FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"Morning, Xander."

"Hey."

"How's it hangin'?"

"Mm. Um." No wait, he knew this one. "Hah," he ventured, over his coffee. Wait, no... there was another component. "Moist." He waved his hand vaguely at the humid summer air outside.

The red fox who had asked him laughed, loudly. Probably too loudly. Xander, a short, lop-eared rabbit with a fawn-colored coat, had to look up at her to maintain polite attention.

"Moist!" She barked. "Skies almighty. Same. I needed that. Thanks, Xander." The woman dumped a handful of sugar cubes in her own coffee and half a cup of cream. "You make any progress on the Showspiel app last night? Raid was riding your ass over that."

Had Raid been riding his ass? Xander tried to remember their last conversation. Just a higher-up giving directions, honestly. "Yeah. Turns out if you call Bmp to make a Grnd instance, you can Rxn-sort it-"

"Whoa whoa whoa. Don't talk Dirty to me until I've had my coffee," she chuckled, and Xander's brain immediately fried. Dirty was the slang name for the in-house coding language the company used, because it had acronyms that sounded like "bump" and "grind," so he understood that. But was she hitting on him? Was he hitting on her? Was she interested? Did it matter? Was there something else he was missing? Xander had worked - put in hundreds of hours, if he was honest with himself - into trying to understand this language most people spoke, but sometimes information seemed to get transmitted on a frequency his flopped-over ears simply could not tune into.

"Oops, broke the bun." Ah, okay. He was being mocked. To be fair, he'd gone fully silent for a minute as he'd tried to parse the interaction. The fox patted his shoulder on her way out of the room. "Have a good one, Xander." He watched her leave, and as he was trying to figure out her body language on the way out, his eyes dropped to a diminutive, smartly-dressed Malabar giant squirrel with black, unknowable eyes, who was standing in the doorway to the break room. It was holding a smartphone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, looking for all the world like it was simply a regular code jockey trying to dress well on a Monday, but given its size, its space-black eyes, and the way its clothing hugged its frame to emphasize its broad, dense musculature, Xander knew it was anything but normal. This was Witness, an Assistant who had been hanging around one of his bosses recently. Well, not bosses; Witness's owner was heavily entrenched in the sales department. But the guy, who was an otter named Raided and Weathered, muscled his way into meetings and negotiated collaborations and coordinated timelines where he hadn't necessarily been invited. What rankled the most was how good he was at it, and that he'd gotten both more aggressive and more effective since acquiring Witness.

The squirrel had been there for the whole brief exchange, and as far as Xander knew, had simply stood and watched. The thing gave him a sense of instability, of worry, of being a specimen in a lab. In a way, that was... comforting, but the comfort itself gave him a deep feeling of unease. Assistants were universally strange. They were tiny companions with a range of roles and expertise, who fit somewhere between pet, mobile smart speaker, and professional escort. Despite their often sexual roles, they were still "worn" in public much of the time because of their entrancing beauty as a status symbol.

For its part, this one seemed to have taken an interest in Xander over the past several weeks. He'd noticed it watching him time and time again, and each time, it would shake its head as though to clear it, type rapidly into its phone, and leave the room. It didn't feel like stalking and it didn't seem like harassment, but it was definitely... weird.

The rest of the day passed largely without incident. Meetings as usual. Shitty work emails as usual. Weird intonations and implications and connotations that Xander couldn't place, as usual. They didn't really phase him at this point, except as a remembered irritation later in the day. For the most part, it was buzz that pleasantly occupied a corner of his senses while he hacked his way through new libraries, new databases, fractional updates on coding languages, and sneaking furtive glances at pornography during five-minute breaks. Normal, every day things. Every single day things.

He wasn't dissatisfied. His paycheck was generous and he was stably in the top five to ten percent of employees, so his job security and personal comfort were a fortress. But in the annoying moments of awareness, he was forced to dimly recognize that time was passing and nothing was changing. His day-to-day experience occupied the entirety of what had been - as many people notice some time between their mid twenties and early forties - a vibrant and colorful imagination. The sneak peeks at pornography weren't even any sort of proper indulgence, because they were an attempt to set flint to tinder and ignite a libido that had gone from strained to unsatisfied to hollow over the course of months that became years that became a decade.

Witness was standing in the open door to his tiny, shared office. His office mate, Geri, had left for the day two hours ago while Xander ground out some overtime so he could buy a new car. The squirrel again had its smartphone in hand and was staring with laser focus at the rabbit. In a brisk moment, it stepped forward, caught the door on its heel, and slammed it shut. Xander pointedly ignored it, except to mutter, "Performance review? I didn't get the memo."

It didn't answer. Instead, it simply stood. Xander clacked away at his keyboard with his dull claws - well, keyboards, by this time of the night, as he managed a few different machines to test out new development suites and his own sub-whimsical ideas about how to improve them that would never even get vetted - for another twenty minutes without exchanging a single word.

Presently, he became aware that the A/C had gone off and the air in the room was stifling. He sniffed at it. Something had changed. He loosened his tie and went back to work. Just needed the clock to tick over 9 pm, but the damn company monitoring systems could detect mouse stagnation AND cursor twitch programs, so he kept working. He sniffed again. It had changed again.

Witness coughed, and Xander's attention went instantly to it. He watched it out of the corner of his eye as he undid the top button of his shirt to let himself breathe a little. The pint-sized Assistants were intriguing in their silences and directness. When they spoke in social settings, it was with perfect grace. There were plenty of videos of the little pets being impossibly aware of their masters' whims and wishes and answering them with astonishing rapidity and accuracy. Mind-reading in real time, some called it, as though they already knew your thoughts as you were having them.

The rabbit's nostrils flared and he felt his ears swivel and hoist themselves despite their limp weight to attend entirely now to the Assistant. The light at the edges of his vision darkened, but the Assistant stood out in stark clarity, in every detail of its waxen, muscular form. He was pushing his chair back and standing up before he even realized it. He trembled with nervousness, swallowed drily, and became abruptly aware of a painful erection against his slacks. Witness's eyes were pits into the molten core of the sky. It was still as a statue, but there was something in the gaze, in the mien, in the scent, that was so permissive as to be commanding.

Xander sat in front of it on the floor and frantically undid its belt, button, and zipper. He had fished out its loins in seconds. He shoved his face against the orange-sized nuts and sheath the size of a 7.5-oz soda can and breathed in the creature's musk. The little servant was enormously hung even for someone Xander's size, and though it was currently unaroused, Xander wanted nothing more, in all of his senses, than to press against all of it, experience it, commune, be, feel with it in every way.

Its phone rang. "Sir?"

It made no move to push Xander away, so he rolled his tongue out and opened his lips around one nut to feel its heft and warmth in his maw, having to roll himself onto his back on the floor to do so while his slacks tented and went damp from his arousal.

"Right now? Ah. Congratulations on a rapid conquest." Its voice was just barely into the realm of the ethereal, or perhaps robotic. Too few overtones, too few imperfections, to be human, but with eerily natural intonations. And still no acknowledgement that this grown man was wordlessly worshipping its loins with tongue and lips and fingers. "I'll meet you downstairs. Ah, yes, sir. The elevator, then."

It lifted the back of Xander's head with a bare foot so it could meet his eyes and look down at him past its now-sopping balls. "Hm." It tilted its head, then tapped out a few messages into its phone, waited for a response, and pocketed the instrument. Xander waited, with a whine rising in the back of his throat, for permission to continue his ministrations. Absolute lust had inundated him, and it wasn't simple mind control. It was release. It was sexuality that seared him inside and out, sexuality he hadn't felt outside of brief glimpses during drug- or alcohol-fueled nights of indulgence; sexuality he'd seen expressed in media and heard expressed by overexcited bachelors at bars, but thought he had been denied. This was a transformative libido; an ecstatic experience of hedonic stimulati-

"You'll be recompensed," it intoned. In one swift motion, it bent to its knees, rolled Xander over using pressure points on his shoulders and the rabbit's fluid compliance, then placed a paw on the back of his head and shoved his entire muzzle into its inordinately fat sheath. The soft pouch spread easily around the offering and stretched. Gluttonous, it began expanding to engulf forehead, ears, and neck. Xander, alight with need, blindly ripped off his shirt so more of him could be in contact with more of the Assistant. Buttons popped and scattered, thin, overworn undershirt tore with ease, and the Assistant's deft hands stripped his torso bare.

In seconds, the outline of the rabbit's face emerged, stretched against the creature's sac. It tugged in his bare, pudgy chest, then abdomen, wantonly consuming the much larger creature. His hands, quickly restricted by the sheath's tight grip around his shoulders, tore through fasteners with abandon to start writhing out of his pants and boxers to let his cock flop and drool across the ground before belly, and then hips and groin were enveloped. More of Xander's form pressed out against the sac as he was pushed, pulled, sucked, gripped, swallowed by the mighty, black sheath of this unassuming, alien creature. Hips, thighs, knees, pulled in as though the squirrel were climbing a ladder. It let Xander bulge into its nut sack behind it, until with the only relish it had shown throughout the quick meal, it laced fingers with the rabbit's toes, smirked, and shoved until its own paws vanished to the wrist, before releasing.

There was stillness except for slight writhing behind the elastic wall of Witness's nuts. The room shuddered with some subsonic purr. The flesh tightened around the code jockey, whose form was constricted into a ball and shrunk, shrunk, shrunk over swiftly passing seconds, until he was little more than a melon-sized, anthro-shaped lump pooled against Witness's thighs. The creature let one more inch of its ascetic affect down as two inches of glistening, orange-gold cock peeked out of its sheath, before standing - having no trouble with the additional hundred and seventy pounds of heft in its nuts - humming again for a last wave of compression, then zipping up, belting up, and buttoning up. It took care of Xander's affects with the clinical efficiency of a professional cleaner, crammed them into a little backpack it carried, hopped up to flick off the lights, and left.

It met its master, the river otter Raided and Weathered, at the elevator just two seconds after the doors opened. He smiled as he saw his pet. "Night rounds?"

"Xander's making faster work on that module than we anticipated. I've stepped up your time table on the workflow app."

"Xander...?"

"Senior programmer, second divisi-"

Raided waved it off. "No need. Thanks for taking initiative on th-" He stopped himself and chuckled wryly. "Still in corporate mode." He picked up Witness, who easily slid into his arms as though he didn't suddenly weigh forty percent more, and cradled the creature against his chest. "Thanks."

Xander, blind to all of this, climaxed in a fit, strained, and kicked his leg, hard. Raided felt it as a groin-level twitch from the Asssistant and cocked his head. "You're not usually that happy to see me."

Witness answered smoothly, "It's Friday, sir. It will be fun to celebrate."

The business otter grinned a predatory grin and moved Witness around to ride on his shoulders. They stepped out into the parking garage, while invisibly, Xander passed out in a pool of his own gyzym, tucked safely away for... processing.

--

Three a.m. A rush, a tightness, a pressure through the body entire. A release, and a shock of awareness as hot, wet warmth slaps onto Xander's face and muzzle. Barely cognizant, he feels his body pulse again, releasing another not shot, but stream of gyzym that audibly spatters the wall behind him and crashes down on hs body. A growled, half-conscious mewl ekes out of his throat as he opens one eye in the dim, blue light of his apartment bedroom, just to feel his hips shudder and jerk and fire another powerful shot of spunk that he's barely able to block with his paws. The warm, viscous spray coats them and drips off. The sleep paralysis has hardly subsided and he has to struggle to consciously tell his hands to grip his cock - a mistake. The sensation makes his body go tetanic, and rather than control the angle of the spray, he merely increases the fluid pressure so that it fires at an angle past his shoulder to knock his digital alarm clock off his bedside table, before the spray arcs up and patters noisily on his lampshade.

"Fuck," he whispers, "fuck, what -aahhHHh!" Again, but this time he's able to angle it into his maw. The hot, salty-savory flavor assaults his systems and he feels his balls tighten for another shot, and another. He drinks deeply of his own spunk as he rides out the storm of orgasm. It feels so impossibly good, so hot, so powerful, in a way he hasn't felt in... years? Ever?

His loins ache. His eye burns. Gradually, the unpleasant physical and emotional sensations rise up over the arousing ones and manage to keep the climax from surging onward and it peters down to a last burp of a quarter cup of spunk flowing off his belly. His stomach feels full, like he'd just drunk a weight gain shake, from his own output. He can feel that he's still painfully erect and throbbing, but at least the process of and need to climax have subsided. He stumbles to his bathroom, dripping off his body and down his thighs, and doesn't even flick on the lights as he begins feeling for the faucet. He feels his cock slap heavily against the cabinet under the sink, but can't bring himself to care. His hands bang against and fumble for the handles. Something's wrong about where everything is, but he just needs to get the cum out of his eye. Pornos make it look hot and it does from the giver's perspective, but fuck.

Finally, he shuts off the faucet, reaches up for a towel to dry off his face, and is overcome by a whelming sensation of fatigue. His cock and balls ache in his lap, but he needs sleep. He tumbles into his soaked bed, uncaring about the wet sheets, and is asleep before he can fully ask himself how he got home last night.

--

Xander awakens again and stretches himself out. He notes with a wince that his morning wood is painfully hard, but, eh, natural processes. He blinks his eyes open and notices how across his body, especially his front, he feels clammy in some places and crusted over in others. His sheets are even slightly damp - had he drooled in his sleep again? He finally lifts his head to check his alarm clock, fumbles for it with a paw when he doesn't immediately notice it, and finds raised mounds of _some_thing streaked across his table. Finally, he peers over the bed to find its face staring up at him, but the display is cracked and heavily smeared.

He takes a deep breath.

Everything comes suddenly into focus. He came in the middle of the night. Came so hard and plentifully that he'd cracked his alarm clock, knocked his lampshade askew, and positively soaked himself and his bedsheets. He glances at his headboard. Like a Pollock painting in monochrome. How? What had happened...

He sits up with a grunt, still a little hunched, and tries to ease the firmness in his cock with a careful flex of his loins, only to feel it bump just below his sternum.

"Fuck?"

He stares. It's enormous. Unfamiliar as seeing a python in his lap, albeit one turgid, rocking with each heartbeat, and webbed with virile veins. He can't help but rest his fingertips on it - it's warm. "Okay... what happened..." He stands from the bed and only then notices the weight of his nuts where they hang against his thighs. He pushes his cock to one side and lifts one up. The size of a nectarine. It rolls at the touch, as any nut would, but its heft makes it feel so much more like a living thing. He gathers the other in the same paw and lets them rock back and forth like contact juggling balls. They're warm, too, practically radiating heat. He lets them fall from his hand and feels them tug against his scrotum, the weight a pleasant stretch against the flesh of his cock.

He bends to return his ruined clock to the stand and that draws his eyes to the state of it and the long streaks of discoloration that lead back to the wall. "Did I... no. No..." He bends his nose to sniff the stain and has to catch himself with both hands on the table as his eyes roll up into his head with the absolute, intoxicating musk of his cum. His confusion and sleep amnesia must have spared him the dizzying scent of it in his sheets. Nutty, spoiled-sweet, deep up inside his sinuses. He pushes himself away and realizes how high the table is. He's shorter. He backs up a step and flings his gaze around the room.

Yes. It's bigger, so he's smaller. Has his body shrunk, but his cock stayed the same size? He scrambles under the bed for his tool chest and tape measure. His fingers shake as he measures. He used to be five inches aka 13 centimeters - barely less than average, but a cock that got the job done. A fine cock. He dispenses the tape to five... six... seven... eight. A bit past eight, so 21 centimeters. His heart throbs in his chest. He's huge, now. In a fit of curiosity, he plants his big toe on the anchor at the end of the tape and stands up. He'd been five-eight. Again, shorter than average, easily overlooked, but not exceptionally small. Five feet... four?? He was five-four.

Bathroom scale, next.

Impossible. The physics for it flashed through his head. The energy expended - his entire city should be a smoldering ruin from the fission, unless it was magic, and this type was illegal and impossible due to the Disagreements in the Deep signed internationally the world over, years before. He was one-seventy. Overweight, but not noteworthy, not fat, and now... one-forty-three. The math again. Twenty-seven pounds, apparently cum out of him. Some burned to sustain the physical effort. Slightly over a gallon of cum, modeled as milk. Fuck. His belly, once protruding from beer and soda, is gone. The flab in his flanks, once more than love handles, is barely there. And despite the panic of the moment, he's still achingly erect.

He slams on the shower and steps in. The frigid water finally offers relief, though he scrabbles a bit to readjust to where the soap and shampoo are. The erection partially subsides to hang obscenely perpendicular from his waist, but he can feel his arousal like a prowling animal stalking from one side of his senses to the other.

He steps out, towels off, and ties the towel around his waist - where it tents cartoonishly - to head out to his kitchen, where the concept of breakfast practically floors him. He's cracked five eggs into a pan and begun spooning peanut butter directly from a jar into his maw before he's cognizant of his guided-missile focus on calories. He's ravenous. Butter and salt, and the eggs are painfully hot as they slide down his throat. He chases them with a quart of milk, emptied right from the carton, and then swivels his gaze back to the peanut butter. The jar's empty. Thousands of calories in the space of a few minutes, but at least he's satiated.

A little.

Again, he loses time between breakfast and being on the phone with a place that does delivery brunch. Chicken and waffles. Why is he on the phone? He always just uses their website. But he's listening, and chatting, and getting a triple order with two fully loaded lattes and a discount, and only once he's off the phone does he finally have the mental space to stop himself and breathe, in... hold...

Out... hold...

In... hold...

Out... hold...

Okay.

... and the food has brought back his excitement such that he is again enormously, unabatedly erect.

Okay.

Last night, he worked late. The Assistant, Witness, walked in and closed the door. It stood like a statue for twenty minutes, and then Xander... His memory roils, like a magic eye picture slightly out of focus. In his mind's eye, he hears the creature's synthetic voice in business-like tones, then looks up into its eyes, and then a gripping darkness and warmth. Violent orgasm. Emptiness, bliss... sleep.

He's broken out of the revery by feeling his AC on his chest and realizing he's nearly nude. He lives alone, yes, but his apartment's windows and a lack of pride in his physical form has always had him fully dressed before coming out of his bedroom and bathroom. Clothes, to be able to answer the door. Once more, lost time between the sofa where he made the phone call and his bedroom, picking out clothes that will look the least absurd. The erection won't go, so sweatpants and a loose tee shirt, both of which hang off his body like tents, but at least that's what lounge wear is intended to do. He cinches the elastic waistband tight. He makes himself breathe again, even though every moment of pause forces him to feel the throb of his cock. The back of his mind is churning through decisions and information so quickly that his conscious mind doesn't have time to be aware of it. It doesn't feel smarter - at least, it doesn't seem to - but it's more automatic. It's only alarming because usually, this is a state Xander specifically seeks out. It doesn't come naturally. It's a defense against the cowardice of a solitary individual afraid of interaction and reflection, not a strength.

Anyway, the bed is shucked and his tool chest is put away and he's loading up his unit's washing machine. The kitchen is clean and he's organizing his video game collection. Is this meth? Did Witness give him all the methamphetamine that there is and inject him with horny goat weed? The doorbell rings. He answers it.

He's looking up at a college-aged, male, gray wolf anthro wearing high-end earbuds, old bluejeans, a shitty watch, a jersey, and a colorless, dun jacket that hangs off one shoulder. He's bored, nearly off his shift, and just wants to get home, have an edible, jack off, and listen to music all day, because it's Saturday and it's fucked up that his parents make him work even though they don't, especially while he's trying to go to school. Give him a break, already. He could be practicing playing Beat Saber with his feet and trying to get his YouTube channel going: "BreakBeat," eventually with corporate sponsor-

Fuck. "Come on in," Xander's saying while he tries to stop the flood of information. He can tell it's not even accurate. So much of it is educated guesses, tagged to where the kid's shoes are most worn, how clean the earbuds are, the threadbare knees in the jeans from breakdancing. Every detail is noted and then blossoms into fractals of possibilities. Xander's tone of voice is pitched between father and older brother because that's comforting and inviting to a disenchanted, young adult. He doesn't mean for it to be, but it is.

The wolf's gaze narrows. "Huh?"

Xander shrugs. He feels something primal, lusting, hungry, that needs to be satiated, directing the angles of his shoulders, ears, and hips so that his small form is at once commanding and appealing. The decision-making algorithms grinding away behind his eyes teeter, for once, over an uncertainty, and then his fingers close around the soda can-thick form in his sweatpants. "What I said was, come on in."

There's a beat. The wolf swallows visibly, checks his watch, then his phone. "I mean yeah, I'm thirsty, I guess." He licks his lips, then fumbles a bit to hand over the bag of food so he can lock up his bike. "Been delivering since seven this morning; it's bullshit."

"Yeah. If all corporate gives are weekends, we should take 'em." Xander quips with a smile, though his heart is racing. "I swear I'm clean. I have papers if you want to see 'em. Just need to fuck, and got lucky you're handsome." Is he doing this? Is this even a possibility? This only happens in pornos. But... but... he can read the guy. And he feels this libidinal need, and... this wolf wants it. Xander can smell it. He's lost time again. He can smell it directly off the wolf's chest, which he's buried his face in, having stripped off his jacket and shirt and flicked the door closed behind them with his foot. He grinds his cock up, hard, against the delivery guy's groin.

"Fuck," whispers the nameless guy. He scrabbles at Xander's chest to pull off his shirt, gives up, yanks down the waistband to release Xander's cock, which springs up as though with a life of its own and is suddenly drooling with precum. The wolf drops to his knees and lavishes it with his tongue. "You're fucking enormous. What the... what..."

Xander whines with need. His fingers grip and dig into the wolf's headbfur and mane greedily. "Good boy. God I need this." He would never say that. He's never said that. He doesn't even need to say that right now. But it's what the guy needs to hear. He pries open his jaws with thumb and forefinger and shoves his cock into that maw to fill it. "Need someone to flood..." he croons.

And the wolf is eager. It's not all manipulation. It's a fantasy. It's the rush of anonymity, of spontaneity, of answering libido rather than reason, and on top of that, this rabbit is hung. He fawns over the cock in his maw, tugs the enormous nuts with his hands, grips the cock's base with his fingers and squeezes its rock-hard girth to revel in the heat and the textures and the musky bouquet of it all. He groans when his nape is grabbed in one hand and the underside of his jaw in the other and his throat is roughly spread open by rabbit cock. Yes, he gags, and his eyes water from it, but he gets to gasp briefly, between each patient thrust, as the rabbit expertly trains his throat in moments - all the while coating it in layers of the lubricating precum that drips from his lips with his saliva - until inches of it slide down his throat and his nose is buried in crotch fur.

Xander is lost in it completely. Pleasure soaks him, whelms and overwhelms him. He's in immeasurable control. He knows as much as needs to be known and more. He doesn't feel "normal." He doesn't feel "changed." He feels unlocked. His hips rock against the wolf's muzzle, steadily at first to luxuriate in the tight, welcoming throat and warm, straining lips, then in harder, quicker jerks. It's been... has it been years since the last time he had sex? And even then, it felt dutiful, a required part of courtship and masculinity, a ritual in which orgasm was achieved. Here, though, the wet mouth and lips surround him, slide over his skin, ignite the network of ventral nerves on his cock. He hastens his tempo. He can sense the climax as an approaching cliff.

Finally, that flood of ability and sensation erupts in orgasm and douses the wolf in a deluge of cum. The first seconds-long blast is easily a cup, the second two, the third two more, and by the fourth, the wolf is pulling desperately off, but still bathing himself in the streams of it that pulse and course from Xander's cock to paint his muzzle, fill his gaping, greedy maw, soak his ears and chest and shoulders. More splashes off his frame and onto the door behind him, more splatters noisily onto the floor where it gathers so quickly that it flows in an expanding pool, and more still, and more still, and more.

After more than a minute, the rabbit looks down at his masterpiece. He shivers in gasping revelation. This is how he cums now. He's practically a god of virility. He rubs the wolf's ears to give his hands something to hold to steady himself. He listens to his own heated breathing. He's hungry again. He feels like he's lost weight. He feels smaller in his shirt, and the young wolf looks bigger. Is this the cost? Will this always be the exchange, now? And yet, that wolf is nosing his cock like a man dying of thirst and despite his visibly bloated belly. "God... that's impossible... it's impossible... holy fuck... I love it, I need to cum, I need..." He's gathering handfuls of it and opening his jeans to start jacking himself off with Xander's spunk.

Seized by sudden memory of last night, hunger, and curiosity, Xander catches the wolf's nose with his paw before his next pass of fawning nuzzles of the massive - bigger than before - rabbit cock, and shoves it into the entrance.

It slides in.

The cock stretches rapidly, even eagerly, to accommodate the snout, and once a millimeter is in, it's not coming out again. The mushrooming head fattens around the intrusion with little issue, though the sensation of stretching drives Xander wild, even and especially in the hypersensitivity of post-orgasm. It feels like each individual nerve fiber gets to caress this new, wondrous feeling of pressing the other man into the house of his sexuality.

The wolf's eyes widen in surprise, then close in bliss. He's not fully certain. He's trembling. This is new, and weird, and impossible, and it suits him. Reversal of predator and prey roles aside - besides, which boomer still even thinks in those terms? - to be invited inside another man's cock like this, to press in towards the source...

"You'll be fine," Xander's voice wafts down to him, low and reassuring. "Just get those pants off; I want to feel all of you - every inch." He flexes the muscles of his groin experimentally and is rewarded with the sight of his cock swelling broader and worming over more of the wolf's face. Precum oozes and drips around the gyzym-glazed muzzle and down the neck. Another inch. Another six, when the wolf shucks his pants and boxers and his movements make his stumble forward. The cock surges forward, broader and broader to engulf head, ears, neck, and then broader still as the wolf willingly caves his athletic shoulders forward and practically dives in.

"FUCK that's a good, fuckin', boy," Xander exults between beeaths as those dancer's muscles shove another two feet of young wolf inside him. The head bulges out into his nut sack, which stretches easily, feeling like a woven mesh but still covered in velvet fur. He grips the other man's hips, well out in front of him past the reach of his enormous member, and tugs as hard as he can, both of them frenzied to finish the meal. The rabbit grasps at his prey's steely cock and shoves it inside his own, and the wolf begins humping with abandon to get himself off. Ass, thighs, long fluffy tail, knees, all felt in excruciating, delicious detail with a new dimension of sensory awareness that wasn't touch or taste or smell, but something new, something transmitting information about flesh and spirit. In a fit of predatory glee, Xander plants his feet, thrusts his hips up, and fully inverts the wolf_._ He gazes on the outline of his prey and brushes his hands over the trapped form of his struggling hips and cock to tease it ever closer to orgasm, growls hungrily, snags his meal's ankles and shoves.

"Mine," he snarls, and he falls back against a wall to pant and watch as the wolf's form gets sucked and squeezed down, through an unknown passage in his loins, down into his sac, where his now thrashing, climaxing body somehow doesn't wound the predator. Instead, Xander shudders with each heaving breath, delights in each spasm of his prey, while his paws grip the torso-thick cock in front of him. A foreign feeling of pleasure blending from that new sense grips his body, and an aching cry keens from the back of his throat. It rises and rises while his heel thumps against the ground in percussive bliss until a fountain of cum wrist-thick begins pouring from his shaft. It goes in waves, washing his couch, television, kitchen counter, walls, and ceiling fan to send it spinning, as pints and then gallons of the stuff surge out of him, a geyser of virility. His claws dig trenches in his hardwood floors, and it's a full minute into the climax before he realizes his loins are finally shrinking back down, spending their contents quarts at a time. A second sensation, welling up under the storm of ecstatic, blinding climax like a rising island, groans to life. Muscles sieze and burn. Bones stretch. As tissue builds and expands, Xander is incapable of denying that this new flesh is right. It's knit better than what he had before, but he can't say how - he certainly can't articulate while his cock, now a mere foot and a half long, shoots gouts that still crest the back of his couch. Muscles tighten and swell, not in grotesque, bloating surges, but as though merely a fraction of his meal - the best fraction - is feeding the best possible musculature. It doesn't fit. Tissue broken down isn't the tissue it makes, but his new senses tell him that this meal is good for exactly those reasons.

It's not an immediate, perfect transformation. The wolf is good, but hardly Adonis. Abdominals don't cobble Xander's belly now, but they do adorn it; his biceps don't outsize his head, but they can tighten and swell like he's never felt before; and his thighs aren't suddenly tree trunks, but now greet and shape the surface of his skin to so starkly contrast the shapelessness of before that he can feel their textures against the floor.

He probes his tightening, shrinking nuts with his fingers to check for the wolf. The form is there, twitching in ecstasy in its own right, but it's shrinking as each pulse of cum is ejected from him: now a watermelon, now a football, now nestled like a third nut between his two orange-sized orbs, and now small enough to grasp around the left one like a body pillow and, exhausted, rest beneath the ten-inch shaft throbbing lazily above it.

Rest.

In... hold...

Out... hold...

In... hold...

Out... hold...

The arousal softens and subsides, finally. He can breathe, finally. He blinks open his eyes to gaze blearily at the white-streaked room around him, and all the mental gears that have been whining in overdrive for the past hour merely rumble, offering nothing. His mind can't currently approach the fact a fully grown person has been reduced to an ornament for his testis. At the thought, though, his gaze alights on the bag of brunches. Well. He's not aroused, for once, this morning.

He is hungry, though.