"Sleep, damn you!" Claire scolded her reflection on the window, illuminated only by the moonlight, disheveled sleeping gown draped lightly over her full-figured form. The moonlight gave her fur a silvery quality she enjoyed, though the fox was normally red. She sighed and shook her head, turning away from the window. Why couldn't she sleep? She wasn't even tired!
Claire ran a hand through the fur on her head, trying in vain to work some semblance of order into it. The paintings on the wall didn't make for a much better view than the outside. There, on the left, a lovely looking mountain. The right had a forest in spring, and while it was a little spooky because of the full moon, even at night it had an ethereal beauty to it that the fox could appreciate. The middle one...
She stopped, furrowing her brow, before plucking off her rectangle-framed eyeglasses to clean them before replacing them on her muzzle. The middle one wasn't even a painting and she certainly didn't remember putting it there.
It was a photo of an old pocketwatch, held in a red-furred hand, glinting in the camera's flash. It was a fine watch, of good manufacture; the light glinted off the edge just so; it made a little crescent of light on the face that the camera captured perfectly. It tugged at the eyes, made them follow the arc, to the face, then back again to the glint, as if the watch was spinning.
A branch of the tree outside her window rapped on the glass, making her start. Windy outside, apparently; Claire shivered despite herself. Well, the photo was strange, but she could deal with it in the morning. If she could ever actually get to sleep, that was. What was it people were always doing to fall asleep?
"Hmm, perhaps some warm milk would help me sleep." She heard herself say it, didn't remember thinking it, but it did sound like a good idea. The fox smiled vacantly and began to walk for the kitchen.
She found the refrigerator, fumbled in the dim light for the handle, then opened it, squinting against the harsh light. Claire waited a moment for her eyes to adjust before reaching in for the milk, past the music box.
Her hand stopped, puzzled--a music box in her refrigerator? Gingerly, she pulled it out; it was stuck in place, but she didn't want to break the delicate thing. Forgetting the milk a moment, she closed the door and wound the box, setting it on the table.
It was a man and woman, both foxes, and newlyweds from the look of it, dancing. They began to turn, the weak moonlight catching in the glass, twinkling for her as soft music played.
Claire sighed, resting her head in her hands on the edge of the table. It was beautiful. She could sit and listen to it for hours. The man and woman almost came alive; she could see he would never leave her, and she would stay with him and love him forever and ever, locked in each others' gaze, twirling around and around, love without end. The music lifted her soul, carried her with it through the glass, around and around.
Claire smiled a sad smile when the music slowed, the dancers coming to a stop. Her body was on a cloud, warm and light; her mind had the most pleasant glow. She turned to the refrigerator, forgetting for a moment why she'd gone to it; her half-lidded eyes made out a note. 'Go to the cellar,' it said. The fox smiled and nodded. Yes, that was a good idea.
The door creaked open; Claire closed her eyes and flicked on the light, letting them adjust. The cellar was as empty and cold as always, but she drifted down the steps with a silly grin anyway. Everything seemed so light, so floaty. She strode across the room, past the canned food and holiday trimmings, before a photo caught her eye, half-hidden under an empty armoire.
Claire bent over to pick it up, dreamily curious. There were two, stacked up under the wood. The first was of the Claire herself; she was kissing a male fox, both of them only visible from the shoulders up but with no evidence of clothing. The male looked familiar, somehow, but she couldn’t place him.
She set it aside, and looked at the next. It was of the cellar, as she saw it now, but the armoire was two feet over and a small path was visible. In fact, as Claire thought about it more, she couldn’t even remember where the armoire itself came from. It certainly didn’t seem to be storing anything.
The fox's ears perked up; she started to wake from her dreamlike state, shaking her head to clear out the fog. This was... highly unusual. Some part of her was drawing her onward, but another wasn't so sure. Then again, this was her own home. If there was something hidden here, she should find out about it. Still...
Claire turned around and walked back across the basement, not fully awake but concerned enough to leave. On the way, something caught her eye; hanging from the ceiling a few feet away from the light was an old pocketwatch. Disturbed by her passage, it twirled there, catching the light as it had in the photo.
Curious, but wary now, Claire approached. The fox peered up at the watch. The chain was hooked to a nail, it should be easy to take down. It was still spinning, only a few inches in front of her muzzle now. She reached up to steady the watch but thought better of it--it was rather pretty hanging there, and she should probably just take it down.
And yet she hadn’t. It was there, right in front of her, still pretty, still spinning. The light shined off the face of the watch and into her eyes gently, regularly; Claire was awash in a feeling of peace and fuzzy contentment as her hand floated slowly back down. She stood there, arms at her side, jaw a little slack, looking up at the watch, a vacant smile on her muzzle.
Eventually, when the watch stopped spinning, Claire reached up and lifted it off its hook. She turned to where she'd found the photos and walked back to the place, reveling in the warm glow everything had all of a sudden. The fox was unconcerned when the armoire moved out of her way under its own power. Her gown swished as she walked into the passageway.
The hall continued for only about ten feet before opening into a room. Her hand, acting on some hidden memory, reached out and turned on the light.
It was a bedroom. A full-length mirror across from her, a large bed to her left, furniture all around. In the mirror was a fox dressed in rumpled business attire, shirt and pleated pants, tie hanging limp around his neck as he rocked to and fro on his feet, eyes closed and mouth agape, an impressive tent in his pants, and an old camera around his neck.
Claire was reflected in the mirror too, standing next to him, transparent and pale. She smiled at the reflections and took a step forward, pulling off her gown, her image solidifying as she entered the room.
In an instant, she remembered. She remembered the wracking cough that took her life, her husband living on, taking another woman. She pleaded to him--she was still there, could still love him, but he couldn't hear her. He moved out, after a time.
She was lonely, so lonely, but in that time she learned. This room was special; people could hear her, touch her, see her here, when the time was right. With great effort, she could move things, but not often.
After a time, the house was sold, a fox moved in. She remembered luring him with her watch, twirling it above his eyes when he was barely awake; she remembered his blank expression as he sleepwalked after her. She brought him to her secret place, showed him how to come inside.
There he was, arms at his sides, head lolling about. She had brushed him with the watch at midnight to wake him, but he was still nude, and still asleep. Slowly, he had shuffled into the room. No armoire was there to block his path. She bade him lay on the dusty bed, to relax in her arms and go back to sleep, following the watch deeper and deeper, making him into her husband if only for a night.
Slowly, her trembling hand had reached out and brushed his sheath, feeling a man for the first time in years. He had nestled himself deeper in her arms, fast asleep, his cock twitching as it began to grow under her hand. Claire remembered, as if it was happening, how she slid up his body, then down, impaling herself on his maleness, not believing it was real, amazed at how good it had felt, how alive she had felt.
In the present, the male was laying on the bed, his clothes and camera piled on the floor, his manhood hilted inside her. One of Claire's hands cupped her naked breast, flicking her thumb over the nipple; the other twirled the watch in front of his eyes. The vixen began to roll her hips, riding him, feeling his cock deep inside. She told him to love her back, and he started to move, thrusting off the bed but never taking his eyes off the watch, this time the same as the first time so long ago.
Even now, her loins burned with need; not as badly as the first time, but she hadn't had relief since the last full moon. Claire moaned, reveling in small vibrations the real sound made in her, rocking faster, needing release, the watch forgotten; she kissed him deeply, exploring the inside of his mouth with her tongue while she still could. Her hands ran through his chest-fur, tugging gently.
He came suddenly, arching off the bed and thrusting into her, making her squeal at the sensation. His eyes were half-lidded, but his clenched teeth betrayed the intensity as he filled her, really filled her with his seed. She felt the warm wetness inside her, heard his desperate moans mingled with her own cries, smelled their musk, tasted him; she howled, ethereal and pure, her pussy clenching around his manhood, coating him with juices she wasn't sure would smell in the morning.
Claire lay forward, pushing her glasses back into position, hugging the other fox close, leaving him inside her. For a long while, she simply held him, enjoying his warmth. They would make love many more times that night, she remembered. He would take pictures, the only evidence she was real, and save them; after the sun came up, he would place everything back where it used to be and ignore it all until the time was right.
When the night was almost over, she would give him the watch. She would teach him to do the same to her, to make her forget the loneliness of her tormented un-life, to build for her a fantasy of life like it used to be, for them both to forget until the next full moon. But not yet.
She stroked his ear and whispered to him as she lay, feeling his member twitching, hardening inside her as he responded to her words. His hands floated up dreamily, finding her chest, kneading her tits gently as he recovered his stamina. Eventually, they would forget, but the rest of this night was theirs.