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The room you are in is not large. Behind you is a locked door. Ahead is a Lexan wall thick enough to stop a bullet. On the far side of that sits a black-furred fox. He's grinning at you. His name is Renaud.

You know a lot about Renaud. It's how you got into this mess, really.

Renaud is a really, really big fox. A normal red fox might hit 30 pounds. Mostly they are two-thirds that. Stretched out, a normal red fox might be four feet long including tail.

Then there's the silver fox on the far side of the plastic wall. Renaud is sat back on his haunches and that makes him a foot taller than you are. His tail alone is five feet long, his paws are the size of a man's head. Renaud shoots you a smug look from behind the barrier and slowly licks his chops.

Officially he weighs five hundred pounds. That's bullshit and you know it. You never actually got to see the weighings, but you've done the math. He's five feet tall at the shoulder and even with that lanky, long legged build he's a lot more than 500. More like 800. Maybe even more.

You know why the Sunday Night Run announcers, and their employers The Project, lie about his weight. His official nemesis, Bearkiller the wolverine, weighs about 400 pounds. A four hundred pound wolverine is a terrifying thing but it's hard to sell a rivalry when one rival weighs twice as much as the other. Thus they lie, just as "professional" wrestlers creatively overstate their height and weight.

You can see a lot of neat things as a janitor at the Project. You're not supposed to take pictures, but they will look the other way if you do. Your problems started when you posted some of them onto the net. Bad enough you posted the close-ups of "star" animal genitals, taken mostly as they slept. That alone would get you fired.

Posting that one of Doctor Carlyle and Renaud was what got you grabbed by security. They have this movable Lexan wall they use when they need to do a checkup on a dangerous animal. (Which is all of them.) They fit the U-shaped bottom of the wall partway down the animal's body and the work on the part away from the pointy bits. It means they can use less drastic anaesthetics and restraints, sometimes none at all. Officially, it's only when veterinary work needs to be done.

Some of the staff like to call Renaud or another pred in, fix the wall in place so the predator's lower half is on their side. Then they do a "checkup." They only do it with willing preds. A lot of them are very willing.

Renaud comes up all fours and paces, one flank toward you, then the other. He's excited. He knows the wall will go up soon and he'll he able to reach you. The pink tip poking from his sheath is the size of your fist.

Somehow Carlyle managed to get most of -that- inside her. You have pictures of it. His knot stayed outside her, of course. Even if she were deep enough, it's bigger than a grapefruit.

The staff is watching you sweat. You can't see the cameras but you know they are there. You slam your hand on the perforated plexiglass wall. Renaud stops pacing, sits down once more facing you, and yawns.

You shiver again. His nose goes up and up until you're looking past a carpet of pink tongue into a purple gullet as wide as your face. Maybe a whole man would fit in there, you'd think if you happened to be one of the few people on Earth who didn't know about the fox. And you'd be right. Something like fifty men have. Fifty men, thirty women, an unknown number of dogs and other animals released into his enclosure for "enrichment exercises." One time they put a lioness in there. She put up quite a fight, right up until her twitching tail slid into the fox's gullet. That pay-per-view brought in a lot of money.

"All right already!" You slap the glass again. Renaud shuts his muzzle, grins, and leans down to lick his tip. One or the other, he says silently. It's one or the other. Swallow me or I swallow you. Or maybe swallow me and then I swallow you. Trustworthiness is not one of the big fox's virtues.

Only three of the Project's many predators will rape people. This despite many attempts to train others. There's Zane the mink, who is very strong but weighs only a hundred pounds. Most often he has to kill someone before going at it. Bearkiller the wolverine is notorious for pulling people down and mounting them before he feeds. And then there's Renaud.

You turn away from the asshole fox and look where you think a camera must be. "I don't have the missing data. Yeah, I took photos of predator junk, but I'm not an industrial spy."

A hidden speaker clicks. "We found emails on your phone that suggest otherwise."

"I was talking to them about it, but I didn't do it. I wanted to be around the animals, and yeah, I jack off to pictures of them. That's all I wanted."

There is a brief silence. "The door to the side is unlocked now. It leads to the hunting park. Five minute head start. If you make to to the exit we'll talk again."

"Damn it, I won't play your game."

"Stay where you are then. In five minutes, the wall goes up."

On the far side of the Lexan Renaud licks his chops. Run, and maybe have a chance. Stay here, and in five minutes he'll be able to get to you. He doesn't care if you are guilty. He just cares that he's hungry. You run.

The Project's Denver HQ is a series of ring-shaped buildings with animal habitats in the hollow middle of each. There isn't room there for much sport. That's what the hunting park is for. You sprint down the ramp, along a hundred yards of tunnel and into the woods. The doors stay open behind you. Why shut them? Renaud will be coming up that hall in a few minutes. Staying here would just speed up your trip down his throat.

The park covers half a square mile, but it's irregularly shaped, with hills and dense woods that conceal the sheer cliffs surrounding it. It's practically a maze. Somewhere there is an exit. You go looking.

The earthy smell of the woods fills your nostrils as you run. It's practically a jungle. You can't see the sky except in fragments and can't see more than a hundred yards in any direction. Two minutes into your flight you find a mossy wall of rock too sheer to scale without tools. It's wrinkly and irregular, with folds like a curtain. The moss is there for a reason. It makes the rock too slippery for even a practiced rock climber to easily scale. And you aren't. It might as well be a smooth Lexan wall again.

Somewhere in a nook or cranny of one of these cliffs there's an exit. The Project always leaves the prey a way out. It makes for better hunts. But where? Half a square mile of forest means there's close to three miles of cliff, probably a lot more given the irregular shape of the park. The exit may not even at the periphery but someone further in.

You don't have an hour or two to find your way out. Pretty soon now the Lexan wall will go up and Renaud can run a lot faster than you can.

And he knows where the exit, or exits are. Now you have a plan.

You also have a weapon. A conveniently snapped-off sapling, probably broken by one of the really big preds, makes a good walking stick. It's also a decent club. You take it with you in case things go wrong. You backtrack a hundred yards and hide.

Sure enough, here comes Renaud, prick-eared and alert. He's trotting along faster than a man can run, shooting glances back and forth as he goes. Suddenly you wonder how good his sense of smell is. Can he smell you behind the tree?

But he doesn't pause to sniff, just trots on by. He's headed straight for the exit. Has to be. He'll go there and wait for you to show up. If he spends his time hunting you down you might escape, if he waits there the only way out of the park is through the guts of a fox.

He's fast and none too quiet. You follow, moving when he moves, hiding when he stops to look around. He's a big, black animal, easy to spot in the shafts of sunlight that slant down through the trees. He's barely in sight when he pokes his long muzzle into a crack in the cliff, flicks an ear, and lies down.

Renaud is a smart animal. He can't talk, but his brain is a lot bigger than a normal fox's and he uses all of it. He knows you are in the park somewhere and will have to come here eventually to escape. When he's on the Run pay-per-view the predators have an hour to catch their prey. Here there's no hurry. He waits. You wait too.

Fifteen minutes go by, as near as you can figure. Half an hour. Renaud stirs uneasily and looks around. He's worried. He hasn't seen or heard you. Maybe you found another way out. Maybe the Project left more escape routes than usual.

You wait. You can't outrun Renaud, but you can outthink him. He's going to get nervous and go looking. Sure enough, he rises to his full gangly height, looks around and trots away.

He won't be gone long and the second he's out of sight you move forward, as fast as you can and still be quiet. He may be back soon. He'll be too late. You're at the crack in the cliff in moments.

It's a dead end. You poke your face in and look. The crack just ends. Why was he...?

A chill runs down your spine. There's only one reason the fox would wait here if it isn't the exit. He didn't know where you were, so he waited long enough for you to find him. Why go hunting when your prey will come right to you?

You grip your walking-stick-cum-club tight and turn. An enormous black fox is sitting twenty feet away, looking rather smug. A wash of pink tongue comes out and moistens his chops as he looks at you.

You take the club in both hands and put your back to the crack. You can't even begin to outrun him. You'll have to fight. It's fight or be the cause of a foxy belch.

There's a third option, but you put it out of your mind. Even if you gag on oversized fox cock he may still eat you. Trusting Renaud has gotten people out of the Run, but it's gotten at least as many a short tour of the big fox's digestive tract.

Renaud rises to his paws and steps forward, ears tracking you like upright radar dishes. He's five feet tall at the shoulder and all wiry muscle, fast and smart and hungry. As you see it your best chance is to clock him in the nose with your club. Make the meal too painful and he'll back off. Veteran Run predators don't get that way by being too brave or too stupid. They do it by being opportunistic assholes smart enough to back off when there's real risk.

As he steps forward you do the same and swing your four-foot-long walking stick at his muzzle.

You get exactly one swing. You're new at this. He isn't. As the club whistles through the air he leans back just far enough that it only brushes his whiskers, then he leans forward just as fast. One forepaw on a long foxy leg leaves the ground and darts out too fast for the eye to follow, right into your chest.

It's like being kicked by a horse. Eight hundred pound or so of fox leans into the blow and your feet leave the ground. The club flies from your hand as you thump to the ground and you flip end for end. He really clobbered you with that kick and it knocked the wind out of you. Just the same you get your hands under you in record time. You don't have time to lie here stunned.

You don't have any time at all. As you list yourself a great weight pushes your face once more against the ground. Renaud steps forward and casually sits on your back, crushing you down into the grass. You gasp and try to wriggle out from under him. That's when you smell it.

Renaud stinks. Foxes stink. You can find the fox house at a zoo by following your nose. You're not sure why. Never looked it up. Musk glands or smelly pee residue on his fur? All you know is suddenly your nose is full of the stuff and it's rank. Renaud has his grapefruit-sized scrotum on your neck and he's grinding his sheath against your skull. To either side are his haunches and you're trapped in a cloud of fox stink.

He's got a hard-on as thick as a baseball bat. You can feel it through the stretched fur of his sheath. He still wants to get his rocks off. Lucky for you he doesn't usually just up and mount people the way Bearkiller does. Renaud likes blowjobs.

He's not going to get one from you. You elbow the inside of his haunch and reach for your club. It's just out of reach. It stays that way as he bats it away with a forepaw. He's smart. You knew that going in and still underestimated him.

You'll pay for it with a trip down his throat. He gives up on skull fucking you and pins you to the ground with a forepaw. That lets him take a step back and the next thing you know he has both your feet in his mouth.

"No!" The leather sandals they gave you protect your soles from his sharp fangs, but his upper canines scrape cruelly along your insteps as he engulfs your feet. He doesn't care that you are wearing the sandals. He knows they would give you digestible clothes. His tongue gathers itself beneath your feet and he swallows.

You manage to squirm out from under his forepaw as your feet slide down his throat. His gullet has a tight pneumatic grip on your calves and the undulation of powerful swallowing muscles suck you in to the knees.

You try to roll over and get a sharp canine fang sunk into your calf for your trouble. You still manage it. It's fight or be fox food. You twist around to punch him in his tender nose and find upright foxy ears and amber eyes watching you like a hawk. Before you can cock your fist a forepaw reaches out and punts your head like a soccer ball.

He could kill you with one kick. That's how strong he is. Instead he only stuns you and as you flop down he pushes his long muzzle over you all the way to your hips. Slimy fox gullet slithers past your feet. From the thighs down you're coated in a thick later of fox drool, slicking you down for easy swallowing.

He's got you flattened out against the ground again but as he lifts his muzzle to engulf your hips you manage to bend double at the waist. You're looking up at his chest now and with your shoulder blades pressed against the ground you punch him in his furry breastbone as hard as you can.

He doesn't even flinch. You feel his flexible ribs shift as you hit but not because your fist hit them. They flexed because a set of human feet is sliding beneath them on their way to a foxy stomach and his body has to expand to make room. They're your feet and the rest of you is going to follow them. This is going to end with the silver fox belching smugly and settling down to digest his meal unless you find a way out.

He's sitting down now as he casually eats you and a flash of pink draws your eye. You reach out with both hands and grab Renaud's sheath.

You can't quite reach his balls, just his baseball bat hard-on and the beginnings of his knot. It hasn't swelled up yet which means he isn't quite ready to shoot his wad. With no other way out of this mess but playing nice you use both hands to pump Renaud's sheath up and down his erection.

Renaud makes a surprised noise and stops swallowing. His chin is pressed against your navel and he could bolt you down in three or four tosses of his head but he pauses. Clear fluid drools from his pointed pink tip as you jack him off, his furry sheath serving nicely as a cock sleeve. Thick pointed cock appears and vanishes, appears and vanishes.

If you could reach his balls it'd be different. If you reach them you'll do your level best to crush his foxy testicles and get him to throw you up. That might get you killed but there's at least a chance you'd survive. You can't reach them or even the knot swelling at the base of his cock so you pump his sheath forward and back. Maybe you'll get him to cum and he'll let you go. He's let people go before. It's what he is best known for, other than 'Swallow me or I swallow you'. Renaud the asshole fox, who is more trustworthy than most Run preds because there's at least a chance he'll let you go.

Renaud stands. His hindpaw shakes as he repositions it, taking a step to the side with one back paw. Then both his thick muscular haunches shiver and tense as he starts humping. He drives his cock through your hands and through his sheath and you realize something. Renaud hardly ever gets to just mount someone. It's all blowjobs or handjobs from contestants on the Run and maybe woman on top action from Project people like Doctor Carlisle. In the fifty Runs you've seen him in he's mounted someone exactly once. He never gets to just hump away the way he would with a big female fox.

There used to be a female Run wolf even bigger than Renaud but she hasn't appeared on the show in years. Renaud had something going with her, or wanted to. Not any more. And now your hands are the closest thing to actually fucking a she-fox that he's had for years and he's humping with all his might and growling with each thrust.

There's just one problem. He has his muzzle bent down against his chest as he fucks your hands and with every thrust you feel his fangs scrape a fraction of am inch further over you. Your hips sink slowly out of sight into his maw. The mere act of humping against your hands is gradually pushing you down his throat.

Slippery fox gullet slides over your hips and fangs dig in for a moment before tearing loose from your loincloth. It's leather too, because of course it is. They wouldn't send a valuable fox out to eat you without dotting all the i's and crossing all the t's. They even ran a physical on you to make sure there wasn't anything on or in you that would trouble Renaud's digestive system. That trick was tried once and almost killed two popular Run predators. Renaud was one of them. They don't take chances any more.

You look down at the narrow muzzle swallowing you whole and up at the furry sheath in your hands. Renaud is humping away but he's also eating you. Holding on to his dick isn't working. At this rate he'll go off all over you and then swallow you down.

You try to kick, but the slimy gullet wrapped around your legs holds them still. His thrusting pushes you further into his maw and as his cheeks wrap around your armpits you make your move. You wait for him to thrust with all his force, and as his belly curls forward and his hard-on slides through your hands you let go and grab at his balls.

For a moment you get a grip and he lets out a muffled yelp as you do your best to squeeze him into submission. His scrotum is bigger than a softball and your first grab is mostly fur. Before you can crush his bits and make him barf you up he straightens his back and yanks his balls out of reach. Fur pulls out from between your fingers, leaving you with a handful of long black hairs and the greasy musk that coats his fur and produces the stink.

Fuck. Only one chance left, as he hisses in anger you give up trying to reach his balls and curl your fingers into claws. If you can get his eyes -

Too late. Before you can snap your hands toward his eyes the angry fox lunges forward. Inertia holds you in place as his fangs scrape cruelly over your shoulders and suddenly your head is in his mouth. A long toothy jaw and squelching tongue frame your face and his fanged muzzle pressed down from above, trapping your head in a vice grip as he bites down. You feel his tongue moving against your forehead and know he's about to swallow you, but there just isn't any way to stop him now. His cheeks force your arms out straight and it's going to take too long to reach for his eyes now.

Sure enough, you claw at his eyes but it's already too late. With another lurch of his jaws you're looking out past his fangs at the fading light of the hunting park. Slippery gullet grips at you as he tenses to swallow you down and your feet push through a muscular valve into the sloshing hell of his stomach. Gastric juices burn your skin everywhere they touch and in one or two more gulps that will be your whole body. You're almost entirely wrapped in his throat and he'll swallow you effortlessly once he gathers his strength.

There's only one thing left to do. As his throat clenches down and you begin to slip toward a slimy digestive fate you grab his muzzle with both hands. Your fingers dig into his whiskery chops and greasy nosepad in a desperate effort to keep you from becoming fox chow.

You grab on with all your strength but the obvious thing to do is also the predictable thing to do. Renaud lets out an evil cackle as he sits back on his haunches. His throat turns into a smooth slick chute with a horrible gurgling end at the bottom and your entire weight hanging off the slender grip of your fingers at the top.

If you can hold on long enough he'll run out of air and will have to throw you up. Then this whole drama will start over again but with your feet stewing in his gut it's all you have. Unfortunately he's not a novice at this sort of thing. There must at least three ways he can get you swallowed now and the asshole fox knows them all.

The first thing he does is yawn incredibly widely, far wider than he did to bolt you down. As his nose goes up and up your elbows bend and so do your wrists. You retain your grip on his muzzle just the same, right up until he casually reaches up a forepaw and hooks the claws into the space between your wrists and his fangs.

"God, no!" But God, if he's really up there, doesn't respond. Renaud pops your fingers loose from his chops with an effortless flick of his paw and the last thing that kept you from sliding deeper is gone. The asshole fox lets out another evil chuckle as your weight sends you sliding helplessly down his throat.

In a last desperate effort your try to grab onto his fangs but the big pointed teeth are as slick with saliva as everything else in here. The circle of light gets smaller as you slip into his gullet and the last thing you see is a jagged line of sky past pointed teeth. Renaud closes his jaws around your hands and swallows and it's all over but the gurgling.

You slide heavily down his throat, coated thickly with lubricating mucus that will be replaced by hot caustic belly juices all too soon. You feel the bulge move through his neckfur, hear the creak of ribs expanding to let you by, then it's all hot darkness and sloshing acid as you slither helplessly into his stomach. Renaud is a big foxie but you still make a heavy bulge in his slender middle.

You put up a good fight but it's all over now. Fleshy walls squeeze in from all sides and the fur beyond that shows curves and valleys where a whole man is curled up inside. Renaud's gut is furnace hot and stinks of bile, with thick slime coating every surface. As you slither and slide into place it coats you too and every square inch of your body tingles as the process of digestion begins.

You have no weapons and every bit of clothing on your body was chosen for its harmless and digestible nature. It will break down with you and become nutrients and fox poop. The Project has had a lot of practice at this sort of thing. They dress their victims in clothing that dissolves and passes as easily as the flesh and bone.

Renaud belches briefly, but vents only a fraction of the air in his swollen middle. You feel him dip his muzzle and shift position, and a curious rhythmic motion shakes you inside him. It only takes a moment to work out what is it.

He's licking himself. Even deep inside him you hear the loving slurp and slick as he works his tongue across his sheath. He wanted you to do this, but you refused and became lunch. Flexible as any canine, or vulpine, he took over to finish the job.

In the slimy hell of his gut you listen and feel him work. There's no way out now, no escape save through the bowels of a formerly hungry fox. Your escape from the asshole fox will be via the fox's asshole.

Renaud growls, shudders, and swallows audibly. He has his whole sheath in his long muzzle and the careful squeeze of his jaws around his knot is enough. With his tip in his throat there's nowhere for the fox semen to go but where you are. You feel the entry sphincter open and something warm dribbles down your already softening skin. He'll digest his cum along with you. Waste not, want not.

You squirm and push at the walls, but there will be no escape. Renaud waits until your struggle weakens before finally belching. Not out of mercy, because he cares about you only as a meal, but because the bubble of air in there is uncomfortable.

He lets out all the trapped air in one long burp and the hot gurgling darkness closes in. Your consciousness ebbs as the air leaves and you manage only a last feeble kick.

"Asshole," you mutter. Maybe those tall foxy ears pick it up, because the last thing you hear as you fade out is Renaud snickering.