Pulling Strings

It was late and most of the bar's patrons had already left for the night. A lone straggler made his way to the door and Shawn and Shane were alone at last. Running their own business wasn't easy, but, so long as they were together, they muddled through.

Shane came out from behind the counter as Shawn drew near. She was holding a shot glass in each hand and looked as if she had thrown back a few, already.
"Care for a drink before I put away the bottle?"
They knocked glasses and drank the liquor down. Shane set her glass on the bar top and leaned against the counter. She was a pretty vixen and Shawn considered himself lucky. She was dressed in an outfit that was suggestive yet modest. The bodice was the linchpin of it all, under which was a blouse and skirt. A pretty black bow was tied over her tail and the whole look gave her a certain gothic air.
"So," she cooed, "what're your plans for tonight?"
Catching the hint of mischief in her tone, Shawn reached behind her back and started pulling strings. Shane smiled and began unbuttoning his shirt. She slipped her hands inside and ran them up and down his chest. The bodice fell away; the front of her shirt came open.
Under her costume, the vixen was wrapped in a slimming black corset. The white fur on her chest offset the garment's pitch and the red laces and trim went well with her natural coloration. She continued moving her hands over his muscular form, then slipped into his sleeves and forced them off his arms.
Shawn was well built not from deliberate training but rather a lifetime of hard work. Crates and barrels don't move themselves and the odd unruly customer was met with stiff resistance. A powerful body and charming persona made him quite the catch but only someone of equal will could hold this fox's heart.
Their lips met in a passionate kiss as her hands fumbled with his belt. He unwound the ribbon from her tail and let it drift away. Her skirt fell about her ankles and all that remained of the vixen's outfit were her underclothes and boots.
Shawn lifted his wife up onto the bar top and prepared to remedy this over sight. His hands slid the leather cuffs down her calves and the boots slipped from her heels in unison. Beneath her silk clad bottom, the hard stone counter was colder then expected. She gave a little shutter and spilled a spot beside the glass as she poured another round.
With that last shot, the bottle was empty. They sat for a while, just enjoying the view, but, soon, it was time to go home, where a fresh bottle waited to be poured and a few more strings waited to be pulled.