Vixen The Problem - Sex Stories

Vixen The Problem

... heartbeat. Always got it and it’s always handy.”

“Now, when you say ‘born’, does that mean your parents are…”

“Ummm, well, that’s kind of a weird story. Please promise not to judge.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Alright, well, my father was a very adventurous man. He was a chemist who did studies on human and animal hybrids. One day, he befriended a fox, and here I am, a human girl with a bushy tail and some ears. I told you it’s a weird story.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s bad. Are they still in the picture? You’re saying ‘was’ a lot.”

I clench onto my skirt. This part is always the hardest to get through.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says after seeing my reaction, “If you can’t say, it’s fine.”

“No,” I respond, “It’s fine.”

I let out a sigh. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“I was seen as just an experiment to him. He’d study my every move, question me at every opportunity, buy me things just for the sole purpose of noting my reaction; of course it was fine at first because I was just a cub. I didn’t know any better. But he’d also focus on negative spectrums: responding coldly to some of my questions, shooing me when I wanted to play, ‘unintentionally’ pushing me, etc. But it wasn’t until I was fifteen when I started to piece together that he didn’t really want me. I confronted him about it, he denied, I pushed harder, he broke, we fought, he said some things, I said some things, and I thought that was the end of it. Until the next day when I found that he set my mom free. ...

... He wiped her memory of my existence and sent her back to the wild. My mother was the only one who cared for me. We were so close. And that bastard ruined it. We fought again. He threatened to get rid of me and start over. I slapped him and told him I never wanted to see him again. Then, I left and never looked back. But I noticed that people of a certain age get into trouble when they’re not in school. So to prevent that, I’ve been using school as sort of like camouflage for five years. Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you all of this. I know it’s too much to take in.”

Judging by his reaction to the story, he seems upset. I knew I shouldn’t have dragged it out for so long. I’m pretty sure a simple “no” would’ve sufficed. Now he’s traumatized. I should just go. I don’t need to be telling people my life’s story.

“I should probably go,” I say standing up, “Again, I’m sorry for taking this much of your time.”

Before I can take a step towards the door, I feel him grab my arm. He turns me around and embraces me in a hug. I’m confused. Why’s he doing this? I thought hugs were given when you care about someone. Does he care about me? That can’t be. No one cared about me before. So why him?

“I’m sorry,” he says. Does he feel sympathy for me? Have I finally met someone who’s not spiteful of me? Am I finally doing something right?

I hug him back, realizing that I’m sobbing. Why am I crying? Did reliving that experience affect me more than I thought it would? No. The ...