Untie his wrists

"Well, I reckon you wouldn't be hard if you were planning something," you say, cupping the bulge in his trousers in your big hand and giving it a rub. The foxboy makes a murring sound and rubs the side of his face against your arm, his big, silky ear soft against your skin. You reach around him and untie the rope binding his hands.

"Thank you, Master," he says, rubbing at the red marks that mar each of his delicate wrists. He gives you a sultry look, then turns around, lowers his trousers, and raises his tail, exposing his round bottom and rosy pink hole.

"Happy birthday to me," you murmur, grabbing your cock and guiding it to his puckered entrance.

"Hold on, Master," he says, reaching back to stop you. "Don't you have any lube? You don't want to tear me up, do you? That big sausage you've got would split me right in half. What would your father say if you break your new toy already?"