“Gods above! I implore thee, if Anon is my name, summon me a companion, make it fine! Bind it to me if you are truly divine!” The chant is probably superstition, and a little embarrassing (you made it up because there were none recorded for you, okay). None of the textbooks you’ve read mention a chant being necessary, but the other students swear it summons a better companion. It’s far from the most important step in the ritual.
What really matters is the ultraviolet jewel you hold in your palm. It’s beautiful, reflecting the dozen candles you’ve set up in purple rays that scatter across your room. It’s maybe the width of your pinky nail, and it was an absolute pain to acquire. You had to assassinate another student for some disgruntled professor, who scrounged up the gem usually only available to second-years, not first-years like yourself. The business wasn’t irregular—students went missing all the time—but setting the trap, luring him to the haunted forest, and hiding his corpse was an exhausting, nasty job. Being caught at any point meant expulsion and prison for the rest of your life, but how sweet will the reward be!
You cast the gem into the circle and it disappears in a puff of smoke and an instant violet flash. Immediately, the bedroom rumbles with a great crack of thunder, the salt summoning circle vibrating the salt in the air in little rhythmic waves. The vials and beakers of multi-colored potions, liquids, and regents fall from your desk, shattering on the floor and mixing in the cracks of the wooden floorboards to form various bubbling mixtures and slimes. You’ll have to clean that up later. More important matters are at hand.
Another bright purple flash in the center off the circle blinds you and you shield your eyes with your forearm. When the light dissipates you stare in anticipation at the circle, waiting for the light to clear from your eyes, and what you see fills your chest with glee.
It’s a coyote, demure and amber-eyed, shaking and stark naked, butterscotch-and-cream furred. You note his male privates with a small note of disappointment. Well, it’s hot either way.
He stares at you with big eyes, raising his knees to hide himself and shuffling to the other side of the circle where he is stopped by the invisible barrier. His knife-shaped ears are flat on his head.
“Who are you? What’s going on? Where are my clothes?” he says, clawing at the barrier. His hands stop midair like he’s dragging them through thick clay.
“Relax,” you say. “I’ll explain everything.” You can’t break the barrier yet, though you want to. You still have to bind him as a companion while he’s in the circle. You grab the summoning guide and awkwardly hold the textbook at your crotch to hide your building erection beneath your robe.
“Give collar to summon. Most summons will put it on willingly,” you read quietly.
You examine the plain leather collar you prepared. It won’t win any beauty shows, but if you enchanted it properly it will do it’s job. You can always get him a nicer one once he’s properly trained. You toss it at him and he catches it.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“Put it on.”
“What? No! This is a collar. That’s degrading.”
You look back to the textbook and read under your breath, “Some summons of advanced intelligence require extra encouragement. Oftentimes you can trick them into putting it on. Whatever you do, do not step into the circle, even if it means waiting for hours or days. Even new summons are powerful enough to seriously maim or kill their summoners if not properly controlled.”
“If you don’t put it on, you can’t leave the circle,” you say. “The circle is the only spot in this world you’re harnessed to,” you lie. “The collar expands its magikinetic meridians, therefore increasing its range and allowing you to leave the circle. Sorry it’s a collar, I’ll get you something different once you’re out of there.” You try and give an encouraging smile.
He stares at you for a moment, doubt evident on his face. “If you’re lying, I’ll kill you,” he says, slipping on the collar and clicking it in the back. So much for “advanced intelligence.” You can barely stop yourself from laughing, which feels a little cruel—even for you.
“Alright, you can leave the circle now,” you say, discreetly brushing away a part of the salt circle with your boot and breaking the barrier.
He stands up, still holding a hand to his privates. He’s maybe five-foot-four with a thin build, his chest a creamy white, his tail limp behind him. “Now can you tell me what’s going on? And get me some clothes?”
“Sure, sure,” you say. “You aren’t allowed to use any powers on me, though.”
“What are you talking about? What powers?” he asks, the confusion on his face clear. He tugs at the collar on his neck. “And how do I take this damn thing off?”
You grin and when you get closer his eyes go wide and his ears drop. You grab his shoulders and push him to the ground, landing with a thump. It’s ridiculously easy to overpower him. It’s almost as if he wants you to, which wouldn’t surprise you. The textbooks say the summons might act defiant, but really they are just testing their masters to ensure they are ready to lead when the time comes.
“Get the hell off me!” he shouts, ripping your robe with dull claws. It’s almost laughable how pathetic it is, but you remind yourself how easily he could kill you if he was allowed to. Sure, you could simply command him to obey; that’s what the collar is for. But that’s no fun, is it? Besides, showing them who’s dominant produces better companions. That’s what the textbook says, anyway.
You manage to pin him on his back. You notice his small dick poking through the fur of his abdomen. He sees your eyes drift toward it.
“That’s not—I’m not—let me go!”
“Do you really mean that?” you ask.
He says yes but you’re already flipping him over. He’s sprawled on his back, your hands pinning his arms and your knees pinning his legs, but you realize you can’t hold him down and untie your robe at the same time. “Don’t move,” you command.
“What?” he says.
You get up, drop your robe, and pull down your undergarments to reveal your raging erection. Sadly, the command prevents him from speaking or turning his head. You grab his hips and contort him into a doggy-style position, hands and knees on the floor, butt upturned.
“You can move your head, but nothing else.”
He turns and sees you grab his tail and line yourself up with his entrance.
“Please, don’t,” he says. “I’ll do whatever you say.” Little crescents of water are building in his eyes and this only serves to encourage more blood to your erection.
You thrust inward. The pleasure is overwhelming, insanely tight, though it could use a little lubricant. He moans in pain. You remove your dick and spit on it, rubbing it in with your hand and spreading the precum around. You’ve not masturbated for a week in anticipation and it was worth it. You’re so sensitive one thrust made you feel ready to burst.
You squeeze your way back in, a little bit easier, starting slow. Each pass he gives a soft moan and begs for you to stop. You do, but only to let the pleasure subside for a moment so you don’t cum too early. You love the way your balls slap against his and the sight pushes you deeper, edging you until you’re a thrust away, where you pause and let the wave subside. It’s exhilarating. The air is heavy with sweat and heat as the two of you pant like dogs.
It’s time, you think. “You can move,” you say, releasing the command on him and stopping. He doesn’t try to escape your grip. He tenses up, his legs bracing against the floor, and looks back with expectation, his eyes glazed over in pleasure. Drool runs off his pink gums and black mouth and drips from his muzzle to the floor in a thick strand. You grin with deep satisfaction.
You thrust again and increase your pace. His moans grow loud, he continues to shout for you to stop, but you both know better—he doesn’t really want you to, he’s just maintaining the facade of resistance. He moans, louder this time, and he clenches up, tighter than before. You see him cum, spraying your floorboards with white droplets and going limp. You hold his tail and hip to keep him upright as you keep thrusting and you’re close, now, the pressure building in your whole lower body and with a great shout you finish inside him, one, two, three bursts of vitality that seem to drain everything you have. You fall beside him, sore and drenched in sweat. The two of are silent save the massive breaths you take, chests heaving up and down in unison.
Cum and saliva mixes on the floor in various little puddles and drops. The room stinks of it, a strong miasma that fills your nostrils and would ordinarily disgust you, but right now it’s simply proof of your success.
You smack the coyote on his ass. He quivers. “Alright, get up. We have to clean this up before the RA comes.”
You hear a knock at the door and before you can respond it opens.
“What the fuck, Anon? Seriously?”
It’s the resident assistant, of course. He stares at you in shock behind his thick glasses.
“My bad? I got a little carried away.”
“A little?”

The suspension wasn’t so bad. It was only a week, and it was prompted more by the chemicals that leaked through the floorboards and made another student bald than for the unauthorized summoning, which happened frequently with eager freshmen who didn’t want to wait to get their hands on a summon.
The week off gave you an opportunity to take the coyote home—August, you learned his name was. His world didn’t have magic, or summons, or anything like that. It did have humans, but he quickly learned things weren’t like they were back home, and the week provided plenty of time to train him. When your suspension finally ended, your first act was to parade him around campus.

“Aww, he’s so cute! And well-trained!” a blonde-haired girl says, leaning down to get on August’s level. “Can I pet him? He won’t bite or anything, right?”
“Nope,” you respond. “He’ll do anything I say. I don’t even need the collar anymore. That one’s just for show,” you say, holding his original collar out for proof.
She pets him. “He really does anything you say? How’d you train him so well?”
You smile. “Special techniques. It’s a family secret.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime,” she says, winking. “My summon is absolutely awful. If I don’t command him he won’t do anything.”
August shakes her hand off and crawls to you. You don’t make him crawl around all the time—it would only slow you down and is probably hell on his knees—but girls like the trick. He grabs the fold of your robe and tugs, trying to get at your pants. The girl’s jaw drops in shock.
“Bad boy!” you say, and turn to the girl with an embarrassed grin. “Sorry, I don’t know why he does that.”
“You’re a sick pervert!”
And so the strategy hasn’t yielded much success. Not that it really matters. No one night stand could compare to the adventures you have with August every night.