The night was thick with the smell of musk and old leather. I’d just gotten back from a nature documentary gig, my head still buzzing with African plains and dusty savannas. My den was my sanctuary, a cluttered cave of film reels, hard drives, and, I thought, solitude.

But the scent that hit me the second I unlocked the heavy door wasn't gear dust. It was something wild and female. A mix of vanilla, something fungal and earthy—maybe rotting wood—oh, and a heady, metallic trace of ripe cunt.

All my shit was out. Bolts were opened, files tossed, inner pouches breathing like gaping mouths. Then I saw her: a massive, fuzzy fox-girl, shoved butt-first behind my precious beryllium speaker cubes. Her tail—a magnificent plume of rusty red and fog—was too broad to hide, and it twitched, a lazy, probing whip.

Her snout was long and tawny, tipped in a dark, wet nose. She was squirming, her lithe frame coiled tight, but her knees were spread, and her fuzzy fingers were fiddling with my newest acquisition—a leather-wrapped device I called my "banana slug."

"What the hell, Pia?" I rasped. My shaft was already thickening, pressing against the zipper of my khakis. That smell, goddamn.

Every scene's needs a heroine, right? Well, Pia was one of those elusive female naturalists in heat. Her brain was a National Geographic special; her pussy was a hidden cavern of pink flesh and fiery musk juices.

A low, guttural sound, more purr than growl