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Waylon staggered to the camp, struggling under the weight of the logs. He dropped them into the heap of the woodpile then fell back, landing on his bottom. He sat huffing and mopping at the sweat rolling down his face using the edge of his filthy, untucked shirt.

"I hate summer," the rat wheezed. He pulled himself over to what was generously called the kitchen. It consisted of a spit over a fire pit and an icebox built crudely from stone. The rat took a smooth, melting nugget of ice from the icebox and smeared it over his forehead, rubbing it in until the ice melted completely. Then he fell under the canopy of the lean-to and closed his eyes.

Waylon's partner in survival came back to the camp close to dusk. Waylon stirred when he heard the footsteps, sat up when he heard the rummaging.

"Anything good?" Waylon asked, hugging his knees.

"Some meat," his partner, Desmond, said without much enthusiasm. "I don't know if this is edible, but we may not have a choice."

Waylon eyed the slabs of meat Desmond had returned with. Instead of a healthy red shade, the meat had a bruised purple color, and an odor rose from it comparable to a very strong cheese.

"How much longer do we have to deal with this?" Waylon moaned.

Desmond hung the meat to dry on the jerky racks. He said, "I couldn't tell you, but it gets worse. I heard something when I was out there," he indicated with his spear, "in the woods."

"Hounds?" the rat suggested, hopefully. Not that Waylon liked hounds, the snarling, ugly black beasts with teeth like daggers and insatiable appetites, but hounds were predictable and could be defeated.

"If it was a hound, it was a big one." Desmond the fox took a piece of jerky from the icebox and gnawed it. Between bites, he said, "I think we should sleep in shifts tonight."

"We always sleep in shifts," Waylon observed.

"I know," Desmond said, shrugging. "I don't think any of the creatures here care if we're awake or not. You want to take that chance?"

Waylon shook his head. He looked out into the woods, watching the tree tops rustle in the stale summer breeze.

For a time they simply existed as comfortably as they could. Waylon was not much of a hunter or a fighter, but he found he possessed a skill for making spears and tools. He spent an hour honing tools and weapons while Desmond tended their small farm in the waning sunlight. By the time they'd built up a campfire to ward off the dark, both of them were ready to sleep.

Seeing the tiredness in Waylon's eyes, Desmond said, "I'll go first. Get some rest."

"Don't mind if I do," the rat said without a fight, and curled up on the edge of the fire. The night was humid but the fire was a comfort.

Alone, Desmond sat by the fire, holding his spear more for comfort than protection. He tried not to think about his hunger. To think about that was to think about the ponds he'd fished clean, the tallbirds he'd killed off for their meat and eggs, the beefalo he didn't have the nerve to take on. Food was going to run out soon. Waylon didn't know it. He was a good gatherer and a good toolmaker, but he didn't understand the logistics of their food: they were consuming the food faster than the land could replenish itself.

Crickets chirped and the wind rustled the grass and the trees. Desmond relaxed. Told himself to stay alert. He thought about hounds, how a bite from one had nearly cost Waylon a leg. Infection was nasty business, but he'd fought it off. Hounds were due, too, and it seemed like they came every few weeks. He waited, listened for the growls, listened for anything to focus on.

In the end, the growls were not what woke Desmond from his slumped-over nap. It was the earth shaking. Trees snapping as something pushed through them, breaking century-old trunks like spring's new saplings. He flinched awake, nearly fell into the smoldering, low fire, then shoved Waylon hard. "Wake up," he hissed. "Wake up, something's coming, get a spear!"

"What?" Waylon mumbled, still on the edge of sleep.

"Get up," Desmond hissed, and shoved a spear onto Waylon. The rat took it only after a few seconds. "Something is here."

As the survivors scurried, she loomed. She watched them, their little fire, their little camp. Little described everything about them. Little things like them had food, usually. Some of them practiced beekeeping and they were the best; the honey was her favorite. A good haul of honey was usually enough for her to forget about the little things and let them live while she went off to snooze her way through the seasons. She smelled no honey here. That was too bad for them.

Closer, closer, footsteps like cannon fire, ground shaking, moonlight glinting on her coarse, sweaty pelt. Breasts heaving, bottom joggling under fur thick enough to survive even the bitterest winter the land had to offer. Musk as thick as a fog - the Bearger was often smelled before she was seen or heard.

She descended on their camp like a natural disaster. Little things, two of them, batting and prodding with spears. Creatures barely as high as her thighs, smacked away with clubbing swipes of her paws. She followed her nose, smashed the icebox into a mound of stone and ice, and took her pick of the goods inside. Jerky seasoned with whatever spices could be taken from the land; fire-grilled fish still impaled on sticks; roasted vegetables and nuts. The Bearger devoured all, cramming her maw until all was gone.

One of the little things - the vulpine with the long blonde hair - attacked again. He was flagging badly, bleeding from a few places after being tossed against the woodpile. He stabbed at her hunched figure wildly, spear drawing a little blood from the curve of her behind. She smacked him again, her broad paw laying him down on the earth, motionless. The other little thing cowered near the lean-to, his spear cast aside.

Hunger sated but interests piqued, the massive and womanly Bearger took hold of the rodent. He screamed girlishly. She brought him close to her face where she could study him with her narrow, void eyes. In lieu of something bigger and better, he would work. She dropped him on the ground and moved over him. Without hesitating, she sat on his head and her wide, black ass cheeks engulfed him, made his head and, in fact, most of his upper body vanish. In went his snout against the great pink pucker of her asshole.

Her smell was thick and gamy, the anal musk of a beast. Waylon thrashed beneath her, screams muffled into thin wails by her pelt and fat. His fleshy hands pawed uselessly across her ass. Then she began to wriggle, to grind on him, smearing the rim of her anus and the lips of her vulva on his soft gray body. His bones popped under her overbearing weight and her potent anal musk filled his lungs and his head. In an instant he had an erection. It jutted into the threadbare fabric of his pants proudly.

"Waylon," Desmond bleated, talking into the dirt. He barely roused before the Bearger picked him up from the ground and examined him, her hips still gyrating, crushing the thrashing rodent.

The vulpine was the older one, the braver one - she could tell it from the smell on him. He smelled of death, of hunting. Little things they may have been but they were usually effective hunters. She grinned, showing rows of teeth, straight and white. Her individual teeth were as thick as his arms.

"Oh no," Desmond bleated, his bloody body held still by her tremendous claws. She took him closer to her muzzle and he shoved on her nose, panicking, starting to scream. "No! No!" he yowled, shoving her jowls, pushing inadvertently on her gums.

The Bearger grumbled and scowled. She wriggled down harder on the rodent. His cries were almost muted. He wasn't licking her - some of them did that, when they realized what her intentions were - but his snout had been packed deep into the tight, musky ring of her asshole, burying his face to his eyes. That was enough of a pleasure. Now if only the vulpine would cooperate.

She snapped her jaws at his fingers, caring little if she bit them off or not. The fox screamed more shrilly than the rat ever had and recoiled. Finally the Bearger shoved her muzzle against the fox's crotch and smelled him, inhaled his unwashed bodily musk. In an instant he stopped screaming, and instead he stared at her white eyes. On his face was overwrought disbelief, as though he'd jumped from a rooftop only to land on a cushion of pillows.

Little things could be so dumb, so dramatic, but they could be fun. She ripped away his clothing in her great claws and left him wearing tattered rags from the stomach down. The smallness of his penis was not a concern to her; to her they were all tiny. Growling, hungry, she held Desmond and slathered his groin with loping slurps of her tongue. The fox, experiencing a rapid and disorienting jerk from terror to pleasure, uncertainly moaned and leaned over her striped head.

Below her bulk, Waylon struggled and whined. He began to lap at her insides, however little it did him. Her musk was thick and blinding, and her sweaty bulk added to the sticky mess of the summer night. Sweat plastered down his hair and fur. She reminded him of a sauna, and oh how Waylon loved a sauna, especially if he had a large woman to share it with. Having a woman who gave him the experience of a sauna with her body alone was queerly thrilling to him - but his neck ached, his chest hurt. She was crushing him. He could only guess at her monstrous weight, but he assumed it could be rounded to a ton.

"Ooh-, Waylon, are you okay? Waylon?" Desmond asked, his voice rising over the suckles of the Bearger. Her maw engulfed his loins, sucking everything - genitals and bottom. Her tongue slathered him, tasting him, smearing on slobber as thick and hot as tar. Her breath was sharp, heating him further. He felt weightless in her burly paws.

Waylon did not hear Desmond. The Bearger crushed him into the dirt with her fat black ass and Waylon began to realize this, in fact, was it. He was going to die. Just as well, he believed. Surviving in this awful place was horrible. The hounds were a menace, the food repulsive at best, and he had begun to think his partner wanted him sexually. And while Waylon wasn't really opposed to closing his eyes and pretending he was with a girl, especially after their many months alone, he much preferred the brutal femininity of the Bearger.

Desmond writhed in her grip, gyrating and moaning. His paws played over her thick head, rubbing her ears, and he cooed to her, "Oh, why didn't you just say you wanted to do this?"

She understood nothing the little things ever said. She understood instincts: hunger, survival, lust. A week earlier and she would have gutted the both of them like dumb hounds in her way, would have eaten them without a second thought. But now was heat, a time for pleasure, and the little things fit the bill perfectly. They would still be dead at the end, but satisfied.

Waylon bucked and thrashed. His brain began yielding to hypoxia as her clenching, smooching anus deprived him of air. And for those sweet final moments everything was enhanced: taste, texture, and especially smell. Waylon loved scent most of all. No pleasure had ever been greater than the stink of a sweaty, plump ass so long as it belonged to a woman, and the Bearger had the plumpest, sweatiest ass he had ever encountered. He pawed at her buttocks, marveling at the coarseness of her fur but the heat of the flesh below. He felt so small under her, as if he could have spent a lifetime exploring her and still never finish. His penis throbbed underneath his pants. A stain of precum darkened the brown fabric nearly to black. Kicking at the ground, heaving, drawing hopelessly thin breaths, Waylon suddenly suffered an incredibly powerful orgasm. He ejaculated with such strength that his semen gushed through his trousers and drooled over his pelvis.

She smelled the coppery stink of semen and grinned around Desmond's crotch. She wriggled down harder, lifted herself, dropped. Waylon's body jerked beneath her, still some life in him. The Bearger sucked on the moaning, huffing fox in the dark of the night, welcoming his touch on her ears. She reveled in their moaning and squirming, how little they were. She jerked, bucked again, smashing her ass down onto the rodent's body. His snout crammed so far into her ass that his ears were splayed back, his head almost entirely vanishing into her behind. This Waylon could not appreciate, however. Like a twig bent too far, his neck snapped under the weight of the Bearger's last buck and his hands fell away, his body splaying in the dirt.

She wriggled a moment longer. When she realized he was no longer moving, she rested and returned to her work on Desmond. The other little one - he would do well enough. She put him down, set him in the dirt. He protested softly, the voice of a lover. "No, don't. Please. I was close." Then he said as she stood, he said, "Waylon, this is amazing. I didn't realize-." He saw then what had happened. Even in the dull glow of the dying fire, he could see the lifeless glaze of Waylon's eyes and the stillness of his chest. Desmond had always expected Waylon to die at some point but the sight still gave him pause.

The Bearger loomed over Desmond, vulva dripping wet, body reeking of sweat and musk and heat. And the fox said in a tiny voice, "Oh-, god, no. Not me. Not me, please."

She knelt, knocking him down with her body. Her plump breasts wobbled as she settled into place, smothering Desmond under the lips of her cunt. She held him still with claws thick and hard enough to puncture a skull, and she guided his snout into her vagina. Desmond whined, bucking, kicking up dirt and tearing loose clumps of grass. The Bearger was undeterred. She knelt steadily and Desmond's snout, then his face as a whole, vanished in the deep pink of her cunt where the smell of wild estrus was a vulgar stench. When she fully settled, Desmond's nose was close to her cervix. Her wetness rolled over his face and into his hair. It wet the ground beneath, made the land ripe with her heated smell. Desmond struggled to breathe. Once, he gagged. But his penis throbbed and his paws groped at her wildly, batting at her thighs and stomach, her tremendous breasts out of reach.

Just as she had with the rodent, she rode the other little thing with no regard for its well-being. It would die like the rodent, and that was not her concern at all. Had she had a sentient mind, the Bearger would have thought it was just as well she kill them sexually, let them go out with a bang rather than pitifully succumbing to the winter or starvation or the million other things in the Constant that maimed and killed the unlucky souls trapped in it. She could not consider that. All she understood was that this felt good. Grinding on his face, bouncing on it, body jiggling, ground shaking under her drops. The fox's snout pushed against her cervix, tickling deep, deep parts of her. It made her huff and growl, made her yet more humid inside. Like condensation, her honey dribbled from her stuffed cunt, the juices foul with her heated musk.

Desmond thrashed and whined. His tolerance for musk was nowhere near as hardy as Waylon's had been and he struggled to tolerate the great, earthy stink of the Bearger's body. His brain loved this stench in some old and dulled part of its lobes, some instinct buried and almost forgotten, but the thinking mind atop his instincts was thoroughly repulsed by this. Repulsed and terrified, because he was inhaling her juices. He had no choice but to do so, and he sputtered and jerked as he tried to clear his airway. But the beast kept riding him, and his claws could not even scrape her through her dense, black pelt. He could see nothing, not that the black night had any sights to see. His eyes, jammed against the pinkness of her pussy, stung from her infernal juices. Despite all the misery, he was stiff as a board, tiny cock twitching and spitting its small but eager payloads of precum.

The Bearger grumbled, growled, smirked as the pleasure rose, becoming a familiar twinge in her loins. It was hard to get to this point; usually they expired before she could get there, and they tended to be more stimulating alive. Case in point, Desmond's struggles pleased her greatly. His soft, short furs tickled her insides, his breath teased her deepest flesh, and of course there was that prey drive to contend with. Making one of her little things buck and whimper and die - that was a treat beyond measure. The Bearger was not sentient, but sadism was a quality she shared with many of the other creatures in the Constant.

She snarled, the sound deeply resonating in her thick body. It shook Desmond and he felt rather than heard it, for his ears had been smothered under her sweaty, vulgar bulk too. She was close now. That feeling of being bred was upon her. She bounced harder, faster, moving urgently. Her tits bounced heavily, ass cheeks jiggling like a pair of giant gelatin desserts. Had Waylon not passed on, he would have found their fatty wobbling most pleasing.

Below, smothered in stink and pink, Desmond flailed with an almost cartoonish quality. His penis was twitching but his mind was racing with the fear of death. He hooked his arms under her massive buttocks and heaved with all his strength but the Bearger did not budge. He was coughing, gagging, his lungs clogging with her honey. His eyes burned and his body ached, his muzzle in particular feeling like it had been crushed in a vise.

Then the Bearger came and Desmond's situation became markedly more dire. Her sudden squirt filled his mouth and his nostrils. It burned his eyes, entered his ears, drenched him like a pail of water to the face. He gurgled and sputtered but in doing so only took on more of her thick and musky fluids. And then, when the delicate branches in his lungs were waterlogged with the snarling Bearger's liquid musk, Desmond managed to cum, himself. It happened as suddenly and unexpectedly as a reflex, striking hard but with far more than the usual pleasure. It was in that moment, as he shot his seed hard enough that it splattered on the now resting cheeks of the Bearger's ass, that Desmond realized he had a fetish for peril. He was inordinately thrilled by the sensation of his lungs filling. As the epiphany struck, so did death claim him. He burbled and writhed as he failed to oxygenate his blood, and his organs gradually failed, his brain lingering just long enough to register the Bearger rocking back, slumping onto him so far that his muzzle jammed against her cervix and her behind crushed his ribs, forcing up some of the fluid he'd drawn in, adding to an already undignified death.

She settled there in the darkness, enjoying the relief of orgasm, the warmth of afterglow. Then, slowly, she pulled off of the little thing's crushed and drowned body. She gave neither the rodent nor the vulpine a second look as she lumbered off into the night, seeking a place to doze the rest of the season away. By then, there would certainly be more little things about.