FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Two lean, lithe, anthropomorphic forest critters were in bed - sexually - with an enormously muscular timber wolf named Forty Days Fasted. One was a Colorado chipmunk named Ten Panthers for his ravenous sexual appetites. Ten Panthers had black skin due to custom-designed grafts of unknown legality and was covered in linear, neon tattoos that in the right light turned him into a one-man nightclub. He was currently balls-deep in the rear end of the other critter, whose name was Grop. Grop was a naturally black-and-orange-and-purple-furred Malabar ground squirrel who, normally, was an assassin to make his living, but today was asphyxiating around the forearm-thick wolf cock that was stuffed so deep in his throat that his pouched cheeks were puffed out to hold its knot. He was lying on his back such that his forehead was being stroked repeatedly by rolling, steadily tightening nuts as the wolf drove himself closer to orgasm.

The owner of that enormous package growled and felt at Grop's distended gullet where his cock was swelling in preparation to finally cum. "Don't pass out now, you fantastic fuckin' cock sock..." he growled in baritone. He jammed his hips forward and began howling low, then did it again as the volume expanded around the room and he snarled in climax. Each thrust of his hips made the wooden bracelets that festooned his body like armor clatter, only magnifying the movements of his huge frame. Some were thin and pale. Others were grouped together and slide over one another. Still others were hard, motionless, and dark. Grop's body twitched, desperate for air. With Forty's hips fastened in place, Ten Panthers was able to ram his cock as hard as he wanted into Grop's ass, and ram he did while burst after burst of wolf cum speared directly into Grop's belly. Seconds on seconds passed while Grop's throat seized in frantic massages around the throbbing meat blocking his airway. The wolf finally pulled back a few inches, a few more, a foot, longer, still snarling in the throes of orgasm, until he was fully extracted from Grop's aching jaws. Another heavy splash of gyzym coated the man's muzzle and chin and neck, and the sight of it dripping off him pushed Panthers to his own climax. He slammed in and tugged the squirrel's thighs fiercely against his hips, chattering as he painted those insides white with seed, and only when his orgasm was finished did he realize Grop still wasn't moving.

His muzzle was flooded with cum, with the stuff pouring out liberally. "... Shit. Grop? Hey, bud." The wolf felt at his carotid for a pulse. There it was-

Grop sat up suddenly and yanked Ten Panthers' lips to his. He snowballed a full half a cup of wolf cum into his lips, the stuff dripping between them messily as they shared Forty Days Fasted's essence, until finally Grop coughed, hacked, spluttered, and turned his head away. "Fuck, god, ahhhhhh lemme cum lemme cum lemme cum." He cinched his ankles hard around Ten's hips, the grip like iron, anchoring the chipmunk's cock into his ass, and jacked off furiously with wolf cum as lube. Both of the others dragged their hands over his body in relief and encouragement until at last his body seized tight, his nuts clenched, and he came, spattering himself liberally with his own jizz and yelling slanderous phrases I'm under oath not to repeat here.

"Fuck, ahh, oh god, I was half dead, thank you, holy fuck, etc." He relented his vise-like hold on the other critter's hips and slipped off him.

"You are a sick, sick man," Ten Panthers sneered as he started toweling off his cheeks and neck and crotch.

"And yet I feel so well."

"You disgust me," Ten insisted as he sat down next to his exhausted, spit roasted friend.

"I could tell by all the cum."

"You are fully loathsome," he reiterated, as he lay down on top of Grop - immediately negating any cleaning he'd done - and pressed their lips together in a warm, sighing, afterglow-infused kiss.

"Rrmmffllgmp," Grop responded.

For his part, Forty Days Fasted was cleaning up and headed towards the shower, so the two hundred forty-three-pound muscle-wolf with a dick well over a foot long and still half-turgid following its living fire hydrant cosplay experience was the one in full view of the door when it opened.

Luckily, the sable - a mustelid species with a silky color of black named after its fur - who opened it without knocking had seen Forty Days Fasted naked before, on stage, where the wolf worked as a dancer at an underground nightclub called The Gilded Chasm.

The sable didn't have a memorable name, which was odd for a bartender at a place like the Chasm, where regulars would've liked to know one. He was dressed in four shades of black and one of emerald green. He nodded cordially at Forty and turned his attention to the other two. "Grop, if you're done getting choked to death, there's someone I need you to choke to death."

Grop struggled to sit up, was resisted by his lover, and settled for grabbing Ten by his ear and tugging until he had a better view of the bartender. "Stack of contracts in the drawer." He pointed to the entertainment system set-up a few feet from the foot of his bed. He didn't ask how the barkeep had gotten into his house.

The truth was that the barkeep had a key, because Grop had given him one. Often, things are that simple. Often, they are not.

"I won't get sprayed with aerosolized jizz just by walking past, will I?" He was already on his way. "Why have contracts? Word-of-mouth not good enough?"

"Word-of-mouth makes folk shy to pay up. Means I have to track down both names on the contract. Besides, there's a union to keep things kosher. Gotta have everything underground above-board. You know how it is."

He nodded, because he did. Ten Panthers relentlessly nibbled and lapped around Grop's neck and clavicle and ears. He was pretending to be cute while actually casually getting hard again and humping his thigh. Grop was amused, but he was also in the midst of a business transaction with a favorite customer. A few feet away, Forty stepped into a shower that couldn't actually contain him and turned the water on. The other three in the bedroom were accustomed to such warped dimensions around the wolf by now, as well as to the omnipresent sound of the clattering of seventeen wooden bracelets that followed him as they might an ancient shaman.

The bartender without a memorable name was filling in blanks with a Bic pen. "Point. But. Computers. Tablets, cell phones. There's even magical bullshit coming back on the markets if you're worried about getting hacked."

"Hah! Hacked. No need or desire for any of that - I'm surprisingly dumb and very bad at computers."

"It's true," corroborated Ten Panthers solemnly. "He's the only one who can't keep up with Jef-one-eff's number game."

"Speaking of," the bartender stated as he briskly signed at the bottom and tore off a carbon copy with uncharacteristic emotion. He thrust the main sheet at Grop, who took it daintily by his claws.

His eyes narrowed. "Jef's been kidnapped?"

"Who the fuck can kidnap Jeff?" asked Ten.

"Show some GODDAMN respect," the barkeep snapped.

"Jef. Sorry."

"Fuck. Fuck me," sighed Grop.

"Again?" asked the chipmunk, but even he knew now was not the time.

Forty Days Fasted shut off the shower and walked out with a towel around his waist. "What's going on?" he asked when he noticed the gravity of the room.

Grop waved the contract at him. "Wanna come kill someone with me?"

"Eh, I don't kill people. Not anymore. Not since three years ago, when a man broke my hea-"

"Come off it with the backstory, Big FDF. They kidnapped Jef."

Forty Days Fasted, the muscle-wolf wearing seventeen wooden bracelets that at the moment, hung quietly on his limbs and exposed sheath like a bamboo chime in still air, growled so low the floorboards shook. For a moment, no one in the room could shake the feeling that when his black lips, now tightened into a grimace, opened again, they would consume every life in a city block, and the people being so enraptured would welcome it. "... Trip down old murder-memory lane it is, then," he muttered, succinctly putting that feeling to rest.

Sort of.

Grop squeezed his eyes shut and wiped them with his hand to recover from the brief spell. "TP, you coming?"

"I would if you'd stay another ten minutes."

Grop delivered a stunning blow to his lover's shoulder, rolled him off the bed, and hopped up to stretch, showing off a lovely, wiry frame. "You're pretty, darling, but Jef brings me business." He sauntered into the shower. "Forty seconds."

"He gets seconds and I don't?" rasped TP. Exasperated sighs fairly blossomed through the bedroom.

--

The tiny highway town that featured The Gilded Chasm wasn't terribly well-known. Besides the nightclub (tonight: "Brex is a Fox Who Puts Things In Her Holes," which everyone agrees is a poor mimicry of Forty Days Fasted's perfectly descriptive show title, "Some Vore Porn With a Huge Muscle-Wolf"), there were a few apartment complexes for access to a horrific commute, a strip mall with a fascinatingly good Vietnamese pho restaurant, a tawdry antiques shop, a hotdog stand outside a hair salon, and - to the surprise of no one at all - a Spirit Halloween store. Finally, there was a storage locker complex called "Lox Lockers" with access to warehouses of various sizes surrounding it. Homes situated atop the various shops and a single cul-de-sac of middle-income housing with no discernible motivation for existing made up the entirety of the permanent residential area, and it was from that cul-de-sac, on foot, that our gumshoes began their investigation.

Grop was in a trim, snappy-casual grey vest over a pastel pink shirt. He wore black slacks with a slender grey belt and grey socks to match the vest. He snorted and raised one glossy-shoed foot to remove the eponymous gum using a switchblade that for all anyone he told knew, was folded Damascus steel. Forty Days Fasted wore gym shorts that were too loose, a white tanktop he'd bought with some of the tips he'd earned, and running shoes with no socks that, again, were much too loose.

"If Jef saw you right now, he'd make some snide remark about a one-twenty-seven, five-eight wolf. Thought you'd come along proper huge."

"You are bad at numbers, and I don't wanna scare anyone off," remarked the one-eighty-two, five-ten timber wolf. "Which is strange, considering you're dating ten panthers."

"Ten Panthers," Grop corrected, enunciating the percussive frickatives in the name, "and I only have to remember one number that way, and we ain't dating. We date, but we ain't dating."

"He has three changes of clothes at your house."

"Sometimes he stays the whole weekend."

"You called him 'panthy' in a wholesome, irony-free way."

"We are extremely close friends."

"Well, I think it's a wonderful relationship you have."

"I need _some_one I trust not to choke me to death on cock now and then."

"Don't we all."

"Now I have two!"

"Sure that's not too many numbers?"

"I take umbrage at that." Forty raised his paws placatingly. "Apology accepted. Can't believe the duke of dook didn't have more to say about Jef's disappearance. None of us know much about Jef, except he had a stroke or something that left one ear kinda twitchy."

Forty finally realized his shoe also had gum on it and sat down on the last bit of proper sidewalk by the highway to pick it off. "Gross," Grop commented.

"I ain't a gumshoe," he explained, needlessly.

"Right, but I wanted you along 'cuz you clearly dig Jef so I thought you'd like to dig for Jef before you had to dig for Jef." He spat in the direction of the tiny town graveyard across the road.

"I dig." He demonstrated by picking out the last bit and standing up again.

"Also 'cuz I'm only good at my job if I get the drop on someone, and if I go snoopin' around on my own for someone who can kidnap someone Jef's size without a fuckin' clue, I'll end up dead and it won't even be any fun."

"Barkeep should've known better than to play games about this. Chances a kidnap victim is alive drop exponentially every hour they're gone."

"I'm standing here," retorted the barkeep (who had been walking with them but kept quiet, since he wasn't a gumshoe), "and the fuck does it matter? I figure we find him sobering up from a bender or dead, and Jef doesn't go on benders. I just want the fucker responsible dead. Hurt, too. Jef was good people."

"He's not dead," Forty pronounced dangerously. He broke the patter by quietly staring into the barkeep's eyes for twenty, forty, sixty seconds. The sable's field of vision narrowed. To his perception, the sides of the horizon went dark and cloudy. His eyes locked onto Forty's barely parted lips and the wet gums behind them. His foot stamped in the ground and he started taking steady paces forward. "Put me in you," he whimpered. "Swallow me whole. I'm yours." He lunged up and clung to the bigger man, who only watched and breathed. "Just let me in. Please. I need. I need to be in there I need-"

When the sable's fingers pushed against his black lips and begin searching to dive past the wall of teeth inside, Forty turned his head away. The sable realized he had both hands up as he'd tried to shove himself into that waiting, magnetic maw. He began shivering uncontrollably. He grabbed himself in a hug as though he were freezing. "Fuck, oh fuck. Fuck. Aaah. Aaaaaahhh." It was like screaming, but he didn't have the strength of will or certainty that he was afraid to actually scream.

"Sorry," Forty said. "I'm angry. When I'm angry, the hunger comes back. Haven't had to reign it in much, here. I've been happy here. 'Cuz of y'all. 'Cuz of Jef. Sorry."

"Fuck," the barkeep whispered before finally taking a long, deep breath and steadying himself.

"Fuck," confirmed Grop, who was mostly glad Ten Panthers had stayed in his bedroom rather than come along. Ten Panthers probably would've shoved the barkeep in. He could be sweet at times, but his appetites had always been... alarming.

"To the, uh. To the Chasm, then."

"To the Chasm," Grop said, because the barkeep couldn't bring himself to say those words, in that moment.

--

"Alright, so here's the scene."

The trio had arrived back at the Chasm. From the outside, it was a hole in the wall sort of place - that is, a brutish, jagged hole had been intentionally made in a wall as though someone had gone through it cartoon-style - with a trap-door entrance just inside that led down a flight of stairs. It was behind the back of a suite of small offices for a psychologist, a rabbi, and a palm-reader, which was perfect for a bar.

The detective trio stood outside the hole in the bright afternoon sun, looking around it for signs someone had been dragged out not of their own accord.

Grop asked, "How'd you even know he was kidnapped?"

The barkeep scratched his nose. He was still shaken from his experience with Forty's gaze, but he was recovering. "Jef never misses an opening or closing. Not without calling out, at least, and he doesn't call out that often."

"So you think he's dead."

He glanced furtively at Forty, and amended his initial idea. "Could be by now, but more likely he was 'napped. That was a fucked up thing for me to say."

"It was a more fucked up thing for me to do. Way overboard. I'll buy you that Scotch you're always talking about."

Apologies out of the way, they nodded at one another. "Yeah. Anyway. Check out these claw marks."

Forty did. He sniffed deep of the long lacerations that gouged the rim of the 'doorway.' "These aren't jackrabbit claws," he muttered. "They're tiger claws."

"You sure?" asked the barkeep.

Grop stuck his own nose close, and wrinkled it. "Yeah, that's predator stink. Wide grooves, too. Rabbits don't have that splay."

"But there's no blood."

"It's like someone half-assed a cleanup job. I can still pick up bleach, so they only cleaned up the blood spatters themselves and didn't wash up after. Knew cleaning was a thing, didn't know how to do it."

"They don't know as well as you, you're saying," the barkeep said, with a hint - just a hint - of flirtation. He and Grop got along.

"I'll be giving a seminar shortly if we can find the guy. What about the cameras?" He pointed at the remains of a camera that would have watched the entrance from a corner that looked dilapidated, but was in fact a perfect angle for watching the door. It had been hacked. Off.

"Haven't viewed the tapes; our intern would do something stupid like call the cops if I made her do it. Only Jef really has that... gravitas."

Forty made a hungry sound. The other two looked at him, but also averted their gazes to anywhere but his face. Nice pecs. Sick bulge. Thick thighs. Too bad I can't see your mouth, because I'm sure it's entrancing. "All cops do is fuck up," he clarified. He paused. "Most cops. Well... it's a tricky topic."

The sable and the squirrel nodded agreement. "For us, all they do is fuck up. So, you shoo away Stew and we'll have a look."

"His name's Stew?"

"Her."

"You got an intern named Stew around this guy?" Grop jerked a thumb at the voracious muscle-wolf.

"Not a fan of stew," Forty snorted. "Can't trust it."

"Well, we can trust Stew. To keep quiet, anyway; she's a good gal. I think. Interns sorta come and go."

They all thumped their way down the stairs to a tiny vestibule where guests would normally pick themselves up after they'd tried to leave without paying their tab, and off to a slim side door the gaze slipped past as it would past a water closet. Inside, a shrewd shrew named Stew screeched at the sight of Grop the murder-squirrel, bit his wrist, and fairly flew past them, scrambling on the walls to get by. Grop's hand snapped out, Stew's ankle snapped, and Stew, the shrewd shrew, squeaked.

"Stew?" the nameless bartender asked as she scrabbled at the stairway and dug furrows into the wood in her efforts to leave despite the hold Grop had on her ankle (now broken). Shrewd she was, though, and after one more tug was rewarded with a pull hard enough that it forced her chin to slap against the corner of a step, she sobbed, "It was the chipmunk! Called me, said to strip the tapes or he'd send you to kill me, but I didn't, because you, you told me if I ever did that I'd turn up in an alley, how's a gal supposed to WORK under these conditions, I didn't know what to do! I swear I'm calling the union on you people!"

"Well, Stew," Grop said with the patience of a steel girder, while a trickle of his blood dripped over her ankle, "you did everything right until the moment you panicked. We'll get you a splint for the ankle. Or maybe Forty can do some weird Druid shit to you, who knows."

His voice was wintry. He whipped out a coil of gauze, tied off a quick bandage while the barkeep danced his way over to his bar to grab some sterilizing tools, and sat to begin playing tapes.

"Why does the Chasm even have an intern?" Forty asked while he knelt to tend to Stew's ankle.

"Networking. Spreads stories. Gets business better than cold calling. Ads tend to find cops, so. Word of mouth is best. And, Jef doesn't organize well. Keeps track of people, hates paperwork. Place would go under without an intern." He was soullessly scanning through the previous night's tapes. Moments later, the bartender came to change his bandage and wash the wound in alcohol. Grop didn't even wince. He was remarkably stupid - everyone there agreed - but he had wisdom and enough grit to fill a salt mine.

"Yeah, but how do you even find one?" Forty pressed, to keep him from thinking too much about Ten.

"What? No one 'finds' interns, dummy. You just have them. There are always interns."

The barkeep spoke up as he started examining Stew's wound. "It's true. I interned at a tech company for a year. Never knew why. Shit pay, but it looked good on the resume."

Stew spoke for herself, in her squeaky shrew voice. "It looks good on every resume. That's how all my friends have done it. Summer at college, you do an internship. Everyone does it. You never interned, Mr. Fasted?"

Forty Days Fasted thought about it. Come to think of it, he had. Just hadn't realized it. "... Huh."

"That's capitalism for you," Stew said with a shrug. She was wincing, but seemed to have realized her neck wasn't on the line, and was willing to be tended to. She chose not to acknowledge that under Forty's hands, her bones were shifting uncomfortably, but painlessly, back into place. "We shrews are all anarchosocialists. It's in the blood."

The barkeep rolled his eyes and snorted. "So she wouldn't've called the cops - I told you!"

She spat and growled. "I'd never phone up a military force over domestic matters - never give in to a surveillance sta-"

"Anything on the surveillance tapes?" Forty interrupted. They all had pointedly not mentioned what everyone was thinking. Ten Panthers had fucked them, for some reason. Or tried to. They were quiet except for the babbling and hissing of equipment in the security closet. There was virtually no one here, at two o'clock in the afternoon. One lonesome-looking lady tiger that Forty recognized from his first night on stage sat nursing a tall mug of dark beer, but that was all.

"Alright, here," Grop called. The ghostly blue-and-white of the screen was paused on a shot of an average-looking, male tiger as he left. Jef wasn't in the shot. "Jef just stepped away. This is 3 am. Last customer. And he's here..." He pressed Play, and Pause three seconds later. "And he's gone." The tiger had been wrenched offscreen by an unseen force. He'd had just enough time to dig his claws into the doorframe and leave grooves there.

"Well, mystery sort of solved, right?" Forty asked, to find his two smaller companions looking at him again. This time, though, Grop had blindfolded himself with a length of gauze to avoid the wolf's hypnotic maw. The sable's eyes were on his chest, but were tight with the obvious conclusion. Little to no blood, clearly supernatural strength, and a focus on Jef. He snarled at their suspicion. "The fuck good would it do me to kidnap Jef?"

"You could do it without us noticing. He could be in you right now," Grop said.

"That's not how math works; I'm five-eleven, one-eighty-six right now."

"I'm bad at math; I'd have to trust you."

"You ain't watched my fuckin' acts? I'd be fuckin' huge. Is this why you brought me along? 'Cuz you think I ate Jef?"

"You disappeared after your show to 'freshen up' before we fucked last night."

"And what, I ate the tiger, too, for kicks?"

"Witnesses. You didn't know about the camera."

"Yes I did, you fuck-wit, nitwit nut-wit; I've been working here a month. Grop-the-squirrel-who-kills-people-for-a-living, if I can trust you not to gut me 'cuz sometimes I look at people the wrong way, and you can trust me not to choke you to death on cock given the chance - 'cuz trust me you and Panthers look like two appetizers lookin' to be entrees when you get rowdy - then I think we can all trust me I'm not gonna swallow whole the only fella whose trust I'm actually lookin' to earn."

There was a tense silence that lasted too long for anyone to be comfortable.

Stew whimpered, "Does he... do you really eat people? Th-that's murder..."

"It's smoke and mirrors, Stew," Grop said as he unwound his makeshift blindfold and looked directly into the timber wolf's golden eyes. "Smoke and mirrors and a trap door."

She wasn't convinced.

--

In the warehouse district nearby...

"Did you know that you snore the word 'fuck'?"

"Uh? Fuckin'..."

Jef-one-eff, the jacked rabbit combination bouncer and co-owner at a hole-in-the-wall strip club called The Gilded Chasm, blinked drowsily as he awoke from an involuntary nap. Unpleasant, wet sounds and the muffled moans of a struggle seemed to be coming from multiple places at once, but he couldn't place why. Beside him was a scattering of smoke machines and mirrors. His right ear swiveled, but his left had trouble following, delayed as it always was, and together, they couldn't quite triangulate the noise.

A maned wolf looked at him from where that wolf was perched atop a pile of crates, a dozen feet away across a warehouse floor. He licked black lips as he watched Jef's vision come into focus. "Hey handsome."

"The fuck're... oh, hey, if it ain't Ass Disaster the Trash Master."

"Jef, we can have a civil conversation..."

"Not while I'm tied up, but it's better than being tied down to Mange the Wonder Mutt and his Back-it-up Butt."

Delicately combed eyelashes lowered halfway over purple-shaded eyes. "I'm reminded why I left you."

Jef snarled, a sound that shouldn't come out of a lapine throat. "You're a walkin' emotional scar and worse, you're contagious. Shitstains brush up in the morning to make sure they ain't contracted Spider Leg Whelp-itis."

The wolf looked like he was about to retort again, but then his thin frame suddenly convulsed in what Jef was confounded to realize was pleasure. The long-legged canid had those long legs lengthily spread where he sat, which fanned out his teal skirt between his thighs and over the crates.

Jef scowled. "Ain't surprise me you gettin' head during an interview since the one on your shoulders 's full of clam chowder and real fuckin' sour milk." He struggled at his ropes to test them. He was bound against a metallic support pole and was surprised to find not only were the ropes cleverly tied to tighten as he struggled, but also the pole was properly cemented in place. It wasn't like Edgar to remember how strong he was.

Edgar rolled his eyes back up in his head in sexual fervor. His claws tightened around the cheap, wooden crate and dug grooves into it. His legs writhed with the sensation. "Nnn... not what you think... I got so tired of... trying to - fuck, me - convince you t-to be with me, that I - aaaAAAH!" He practically squealed and bucked his hips, having to keep himself anchored by thrusting his paws behind him and leaning back onto them. The thrash of his body suddenly flung his skirts up to reveal what was underneath:

A bright red, swollen, oily-looking organ riddled with blood vessels descended from his groin and throbbed in peristaltic motions. It was in turn stretched grotesquely around another humanoid form that was two-thirds consumed by it. Orange- and black-striped knees and calves were sucked in and enveloped while Jef watched in horror. With every ecstatic groan from above, the tiger was gripped and pulled inches deeper, swallowed, surrounded, and finally completely engulfed in time with an orgasmic howl from Edgar. The wolf continued to twitch with excitement as the body was pulled up towards, then_into_ his groin - "That's his cock," Jef muttered in shock - before being pushed and dropped into the red-and-white, furred ball sac of the wolf. It stretched, and stretched, and stretched to contain the form of its new occupant. As the body was swallowed down, the cock that had taken it regained its normal, canine shape, though it remained two feet long and wider than his head.

Edgar breathed hard, panting while his body clamped up and tightened against its meal. Jef's fight-and-flight instinct - he really detested the "or" - put his powerful jackrabbit feet and thighs to scrabbling at the ground, but he nearly broke his wrists to do so. "That's my fuckin' customer," he growled.

"Oh, he's mine, now, fuck..." Edgar began massaging his own sac and the writhing, twitching victim inside. "Oh, he's ME, now, Jef. I had to... had to try with someone smaller before I got to you..." He groaned as the form's twitching slowed and went still, then began to lose shape, all with Edgar's rhythmic pulse visibly causing his body to throb. "All... mine... you'll be mine, Jef... You needed to see... this..." His eyes were wild, fluttering and rolling about in his head. His arms, which had always been lanky and lean and underdeveloped, swelled with each heartbeat as he digested his meal, interrupting every few words with gasps. Thick as his calves... his thighs... his waist. His tight-fitting fishnet vest rapidly tore in multiple places, and it was clear he was having trouble breathing against the strain. But his mind was presently gone. Predatory snarls and slobbering replaced articulated words, and thrashing movements replaced all the lanky, suave grace he'd always demonstrated before. Whatever he'd done was overtaking him, and he passed out, to fall in a heap of swollen limbs from the crate and go still, with his monstrous cock flopped over to one side and oozing out precum like a slug.

Jef-one-eff, the jacked rabbit combination bouncer and co-owner of The Gilded Chasm, and former lover to Edgar, the maned wolf who had just consumed a living human being before his eyes, searched far and wide for a one-liner to take the edge off, but couldn't find one.

There was a suppressed groan of climax from behind him and a sudden warm, wet splash over his ears and shoulder. It slid over his forehead and onto his nose. He sniffed. "Now if that doesn't smell like the spunk of a dozen-less-two cats tarred and waitin' to be feathered, I ain't know what does."

"Ahhh, yeah, nothing against you, Jef," Ten Panthers said from behind him. The chipmunk's brightly colored, gem-tones-in-jet skin shimmered in the afternoon sunbeams that penetrated the warehouse at its seams. "A man wants what he wants. And Forty, well. Forty's a good name, but that Fasted part gets me down. Dude won't eat anyone. Something-something 'morals' and some shitty backstory I couldn't give a rat's ass about."

"You give anyone a rat's ass, you'll be in debt fast, you technicolor dogshit lava lamp wannabe."

Ten Panthers barked, a chipmunk sound no one has ever given credence, and slapped the back of Jef's head with his half-hard cock. "I'm gonna watch Edgar eat you alive, cum again while it happens, and then watch him eat Forty at tonight's show."

"Big FDF's not onstage tonight, you cracked-stained-glass-asscrack-havin' acorn-whore."

"That's racist, Jeff." Ten backhanded him across the back of his skull, this time. There was monstrous groan, and both of them shifted their eyes to where Edgar was waking up on the floor a few dozen feet away. "I left a 'ransom' note."

"You ain't impressed me once in the six years you been fuckin' my good buddy Grop and you know you ain't impressed him the way you never spend longer than a weekend at his house."

"Shut up," Ten Panthers barked again. Jef had hit a nerve. He liked Grop. Grop just wasn't... enough.

"You a two-bit-less-two-bits no-brain Pepe-le-Pew-lookin' skank with more stank funk than a dead skunk."

Edgar started crawling over on all fours. His eyes were animal. His body hulked. He was gluttony and lust's fusion incarnate. His cock oozed and spat precum as it bobbed rapidly back to full length underneath him. Muscles bunched and bulged under skin and over a lean, gracile frame never meant to support them. A low growl reverberated out against the walls.

"Thank god he woke up early," Panthers growled. He unzipped again and yanked his pants down. "I'm gonna love the sound of you getting gagged by wolf cum. Keep wanting to hear it. Wanted to hear that mouth of yours get slammed shut for years."

Edgar began jacking off his member. Its output became more copious by the second. He just stared at the object of his obsession and stroked a cock his hand couldn't come close to fitting around. Jef couldn't help but stare at the oncoming predator, but he never once let up his litany of insults. "Cock-ain't-shit-body-ain't-shit-brain-ain't-shit-" Edgar and Edgar's ravenous member were three feet away as he rocked forward on two knees and one hand, the other rapidly pumping up and down his wet surface. "-broken-lookin'-corpse-lookin'-" The pillar-like cock's slit dilated, and Edgar dragged his tongue up Jef's jabbering lips and forehead in a possessive, tasting motion, then convulsed in a partial orgasm that soaked his ex-lover in precum, a wave of it that drenched him head to toe. "-cum-backwashin'-tree-fuckin'-mmf!" Ten Panthers greedily grabbed the back of Jef's head and stuffed his dripping muzzle into the gaping cock before him to shut him up. The passageway immediately contracted with a grip like a rubber vise. The chipmunk pulled his hand back - well, tried to - and belatedly noticed he'd been so eager, he'd jammed his hand in alongside Jef's head.

"Shit," he muttered. Even so, his own cock was practically purple with arousal. He yanked again, hard. The grip was impossible. "Let... let go..." he stuttered. Jef's neck and his forearm slipped in. Jef was worming his head around, trying to find purchase to bite, but there was nothing. Panthers, though, didn't. His heart hammered in his chest. "Fuck," he whispered, realizing how badly he wanted this. He used his free hand to whip out a pocket knife and cut Jef's ropes free... just as the big rabbit's shoulder got sucked in, pinning his broad biceps to his sides and restricting his movements. The jacked rabbit couldn't get to his feet without pressing himself deeper into the organ engulfing him. He struggled as his chest, and now the squirrel's head, were shoved inside. Edgar moaned, a beast in heat, at the sensation of the double meal stretching him out as he swallowed.

Within the darkness was just warmth. Warmth, and the constant flood of salty, sickly sweet precum over his muzzle. Ten Panthers drank it down in deep gulps while his body was swallowed in turn. Wet, hot flesh sucked him deeper within - shoulders, chest, all while pressed snugly against Jef's broad back. The cock consuming them stretched easily to accommodate, but never gave up its grip. Every struggle sent them both deeper, sliding inch by inch, inexorably in and down, in and down. The rodent started humping against the bouncer's side, desperate to reach climax before he ran out of air. He could feel Jef scrabbling and squirming against him, but the interior walls of the enchanted organ were like oil on glass. He only slid deeper.

As his ass was sucked in and he felt that warmth close around the last wide part of his body, Ten Panthers came again. His climactic strains and shudders and thrusts jammed him and Jef the rest of the way. They were each twisted around a separate passageway, squeezed through Edgar's internal tubes, and dropped into the weird, fluid-filled chambers of his testicles.

As air ran out, both went through a series of last, thrashing movements, which Edgar watched with ravenous satisfaction from outside. His newly occupied nuts, hanging to the floor, twitched and he reveled in the feeling of being filled. "Mine," he whispered, panting. "All mine. More. I need... more..." His body began incorporating the new mass, and even with two, it was easier this time. The potion seller ermine who'd sold him these potions had said it would only get more trivial, each time. The potion seller had also told him he couldn't handle these potions, as well as how to let people back out, but he'd convinced the seller he could handle these potions and besides, who needed that? Who wanted that? Who would ever let go of being this huge? Of being the size of a dire wolf, and then a sabertooth tiger, and then bigger, bigger, the whole time virile - why would you _ever_give up the promise of godhood?

He suddenly howled in climax, firing gallons of gyzym dozens of feet across the floor of the warehouse, while his body stretched and bulked and grew and his testes clamped down on and squeezed their meals, absorbing their mass into the wolf's body. It spewed for minutes on end, a fountain of gyzym that left a layer on the ground, and still he grew. And to think, Ten Panthers had said there was another - the thought came with another buck of his hips and another geyser that rattled the metal sheeting of the warehouse wall off in the distance - a creature who was practiced, all for him to consume.

Tonight. Tonight another meal. Tonight, vore porn with a muscle-wolf. All for him. "More... more for me... more of me..." he breathed to himself as he collapsed into a pool of his own spunk, mind reeling into temporary oblivion as he grew... and grew...

--

"This is dumb," asserted Forty Days Fasted, the muscle-wolf.

"Yeah," sighed Grop, the squirrel who kills people for a living.

"It'll probably be hot, though," suggested the bartender, who did not have a memorable name.

They had found TP's note upon returning to Grop's apartment. It wasn't a glamorous way to find out who-done-it, but at least it was a definitive lead. The perp was going to be present, and was almost definitely going to break rules and get up on stage. Which is some shameful shit.

Forty whined, "I told everyone my next act was going to be using TP as a cock sleeve. They're gonna expect me to try to use TP as a cock sleeve and not be able to. It's a great meme on the TP roll challenge, and I'm very proud of it, and the traitorous bastard hasn't even shown up, and it's five minutes 'til the show starts. The pun doesn't work with 'Grop.'" Inexplicably, unless you'd seen him changing size before, the wolf was again massively muscle-bound. Six-foot-two, burly, lean, and sporting rippling abs you could do your laundry on and shoulders that barely fit through the door.

The bartender shrugged and excused himself - there was a bar to tend.

"I mean, obviously, use me anyway," Grop said.

"But don't you need to kill someone? You have that cool knife and everything." Forty looked uncomfortable with the idea, but he was uncomfortable with Grop's profession in general.

"I'll keep the wire on me; always have it. So I may as well enjoy getting über-fucked by a friend and try not to think too hard about how my favorite fuck-buddy is a fuckin'... loser."

"Yeah. Here, eat this." Forty tossed Grop a pill. "Makes you stretchy enough to handle me when I really go at it."

Grop stared hard at the deep, emerald green gel pill. He recognized it immediately. "Dude this shit is more illegal than my entire job."

Forty rolled his eyes. "I know; I signed the Disagreements in the Deep. Everyone involved did."

"No no no, lemme explicate."

"We have three minutes."

"The Disagreements were a global contract that nullified magic outright to prevent another atrocity like the Fungal Forest."

"I know."

"The Fungal Forest was a hundred-mile-square garden of people connected by anastomosing roots and vines controlled by a central 'brain,' who was this demon-druid dude who specialized in transmutation magic."

"I know. I've already heard my backstory."

Grop was on a roll, though. "Restrictions are slowly being lifted, but transmutation shit like what you do is - what?"

"I dated him."

His jaw dropped. "You what?"

"I dated 'that guy.' Basically an internship, in hindsight. I recruited half the bulk of the Forest, and I made him sign on to the Disagreements when I realized what we'd become. If y'all would ever let me talk about my backstory, goddammit. Now chow down and get up on stage; we're doing the dumbest sting operation I've ever heard of."

Grop swallowed obediently, eyes like dinner plates, and prepared himself to be used and abused.

--

By this point, people knew Forty Days Fasted, and cheered when the lights illuminated him. It was always something weird, but it was always hot as hell. The main promenade of The Gilded Chasm was a ruddy black platform lit by dim running lights. As is proper for strip clubs, tables and small bars were arranged beyond and beneath it, rather than stadium seating. Despite the literally underground location, it was still a two-story affair, which was particularly nice for someone who took up as much space as Forty.

Grop was not a performer, but he was reasonably good at taking cues, and he knew his body well. He was again in a trim, snappy-casual get-up, this time in a lilac, long-sleeve button-up under his silver vest, and again, glossy, black slacks. Forty, on the other hand, wore a nice, quick-tear vest he'd gotten himself and a pair of sweatpants that didn't really match, but didn't need to, because the loose fabric bunched tellingly around a sheath easily the size of a one-liter soda bottle and moved with it every time he turned his hips.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and more, good evening!" he greeted from a stage mic. He promptly kicked the stand offstage behind him. Who puts a mic stand on a sex-worker's stage? No one - that's ridiculous. "Our titular TP hasn't shown, but my back-up assistant can handle the drilling just as well. Tonight, I'm going to demonstrate how to use your very own, made-to-order cock sleeve. Let's get right to it, shall we?" People hooted and whistled and leered.

"First, unwrap the packaging." He grinned - wolfishly - and leaned down to whisper an apology into Grop's fuzzy black ear, then picked the squirrel up by his scruff as though he weighed nothing at all, placed the mic between his own teeth so the audience could hear his harsh breaths and greedy snarls, and popped off every button on both the vest and shirt with a precise shredding motion of his free hand. He dropped Grop, who fell to his knees dramatically, and held the mic again. "Once it's clear what you can do to them, wait for them to comply the rest of the way. Pants off, cutie," he commanded. Grop complied. He squirmed and let the light play over his own toned chest. He was like corded steel under his clothes and had a small, but firm, muscular ass that he brandished coyly from beneath his luxurious tail.

"Second, warm them up. Use whatever's handy." He turned to face the squirrel and shoved Grop's head into his groin to press the blunt, rodent muzzle against his sheath, which was rapidly swelling within his pants. They spent long seconds like that, letting the club beats flow over them and letting the crowd get into the display of this now-nude squirrel man paying tribute to his master-for-the-night. Grop's tongue came out to glaze Forty's bulge in spit as he started to lose himself and relax into the performance. It was a familiar position for him by now, anyway. Forty's broad hand rubbed over his head and he whispered, "Get in there," into the mic with a breathy groan.

There were a few dozen guests tonight. Even with people coming from out of town, news of the lupine performer had spread far, and Forty could draw a crowd even on short notice. They cheered as Grop stuffed his nose down Forty's pants to greedily wrap his lips around the expanding, emerging wolf cock - a black obelisk broader than the squirrel's muzzle - and let his jaw, now stretchy from what he'd swallowed, slide over the massive length. "Good boy. Now then!

"If you can't make enough of your own lube, get a bottle, but I've never had that problem," the performer said through a smirk. He yanked his assistant's head off his member, flexed, and spattered his muzzle with precum. Grop's tongue lapped it up from around his lips. Forty shoved him to the ground on his back. The squirrel subtly tucked his chin to take the fall and let out a cooperative, high-pitched gasp on impact. Forty dropped to his own knees with the mic in his mouth again and crawled forward. On each pace, he flexed his cock and sent drizzles of canine precum to coat the squirrel's tail and exposed underside.

That rakish baritone swept out over the scene again. "Now, for most of you, two feet of wolf cock would be a problem. But a well-trained cock sleeve like this guy here?" He rose up on his knees, gathered Grop's thighs in his palms, and positioned the spade-shaped tip of his cock against the squirrel's asshole. He grinned hugely down at Grop, who had a wild look in his eyes, but gave the tiniest of nods. Instantly, Forty planted his feet like he was in a runner's stance, and lunged himself forward while yanking on Grop's legs. Once! Twice! And one, then two feet of cock thicker than most men's arms were stuffed inside Grop. He fucked the squirrel and howled, using one massive paw to pin him to the ground, and Grop screamed, hiding surprise with explosive bliss as he was speared nearly through. The crowd roared their approval as he slid a foot of his shaft out of, then back into the smaller man's ass again, and again, and again. He grinned winsomely, handsomely, and rolled onto his back. Grop sat up to let himself be displayed, shown off, owned in front of everyone present. He tensed his abs to make them silhouette the cock that pushed out against them. His own, much smaller member fairly sprayed precum as it was forced out of him with each bounce. Forty grunted, sat up, then stood up, carrying his cock sleeve with him, and leaned back with his assistant as a counterweight. Every new position drew another round of applause, permeated through with the sounds of heat. Finally, Forty grasped the squirrel's hips and slammed his knot one, two, three times past Grop's sphincter to tie his new toy to himself.

He paraded around stage like a magician and made eye contact with random members of the crowd. "Jealous?" he bellowed at them. He leered, he bucked, he did turns, all demonstrating that he was buried to the hilt in this creature and his cock was bloating Grop's belly obscenely. "Well you should be," he laughed under a predatory gaze, "because he's mine, and you aren't... yet." With that, he let that magnetic gaze sweep over them, and the sense that they might already belong to him rippled across the attendees like a wave before ebbing.

Cheers and catcalls and whistles followed in its wake, and all the while, Forty continued to show off, turning Grop like a spit roast to demonstrate: "A little rearrangement, and you can fuck his lats. A little more, and you fuck his ribs." He let his voice start to get more and more heated, breath spilling out between words. "You can jack them off on your abs, make them - hhh - belly dance - to stroke you - ahhh - and when you're ready, you can cum right... hhh... out... thhhheir... mooooouths...!" He wrapped his fingers deep inside Grop's nape to expose his throat and tug him as far down as he could. His mango-sized nuts drew up against his abdomen, and, impossibly, the tip of his cock pushed up out of Grop's throat to show the audience before he dropped to his knees and came, spewing cup after cup of musky, viscous gyzym out across the promenade. It drizzled off the edges in fountains to pool on the floor below, but not into the crowd - never into the crowd - as he continued to cum through Grop's body, humping constantly. The stuff flooded out of Grop's muzzle and the squirrel twitched and strained to gulp, hungry for the stuff that was flowing over his lips.

A minute of climax later, Forty stood up again and closed his lips around Grop's muzzle, teasing at the idea of what he might do. He held the mic to his throat to send his subsonic growl of hunger through the room, but ultimately slid his lips off and into a subtly grateful kiss. "Forget a cock 'sleeve.' Might just keep him here for next time." Amid a few yelps of climax, there was a rush of approving applause. While they were showered in it, Forty clicked off the mic and murmured, "One: fucking amazing job. Two: I've literally rearranged your insides, so don't worry, but I can't let you off, yet."

And then, a seven-hundred-twenty-nine-pound maned wolf, standing nine feet tall, rose out of the crowd. It seemed unlikely that he had been missed. As he clambered on stage to the gasps of the crowd, it became apparent he had tiger stripes running the length of his flanks, and patches of gem-tones-in-pitch across his chest and belly. Fawn-colored tufts of fur adorned his hips and shoulders. Muscle squirmed under his skin, and capping off the look was a cherry red cock the size of a ship's cannon - not the main one, but those squat, black ones used for broadsides - throbbing and drooling at his groin. In short, he was a monster.

Ultimately, it all happened faster than it should have. Edgar started to say, "You look... so good. You'll look so good in me. On me. Both of you, part of me, like you should be," but hadn't gotten halfway through his deranged, ravenous babbling before Forty picked up the mic again.

He didn't hesitate a moment. He grinned massively. Too massively. Forty Days Fasted's mouth took up the whole stage, to those in the room. He was the only thing there.

And he was hungry.

"I was fuckin' looking for a post-coital snack." He roared, "GET INSIDE."

Edgar was dumbfounded. He started forwards on feet made of lead. Forty's will whelmed his. "Oh, not me," Forty corrected him. "Him."

The room as a whole experienced vertigo as the focus of their enraptured attention moved to the squirrel below. Grop, still trapped, but able to face the demon Edgar had become, took his cue and gaped his maw open. "Because he's part of me, now. So come on in, you overgrown morsel, and be part of us." The inside of Grop's jaw had become slick and black and rubbery - for all intents and purposes, he had become Forty's cock. He yawned it wide. Edgar dropped to his knees. Forty's hunger was the abyss itself. It crushed what willpower Edgar had left after his hedonic consumption. Despite the elephantine wolf's size and breadth, he shoved his muzzle into Grop's, and Grop swallowed. It was fast. There was no savoring. Head, neck, and shoulders, with Grop's elastic body stretching to accommodate, and Forty simply growling his low approval the entire time. Every sensation of gulping, every inch that slid into Grop's maw, Forty felt through the squirrel's nerves - and it was magnified again, as Grop's throat felt innervated like the tip and front of a massive member, making his eyes flutter in pleasure, making him ravenous for more. "As it turns out," he murmured while he watched, talking even while he flexed the muscles of his groin, which made Grop's abs ripple and crunch in response. "You can even give your new cocksleeve a treat, and let them enjoy the meal you'd planned to save for yourself." Chest and abdomen vanished. Grop was properly insatiable. His paws snatched up the bloated cock Edgar had acquired and stuffed it into his maw, as well, as inch after inch, foot after foot of the maned wolf's body disappeared down his gullet. Waist, hips, and thighs, and then he shuddered as he felt the meal fully penetrating him and being sucked into Forty's sac below. The mammoth creature inside him squirmed, stretching his body obscenely, but stroking pleasure centers that had never existed and making him swallow harder, making him tense and jerk as though his whole body needed to climax. Knees, calves, feet - and he clicked his teeth, and said in unison with Forty Days Fasted, "Mine." The word echoed around The Gilded Chasm.

The huge body of the once-predator curled up into the fetal position inside Forty's ballsac, so heavy and enormous that he reached the floor, but he was obedient. He was still. His form went smoother and smoother over several minutes, losing features behind cream-and-chestnut fur, while Forty began to grow and as he grew, he came again. Gallons of spunk erupted out of Grop's muzzle while the squirrel, in helpless bliss, experienced the full density of climax throughout his entire body at once. He couldn't breathe through it all, but he found he didn't need to - choked to semi-consciousness and escalated beyond the mind of mortal ken, he basked in Forty's climax. Meanwhile, Forty grew - seven, eight, ten, twelve feet tall, ripping out of his vest and making the tree-trunk bulge of his cock swell Grop's abdomen comically, all while the wolf's gyzym fountained endlessly, up to the ceiling to spatter and rearrange lights, to drench the crowd, to rain back down and force the barkeep to spread a tarp over his wares. And Forty glutted on it, letting the sensation of predation flow through him as he took in the creature who had dared to take something from him, and glazed the Chasm in his spunk. Finally, when no feature of his meal remained, he breathed, "There." There wasn't a sound from the audience. "Tip jar's on the bar."

And with that, he turned and walked backstage. His feet cracked the floor. Wet splatters and a drizzle of cum continued to paint the soundscape as he ducked and vanished through the burgundy-and-cream curtain of The Gilded Chasm.

--

Forty Days Fasted (the muscle wolf), Jef-one-eff (the jacked rabbit), and Grop (the squirrel who kills people for a living), sat under the pre-dawn silver-smoke sky on the deck adjoined awkwardly to the battered entrance of The Gilded Chasm, each enjoying a coffee. Forty was again wearing nothing but a towel, having thoroughly outgrown his sweatpants and all his remaining clothes. The towel barely serviced as a loin cloth.

Jef sipped at his mug quietly, sighed, and leaned back. "Tiger got home okay?"

"Yep. Poor wife thought he'd run off," Forty answered. His voice was an avalanche, but a distant one. "No wonder she looked lonely yesterday."

"Grop, you okay, man?"

The Malabar ground squirrel looked sadly at the wooden bracelet on his biceps. It was lacquered black, sported a similarly black "tail" of cotton, and had gem tone cracks throughout the surface. "No. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to take normal fucking seriously again."

Jef spun a new bracelet of his own around one finger. It was crimson, with a black stripe and a fluffy, cotton "tail" of its own. "This place is enormously gay, y'all ever noticed that? And Forty, you're a scary fuck."

Forty weighed five hundred and thirty-four pounds and stood at somewhere between seven and eight feet tall, but Jef didn't care to check precisely. "That's one way to put it."

"You can't stay like that. You'll attract cops."

"That Edgar guy figured out the compacting spells somehow. I think a potion. I'll sift through his brain, see if he left any anywhere. Never had to use it, myself, back when I was-"

He cut off when both the jacked rabbit and the squirrel grimaced and looked away.

"... Sorry," Forty apologized. "I know that's fucked up. Already pissed off the duke of dook. Ten Panthers got this whole idea from some ermine hedge-witch selling shady shit Out There somewhere. Duke drove off like he had someone to kill."

"Shoulda contracted me," Grop sighed. "I could use a distraction."

"We all could," Jef answered. He poured himself another cup, then handed the coffee pot up to Forty, who made it look like a toy in his massive hands. The muscle-wolf shook his head and put it back down. Each movement made his fifteen wooden bracelets clatter slightly. Jef asked in response, "Seventeen, huh?"

"No more than seventeen at a time."

"... Fuck. You musta weighed..."

"A metric fuck-ton, quite literally, at the peak. Nadir, I suppose."

Jef snorted. "Sorta thought it would be forty."

"Forty just means 'a lot.' Depending which scholar you talk to. Learn your Yiddish." Forty stood up, and for the first time since he'd been there, hunched his shoulders. He towered over his companions. He didn't like that. "I'll head out, then."

"Where to?"

"Might go see that hedge witch - I might know him. Might go be one, if not."

Jef rolled his eyes and stood up roughly enough that his silver earrings chimed. "Don't make me fuckin' do gay shit."

"What?"

Jef-one-eff, the jacked rabbit, put his palm on Forty's sternum and craned his head to look up into his eyes. His voice refused to soften, but his demeanor had. "Stay here. You ain't not welcome. You just a scary fuck. Grop's a scary fuck, too - Grop kills people for a living. Least you don't kill people; you just... this." He tapped his new bracelet.

"Oh." Forty met his gaze, and Jef didn't flinch. It wasn't a romantic gesture, but it wasn't not romantic, either.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

He sat down with his friends. They enjoyed their coffee.

Dawn broke.