn’a said that.  I’m sure you worked up some nerve to even come out here.  I know how. . . well I mean, I can’t say I know what it’s like being-“ I glanced at him.  What could I say, now that I was trying to be careful?  A ‘kept man’?  A slave with nice outfits?  I wasn’t even sure what he did for the Mistress, and pretending I understood his situation would probably come off even more disingenuous.
	He looks to me, expectantly, his ears slowly lifting in that hesitant way one does when they’re hoping for the best but uncertain.
	“. . . well, I’ve never seen you outside the main estate,” I say, clinging to the few things I knew for sure about him.  “So I’m sure coming out here to. . . meet us lot. . . took some grit.”  I glance again out of the corner of my eye at the dhole and the squirrel, by now just muzzle to muzzle with his paw so high up her thigh he’s lost a forearm underneath all the fabric.  Their beer was discarded, having tumbled off the bench at some point, spilling across the grassy grounds.
	I sigh, gesturing loosely with a hand.  “I mean, we aren’t exactly a classy lot.  As you can see.  Kinda rough out here for someone like you, all I meant.”
	For his part, the hyena doesn’t seem offended by the couple on the other bench.  Although after a second look, he gives a snorting chuckle.  “Oh, Saurati.  Yes, she said she’d be coming here tonight.”  He leaned in closer to me at that, his breath warm on my ear, “But between you and I, she isn’t much better behaved in the main estate.  She’s ‘good friends’ with most of the house guards.  If you understand me. . . .”
	“I get it,” I assure him, blowing out a sigh and straightening my belt, readying to stand.  “I should really put a stop to it-“
	“Why?”  He asks suddenly.  And that’s not what stops me.  What stops me is the sudden warmth and weight of his hand on my wrist.
	I glance down at him.  At first I think his question is in jest, but he seems in earnest when I look down into his eyes.  “Well for one, I’m the Guard Captain,” I say, and his eyes widen marginally at that.  “Yeah,” I nod after that.  “So keeping my men in line is part of my job.”
	“Aren’t you off-duty right now, though?  Isn’t he?”
	“Being off-duty doesn’t mean the rules don’t apply, and those rules are in place to protect you,” I try to explain.  
	His eyes fall away from mine at that, and his voice sinks.  “No one protects me,” he murmurs.
	I don’t have the time to reflect on how that one statement cracked my heart in two, but I know at that moment that I’ve been issued a challenge – an imperative.  But making some solemn oath to this kid I hardly know about how I got into this line of work because I was a slave once, too. . . telling him the whole sad, sordid tale about my sister, still indebted to her house because they got her hooked on the Divine, promising him that I’m here to help other servants escape the life I barely escaped – all of that can wait until we know one another better.  Right now, I just have to say something encouraging.
	“I will protect you, if and when you need protecting,” I make a promise I know I can keep.  It seems to make him happy, brings his ears back up and a smile to his face.  If only it had been that easy with my sister.  “It’s my job, and I take it seriously.”
	“I. . . don’t think Saurati wants protecting, though,” he says, glancing past me.  “I think she wants alcohol, and favors.  At least, that’s what she usually asks for from each of her guardsman friends.”
	“That isn’t the point,” I insist, exasperated.  “Look, he’s married.  The guard there?”
	“If he’s willing to break his vows with Saurati in a public garden, he’s probably broken them before in a more discreet setting,” he reasons.
	I almost glare at him.  “You’re more canny than you let on.”
	He shrugs, haplessly.  “I never said I wasn’t canny.  I’ve spent all of my life in the estate, watching people and entertaining.”
	“ ‘Entertaining’?”  I echo, without being able to stop myself.
	“Dancing. . . mostly,” he says, rubbing a paw up his arm.
	I give him a long look.  “I see.  That what you were doing tonight?”
	“Yes,” he smiles again at that, and I’m beginning to want to see that smile.  “For the first half of the night, I entertained on the main stage, in fact!  Mistress brought in some wonderful musicians, and there were these cheetah sisters I performed with-“
	“Well it sounds like you enjoy it,” I surmise.  “So that’s good.  We aren’t all so lucky.”
	“You don’t like being a guard?”
	I shrug at that.  “It’s dull,” I admit, “but relatively safe, if you’re going to make the blade your vocation.  There are certainly worse ways to earn coin.”
	“Oh,” he says suddenly, glancing over my shoulder.  “Look.”
	I turn at that, and see what he’s indicating.  Namely, nothing.  The bench the frisky couple were occupying is now empty, the only remnant left behind their empty beer mug.
	“Shit,” I growl.  “Where’d they get off to?”
	“Somewhere to be alone, I’d wager,” he says, smiling coyly.  When I turn back towards him with an irritated look, he scoots back from me a bit.  “Well, but, isn’t this better?  It was bothering you so much-“
	“Which is precisely why I wanted to intercede-“
	“But why meddle?”  He insists.  “You’d ruin their evening, and it wouldn’t make yours any better-“
	“I’d be doing my job,” I huff out a breath.  
	“Yes, I know, the rules-“
	“Exist to protect you,” I reinforce by raising my voice slightly.  “Do you think I enjoy subjugating and policing my own caste?  We can’t best the system, the most we can do is work within it and try to help one another.”
	“But she didn’t need help,” he says, standing firm against my argument despite his continued soft, gentle tone.  “Is that man dangerous?”
	“Luca?”  I scoff.  “No.  Just lazy, foolish and a bad husband.”
	“Maybe his wife knows and accepts his dalliances,” the hyena shrugs.  “A lot of arranged marriages are like that.  They have understandings. . . .”
	“We don’t know what they have,” I insist.
	“Exactly,” he says, looking me in the eyes.  “And I’m sure a lot of people think what Saurati does is disgraceful, or undignified, but she’s pretty happy with her arrangements.  She was sold for a gambling debt, and she’s probably never getting that collar off, so she likes to live well.  What does it matter how she finds a little happiness for herself?”
	“It matters because she’s making bad decisions,” I growl out.  “She could get herself sick, or with child, she’s clearly already gotten caught a number of times to warrant a collar that tight, and some of her liaisons could prove dangerous if they’re with the wrong kind of man.”
	“I’m sure she knows all that,” the hyena says softly, glancing away from me.  “As we all do.  A servant’s life is fraught with dangers.  My point is more – what does it matter to you?”
	I pause at that, taking a few moments to collect myself.  “Well, I. . . Luca, at least, is under my command-“
	“You’re off-duty,” he reminds me.
	My frustration gets the better of me.  “You want me to mind my own business.  I get it.  But that’s not why I’m here.  I’m here to protect the people here, both from outside forces and from ruining their own lives, or other people’s lives.  Like your friend’s relatives, or whoever it was who sold her for a gambling debt.  Like that girl there, who’s pissing away her reputation for booze and favors.  Like my sister, who’s still indentured because she can’t quit the Divine and she keeps trying to run from her contract!”
	I’d expected the outburst would have rattled him and I’d soon be alone again, but instead, his gaze had stayed rocky-steady on mine.  
He reaches up a hand slowly, brushing his thumb over the ruff around my neck.  There’s a break in the fur just along my throat where a collar had once rested, and I know he sees it.  It doesn’t seem to surprise him, though.
	“I’m not saying it’s right,” he murmurs, “and. . . it might even be wrong.  But people like us, we have to take our pleasures where we can find them.  The world only gives us so many.  If you look for the cracks, you’ll find them. . . and you’ll never be happy.”
	“That’s a delirious way to live,” I grumble, but the anger in my tone is half-hearted.  Honestly, the more he touches me, the less I’m remembering why I was angry to begin with.
	“Do you think that man is going to hurt her?”  He presses.
	“. . . no,” I admit, at length.  “He’s not violent.  And to be honest, I’ve suspected for a long time he’s been messing around with another of the guards, too.”
	“There are enough real evils in the world,” he says, his tone somewhat haunted.  “We don’t even know where they snuck off to.  Maybe let this one go?”
	I sigh.  “Well spoiling their fun was my only plan for the evening.”  
	He glances around at the garden, indicating perhaps the paper lanterns, free-flowing booze and general. . . merriment.  “Couldn’t you just, um.  Just enjoy the party?   Maybe a drink is a good start.”
	“Oh don’t you start,” I rumble.	
	“Your name is Lochan, right?”  He asks, surprising me.
	“I never gave it to you,” I say, suspiciously.
	“You told me you’re the Guard Captain,” he points out.  “I know the Guard Captain’s name is Lochan, and that he’s a handsome, middle-aged Aardwolf.”
	“Your definition of ‘handsome’ could use some work, but otherwise, looks like you heard right.”
	He smiles brightly at me.  “Well, Lochan,” he says, his voice all but purring, “what is it you desire tonight, if not beer?”
	I feel almost foolish, falling for such a scripted line.  It’s probably literally something out of a poem, or one of those romantic stories in the Mistress’s library.  It’s possible that’s where he read it.  Still.  I fall right into it.
	“Honestly?”  I take a breath before I answer.  “You.”
	I get exactly what I was hoping for.  A smile.
	And then, he takes my hand in his, and pulls me to my feet with a strength I hadn’t expected.  He’s taller than he looks, as it turns out.  He just stoops.  Boy could stand to work on his posture.  He’s also a dancer, I remind myself, and they’re stronger than they look on the whole.  It’s not pit-fighting, but it’s a physically demanding job in its own right.
	He begins to lead me through the fig garden, and at one point I half-heartedly insist again that I’m not interested in a drink, because it seems likely that’s where we’re headed.  But he just laughs at me, a sound like light birdsong, almost melodic.  He glances back at me once or twice as we round the corner towards the inner gate, his brown eyes catching the lantern light and flashing ruby for a moment.  My years of hard-won grappling experience do not avail me, I can’t help but follow him.
	When he leads me out of the fig garden and into the inner grounds, I have to catch myself momentarily when my irritating propensity for responsibility kicks in, and I almost admonish the hyena for heading into a restricted area.  It’s not actually restricted to me, being the Guard Captain and all, and I honestly don’t know what his allowed access to the grounds is.  He’s a special case, clearly.  I’d have to ask the Mistress herself to confirm where he’s allowed and isn’t allowed.
	He seems to know his way around, though.  Which suggests at least that he’s been here before.  We wind our way through one of the inner gardens towards the gazebo area, where the Mistress sometimes holds some of her outdoor parties.  The further we head in, the closer we’re getting to the celebration going on in the actual estate.  I can hear the light music and far more civilized conversation through the walls of shrubbery.
	Well, ‘civilized’ might not be the right word for a gathering of slave owners, drug lords and war-mongering trade barons, but the point is more that they consider themselves civilized.  And if we interrupt their festivities in any way, we are more likely to earn their ire than if we’d done anything – regardless what it was – to interrupt the festivities of the servants.
	I finally assert my full strength over the hyena, bringing him to a stop with one firm tug of his hand, and a fiercely-whispered, “Alright, enough!”  
	He turns, cupping his ears in my direction, and looking suitably surprised I’d finally put a stop to his wordless flight.  
	“Where are you taking me?”  I demand, still at a whisper.  “We’re getting close to the main estate grounds.”
	“It’s nicer here,” he explains simply.  “Cleaner.  Prettier.  And better lit.”
	His logic is infallible, if still confusing.  “For what?”  I insist.  “You haven’t said a word since you dragged me out of the fig garden.  What are we doing here?  Where are we going, and why?”
	“You said you wanted me,” he replies, just as coolly as you please.  I’m not sure if he intended it to come out sounding as sultry as it did, or if my mind is just imagining that way.  But there’s no imagining his intent when he turns, hand still clasped in mine, and pulls himself against me, looping an arm up over my shoulders.  His slender body presses in against mine, and heat shoots from my neck down to my groin, pooling in every area of my body in contact with his.
	I suck in a breath and stare down at him, baffled.  I suppose I hadn’t been particularly subtle when he’d asked me what I wanted, but still. . . .
	“Your. . . predilection for men is also a known fact around the house,” he explains, as if he’s reading my confusion in my eyes.
	“Gods,” I growl out, glancing skyward in my frustration.
	“It’s an estate, but it’s hardly a city. . . or even a village,” he shrugs.  “There aren’t many people here, and gossip’s sparse.  Things like that get around.”  He reaches a hand – his free one – up to cup my ear, tracing the tattered ridge of it, battered and beaten in combat more times than I can remember.  “For what it’s worth, it hasn’t damaged your reputation in the slightest.  It’s almost expected of ex-Gladiators.”
	“Oh?” I look down at him, wryly.  “And why’s that?”
	“Well you know,” he shrugs, “nothing but male company, for years on end. . . .”
	“I assure you, my interest in men predates my time in the ring.”
	“Good,” he says, his blunt claws burying in my fur as they trace down the hard lines of my neck.  “Because my interest in men pre-dates my time dancing and serving their needs.”
	Ah.  There it was.  Confirmation of what I’d suspected.  The boy was a whore.  He’d probably been one for some time, his age aside, just based on his obvious level of comfort with it.
	I reach for his hand, slowly tugging it away.  “Look, no offense-“
	“Ahsan,” he says, before I can use another platitude.
	“Ahsan,”  I say, trying to keep my tone respectful.  “But how can you know that?  You were probably trained for it-“
	“I’ll trust that you know yourself if you’ll respect me enough to trust that I know myself,” he says, simply.  
	I’m stunned silent.  Beneath the sweet, submissive demeanor, there’s a strength there in his eyes I can’t deny.  And I can’t think to say anything to his statement except to mutely nod.  He’s right.  I don’t know what’s in his mind, any more than I knew what was really happening between Luca and the serving girl.  I’ve been doing a lot of assuming tonight, on other peoples’ behalf.  I can only put so much of it on my instincts as a guardsman.
	Maybe I’m just sort of being a dick. . . .
	His hand’s back on me, running down the expanse of my stomach, less taut than it once was, but no less muscular.  For whatever reason, he seems to appreciate the curve of it, or maybe the bulk.  Like I said, I can’t know what’s in the boy’s head.
	“I’m twice your age,” I say, my mouth gone dry.  “Are you sure-“
	“Baron Leon was here tonight,” he says, cutting me off with the odd, out-of-place statement.  His hand continues to wander, and his eyes slowly lift towards mine.  “If he’d had his way, he’d have me in one of the hookah rooms right now, helping himself to what he thinks he’s due.  But I don’t like him.  And he’s not important enough that I’ve been told I have to like him,” he says that last part pointedly.  “If someone more important, someone on ‘that list’, had wanted my companionship tonight. . . I wouldn’t have had any choice in the matter.  But as it worked out, I get to make my own choices this evening.  That doesn’t happen often.”  He curls his fingers around the buckle clasping my gambeson, his eyes finally fully settling on mine.  “So would you please stop questioning them?”
	There’s a clink, and I realize hazily it’s the sound of my belt coming unbuckled.  That snaps me back into reality.  “Whoa,” I put a hand on his shoulder, “look I’m trying. . . not to question your choices, but. . . .”  I glance around, then back to him.  “Here?  We’re a stone’s throw from the garden party. The important one.”
	“Maybe Baron Leon will see us,” he says with far too much mischief for my liking, sinking to his knees with a grin painted on his muzzle.
	My head’s darting back and forth, my ears following suit.  “Something like that is precisely what I’m worried about,” I assert.
	Hadn’t I just been making plans to break up public fondling, not ten minutes ago?  How was I even considering this?
	His hands fist at his waist and tug his crimson loin wrap down, revealing a licorice black bobbing length beginning to peak out of his sheath, and an absolutely gorgeous ass.  
	Right.  That’s why.
	The sight of him leaning forward and biting at my belt to tug it free is almost too much.  I see myself as a man of considerable self-control and restraint, but I hadn’t been prepared for this, tonight.  Not anything near this.
	A sudden laugh from the party draws my attention, my heart racing.  They’re still two rows away, but my hearing is good – there’s clearly a few people who’ve broken away from the main party and are wandering the grounds.  This is getting more and more dangerous.
	For some reason though, I can’t will myself to tell him to stop.  Especially not now that he’s got my length out as well, and is gazing upon it like it’s a rare dessert he’s eager to consume.  Considering he’s still on his knees, I’m pretty sure that’s his plan, too.
	“Why?”  Is what I finally manage to ask.  And it’s the one question I earnestly need an answer to.  “Why are you interested in me?  Like. . . this?”
	He looks up at me, blinking his big brown eyes, the pupils blown wide in the dark.  “Because. . . I asked you what you wanted most tonight, and you said you wanted me.”
	“So did this Baron Leon,” I point out.
	“Baron Leon can have whatever he wants, all the time,” he says.  “Like I said, I don’t get a choice often.  And I’m guessing you don’t, either.  But. . . you still chose me.”
	I could poke holes in that statement.  Point out that of course I want him, he’s young and gorgeous, and it doesn’t mean I hold him in high regard, it just means I like young, gorgeous men.  That if a line of young, gorgeous men were to magically appear before me, it might not even be him I chose.  But all of that seems counter-productive to getting my cock sucked by said young, gorgeous man, who seems very willing to do so.  Whatever his reasons might be.
	And besides, a moment later he says, “And I like rugged men with lots of muscles.  Who aren’t going to pretend I’m a woman while they fuck me.  You aren’t going to pretend I’m a woman while you fuck me, are you?”
	“No- wait, I’m going to fuck you?”  My tail goes rigid, ears darting about again.  “Here?”
	There’s that melodic laugh again, but it’s cut short when he takes my length in his mouth, quite embarrassingly erect at this point despite (or perhaps more horrifyingly, because of) my fear of discovery in such a public place.  His tongue dances along the underside of my cock as he draws me fully inside his muzzle, swallowing me to the very base of my sheath.
	My toes go fucking numb.  I’m terrified for a moment that I might actually tumble, my body swaying a bit, tail lifting as if for added stability.  I’m whole-heartedly ashamed of myself for letting this happen, for letting it get this far, but the shame is feeding the near-overwhelming rush of adrenaline, somehow.  I realize somewhere in the back of my mind that it’s not unlike the feeling I get in a fight to the death.  Not first blood – death.  That’s what this rush is comparable to.
	And it may as well be.  Guard Captain or no, if I’m caught out here in the Mistress’s private gardens, fucking her favorite pet, she could have me beheaded and no one would say she overreacted.  No one who values their life, anyway.
	Vaguely, I hear those voices again.  Are they headed away from us, or towards?  It is so hard to tell.  Ahsan is dragging his muzzle up and down my cock with no hesitation, either hurried on by the excitement he himself must be feeling (I can only imagine, he chose the location after all), or just trying to get me off as fast as possible because he is in fact afraid of being caught.  It’s hard to say, but whichever it is, he’s doing a damn fine job of it.  Less than a minute or two in, I’m ready to cum.
	“A-Ah. . .” I put a palm down atop his head, between his two adorably large ears, stroking the fur on the crown of his head, my hand beginning to shake.  “Ahsan,” I finally manage out, “this’ll be over soon, at this rate. . . .”
	“You can manage a repeat performance, I’m sure,” he says, before taking me back into his muzzle.
	I am honestly a lot less certain of that than he is.  When I was younger, sure.  Nowadays it usually takes me a bit of time to ready myself again, and time is a luxury we definitely do not have.  Besides, he said ‘fuck me’.  How is he planning. . . ?
	The images that come unbidden as I think on that are too much.  That or the fact that he’s now fondling my balls while he sucks on me.  I don’t have much time to consider either way, before my thoughts become a tangle and my body is consumed by a shuddering wave of pleasure.  I dig my claws into the ground and hold tight to his shoulder while he swallows me down.
	. . . or at least, I’d thought that was his plan.  Considering his exuberance for the act, I didn’t think he’d be squeamish about it.  But a few moments after I’ve just barely managed to catch my breath, he drags his muzzle back up my cock, and lets my cum drizzle back down along it, spitting the rest out on my still rigid length for good measure.
	I make a noise somewhere between a whine and a groan, biting back on how much noise I’m making, for obvious reasons.  It’s not the sight of my own manhood, my cum, or the way he’s looking at it so satisfied that has me moaning.  It’s that I’ve just noticed his own paw, stroking himself eagerly between his legs.  Knowing he’s getting off, getting me off. . . I don’t know, there’s just nothing better than that.  I could dig deeper into the feeling, maybe it has something to do with other people owning me and directing nearly every choice in my life, so knowing my partner’s a willing one is like. . . the ultimate turn-on.  But the important thing is, ultimately, it’s keeping me hard.  
	And he got my cock wet for a reason, I’m sure.
	“Y’know that stuff is terrible for. . .”  I trail off, lazily.
	He just turns at that and plants himself on all fours, flipping his tail up over his back and stretching out his lithe figure beneath me, the golden jewelry adorning his body like streams of melted metal pouring down his back, hips and shoulders.  He looks incredible, and the expression on his face says he knows it.
	“Do you have a better idea?”  He asks, swaying his hips enticingly.
	“Nope,” I say, as I fall to my knees and plant my paws on either side of his rear, pulling him just a bit closer to me.  All thoughts of the party have fallen to the wayside at this point, if someone’s snooping around, let them see.  Even my job’s not worth giving this moment up.
	It’s not like I haven’t ever done this before with nothing but spit or cum as lube.  I slick my fingers first and take some time to stretch him, doing it slow, which gets harder when he starts moaning into the grass.  I can tell by the bob of his elbow that he’s still stroking himself.  He never stopped.
	He’s ready faster than I would’ve expected, and I don’t take the time to reflect on the reasons for that right now.  I slide into him with a little more resistance than I would’ve liked, but it’s not the worst I’ve ever experienced, and judging by the way he only tenses up a little, it’s not the worst he’s ever experienced either.  
	He’s jerking himself off even faster once I’m inside him.  Even before I begin to move.  The hyena clearly just likes being filled, and since I’ve already cum once, I decide to take it easy on him at first. . . let him get where he’s going.  He doesn’t seem to need much motion.
	Still, it’d be impossible to do nothing, buried in him as I am, feeling the heat of him surrounding my cock.  I take slow, languid strokes, my gaze moving between where I’m entering him, and the captivating sight of his scrunched-up brow and his dark hand digging into the grass.  When his brows start to lift, and it gets harder to move inside him, I know I’ve got him on the precipice.  So that’s when I pick up the pace a little.
	His jaw starts to open, and I surge forward, some portion of my sense returning to me.  I clamp a hand over his muzzle when he cries out, and his teeth bite against my palm somewhat, but I effectively muffle what would have otherwise been a loud, heady moan.  I can’t see him cum, but I can feel it, right down to my bones.  I’d forgotten how damn good it felt to fuck a man who actually came for you.
	My hips thud against his as I ride out his orgasm, holding my paw over his mouth, and partially inside it at this point, while I make the most of what he’s offered me.  Good thing too, because even after he’s cum, he keeps moaning into my palm.  I’m going to be hearing those noises in my sleep for years to come, I’m sure of it.
	Through some part of the haze and pleasure of our illicit encounter, that responsible old man in the back of my brain reminds me that the hyena’s got to head back inside after this, with little but a sheer loincloth to cover himself.  And I probably shouldn’t leave a mess to dribble down his backside or legs.  It’s pointless, of course – anyone with a decent nose, which is nearly everyone at this party, will know what he was up to.  Me too, if I’m spotted or smelled making my way back to the guardhouse.  But it’d still be courteous not to cum inside him.
	I only barely hold to that assertion, pulling out seconds before I spill. . . into the grass.  It’s a good thing this is a rarely-used part of the garden, because it’s going to smell like sex for awhile.
	Some time later, we’re both catching our breath, lying in the glade, staring up at the stars.  My tunic’s still undone, I can’t even remember where my belt got to, and Ahsan is entirely naked, stroking his spent cock lazily as it slips back into his sheath.  
	“So,” I say between a few huffs of breath.  “Is this where you ask for favors?  Access to forbidden. . . pantry items. . . booze?”
	“You can’t believe that I just like you,” he says, and it doesn’t sound angry, just. . . disappointed.
	“You don’t know me,” I point out.  “I’ll accept that you like ‘muscular men’, or whatever it was you said, but there are younger, more muscular men on these grounds.”
	He rolls over and moves to lean over me, looking down at me, his cheeks silhouetted by starlight.  Before I know what’s happening, he leans down and pecks me on the muzzle.  Just a quick, small gesture. . . but it’s the first time I’ve been kissed in years.
	I look up at him, baffled and unsure what to say.
	“I have a good feeling about you,” he says softly.  “I think I’ll like you.  And young men aren’t as good at this sort of thing as those with. . . experience.”
	I chuckle.  “Alright, that, I’ll buy.”
	“If you want to bring me food or presents to make yourself feel better,” he shrugs.  “Be my guest.  But either way, I’d like to see you again.”  He glances around us.  “Maybe next time, somewhere a little more. . . inside.”
	“Oh thank the Gods,” I groan.  “I thought this was just your thing.”
	“Do you want it to be?”
	I have to think about that.  “. . . maybe now and again,” I admit, “with a little more planning, and a lot more coconut oil.”
	“A lot more as in ‘any whatsoever’?”
	“Yes, that.”  I reach up to stroke my fingers beneath his collar, scratching at the matted fur beneath.  He makes a face not unlike when I filled him, like I’ve hit a spot he can’t himself.  
	“Uhhhhh,” he groans, “yes. . . there. . . .”
	“I know all too well,” I murmur.  “I wore one for most of my life.”
	He lets me keep scratching him for a time, and something’s on my mind, so I decide to just come out and say it.  “That whole thing with the Baron,” I say.  “You got a kick out of doing this with me out here in the garden tonight. . . it was some kind of ‘fuck you’, wasn’t it?  A little act of rebellion.  Fuck who you want, right on top of their noses.”
	“I don’t dislike sex,” he reasons, tipping his head back as I continue to scritch his throat.  “I just don’t always like doing it with who they tell me to.”
	“That’s about how I feel about wielding the sword,” I admit.  “Although an act of rebellion in that case would be. . . actual rebellion.”
	Something glints in his eye at that, and he lays his head on my chest, going silent.  Whatever that look was, I didn’t like it.  I’ve seen it before.  In caged animals.  And men.
	The people who own us are monsters.  But they also make monsters. . . of us.  As I lie there with this collared hyena, kept like well-manicured livestock whose every action, including who he has to share his body with, is controlled by these people. . . I have to wonder what kind of beast they’ve created, roiling within.
	And when, if ever, that beast will surface.