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Kindness. Simple human kindness. Who would have thought that being a good Samaritan would get you killed?

You love the park. It's one of the big state-funded ones and is several square miles of woods, streams, even a small lake or two. It's a popular fishing and camping spot but you are just here for the woods. There are miles of trails and you know every yard.

Spring and summer and fall and winter, the oak trees go through their cycle, the birds and squirrels and deer live their lives and are there to see. Sometimes you spot a raccoon, fox or bobcat, and a few times even one of the park's black bears.

Your favorite is the fall, the oranges and reds of leaves turning once the first frost hits. That's why you're in the park today, and it's why you see the tigress.

You're on one of the dirt trails that run through the woods, admiring the autumn colors and the crisp fall air, when you see someone off the trail. Hunched over, shoulders heaving. Throwing up.

Even from behind her species is plain. The orange and black tail, fading to cream-and-black toward the tip, would tell you she's a tiger even if you couldn't see anything else. Right now that's about all you do see. Partially concealed behind some shrubs, all you see is her tail, ears and brown-red sleeveless top.

You glance around. You and the tigress are the only people in sight. It doesn't seem right to leave her in distress without making sure she's all right and you leave the trail to check on her.

Simple human kindness. That's what gets you killed.

"Excuse me." You pause a few feet away, trying to make the encounter a bit less awkward. The tigress heaves a last time and glances over her shoulder at you.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to intrude. Just making sure you're all right?"

She nods, wiping her chin with a padded hand. You finally get a good look at her. She's a pretty thing. Beautiful, really, even by tiger standards, and tigers are handsome creatures to begin with.

Sleek orange fur, brown-black stripes, cream-colored chin and throat and a few other places. She's got on an autumn-colored outfit, shorts and sleeveless khaki shirt and sandals that protect her soles without covering up her four-toed padded feet.

Tall and lithe, all muscle, she's a born huntress, with enough curves to remind you she's a tigress instead of a tiger. Some anthros lack secondary sexual features and it's hard to tell the males from the females. No such problem here.

You're staring. She smiles.

"I'm fine," she purrs. "I'm Swift, by the way. Nice of you to check up on me, but I don't need any help."

She glances past you, doing the same thing you did a minute ago. Making sure no one else saw her throwing up. No one likes being caught in the middle of an embarrassing body function.

"Okay, just making sure." You turn away, but some morbid impulse makes you look down before you do. You freeze at the sight.

It's a steaming hunk of wet hair, a long mass as wide as a man's head and tapered at each end. A giant hairball, forced into its shape by the squeeze of the tigress's gullet and slimy with stomach juices.

Hairball, cat. It'd be funny if it were tiger fur. It's not. The slimy mass is all black and white fur, and there are clothes mixed in. A yellow dress is matted in, as indigestible as the hair, and the toe of a pink plastic sandal peeks out of the dripping fur.

It's not tiger fur. It's not her fur. It's skunk fur, and between the amount of fur and the clothes -

You should have run the second you saw the hairball. You hesitated too long and you look up just as she grabs you by the shoulders. She pulls you closer easily, all muscle under the fur, and the last thing you see is fanged jaws yawning wide.

Suddenly your head is in her maw, locked in by the tigress's canine fangs as they clamp down behind your ears. A raspy tongue gathers itself beneath your chin. You know what happened to the skunk now. It's about to happen to you. You panic, tense, try to throw her off. Too late. Swift's tongue gives you a powerful push and with a wet gulp she swallows your entire head.

Fangs scrape down your neck and wet throatflesh slithers past your face in the hot dark. You push at her, trying to pull back out, and feel the firm breasts under her dress. No mistaking this tigress for a tiger. Her fingers dig into your upper arms as she works her maw over your shoulders, starting the process that can only end in a burp.

Your arms are already half pinned, gripped by her powerful hands and pressed down against your sides by an advancing set of tigress jaws. They are free from the elbow down and you grab at her, trying to get a grip and keep her from swallowing you whole. At the same time you throw yourself from side to side, trying to wriggle free of her grip. Swift is stronger than you are but you weigh at least as much. If you can knock her down, get some leverage -

She staggers, you get a knee inside hers and throw her off balance. You both hit the ground hard and you try to knee her in the groin.

It's instinctive fighting, a desperate struggle to survive. Swift doesn't have to rely on instincts. She's had a lot of practice. She lets go of one of your arm just long enough to slap the ground, absorbing most of the impact as you topple over with her. Instantly she has you by the wrist and as your knee hurtles toward her belly she neatly blocks it with her leg. As you try to kick her again she tangles your legs with her own.

Long muscular legs muffle your efforts to kick her away and you feel the lash of an excited tigress's tail. She's enjoying the hunt and for a moment just lies there, foiling your efforts to escape with superior strength and skill. You try to kick, fail, try to yank your wrists free of her padded fingers, fail. Lying on your side with her you try to pull your head out of her gullet but she follows along, flexible as a cat.

Suddenly her muzzle begins to twist left and right. Bones pop and ligaments groan as her maw stretches impossibly wide and with a snakelike motion of her jaws she's over your shoulders and working her way down your chest. Swift swallows you almost casually. She doesn't even unsheathe her claws to hold you. She has you cold and she knows it.

Wet flesh slithers past your eyes as you slip deeper and the tigress's pulse drums in your ears. Her jaws are to your elbows and its getting harder to put up any real resistance. The chute of gullet wrapped around you pulsates as she swallows,and a great contraction of her throat muscles rolls over you, easing you deeper. The thick layer of slime on the walls of her gullet slicks you down for easy swallowing and your face pops through a muscular valve into the stinking folds of a tigress's stomach.

"No!" Acrid fumes sting your nostrils and your cheeks and eyelids sting as her stomach acids react to the presence of an arriving meal. Just your head bulges her trim belly. She swallows again and your shoulders slip in too. The bulge grows.

You're helpless now, swallowed to the wrists and only able to kick at her futilely. She blocks your kicks with her knees, absorbing the blows at the cost of a mere few bruises. She doesn't need to hold your wrists any more and digs her padded fingers hard into your buttocks. With a groan of effort she pushes your ass into her maw and there's nothing left but a kicking set of legs.

Mostly naked legs. Your waistband caught on her big canine fangs and they strip your pants off as she swallows. Your underwear don't quite follow and though they threaten to pull off as well, in the end they slip down her throat with your ass.

Her sharp teeth leave cruel welts on your hips and butt as she swallows you alive but you have much bigger problems than a few scratches. Swift is past your hips and heaves herself up on hands and knees with a grunt of effort. As she sits back her throat becomes a slimy vertical chute with a tigress's stomach waiting at the bottom. A toss of her muzzle and her jaws are to your knees.

"Why?" You squirm as she readies herself for the last few gulps. It's a rhetorical question. You know why. You saw the skunk-fur hairball and could identify the predatory murderess. The second you paused and looked down you were doomed.

It's even worse than that. She looked past you a minute ago, you realize now, not to spare herself the embarrassment of others seeing her throw up. She was making sure there was no one in sight so she could decide if she could eat you.

There's nothing personal about it. The predator will never know your name. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time and she was hungry after digesting the skunk. The wrong place for you and the right time for her to snatch another meal.

Swift tilts her muzzle back, taking in your feet with a last toss of her nose. Her fangs strip your walking shoes off, but your socks stay on. Even through them you feel the rasp of tigress tongue as her jaws clamp down around your toes. Slimy throat clenches tight around your calves. There is a last brush of sharp feline teeth as she tenses. With a wordless cry you tense, trying to the last to force yourself back out of the slimy stomach and back up her throat.

It doesn't work. Swift is too good at this and it's impossible to get a grip on the slippery stomach walls. All you can do is squirm helplessly as the tigress lifts her muzzle and swallows. Her throat pulsates and you feel the double bulge of feet move through her neckfur as she finishes her meal.

"No!" A last despairing cry as you slide heavily down her throat. Her belly, already grotesquely swollen, balloons to cartoonish proportions as the lumpy bulge of a swallowed man presses out through the fur. There is a brief resistance before a loosening, and even through her fur you feel the buttons pop off her top one by one. The last one flies off with a sound like a gunshot and she settles down on her rump, cradling her swollen belly in strong padded hands.

There is no escape. Tight-stretched as the flesh and fur around you is, that thickness of tigress is enough to hold you inside her. She finds the right places to grip, pulling hard enough to twist you awkwardly where you lie. A padded hand grips your cheek from the far side of the fleshy wall and through the walls of the stomach you hear her chuckle. With a wrestler's grip she muffles your struggles. You could cause her some discomfort if she let you fight now, but all she has to do is hold you still until you run out of air.

Thick droplets of stomach juices trickle down the walls, burning you wherever they touch. A shallow pool of of it at the bottom of the gut grows deeper with each drop. Your padded windbreaker provides a little protection but your socks and underwear are already soaked through. They seem immune to the tigress's stomach juices, just as the skunk's dress and fur survived.

The rest of you will not be so lucky. You are made of meat and bone and you're inside a predator perfectly evolved to live on exactly those things. A tiger's digestive tract is short and simple. Bad at digesting fruits and grains, very good at digesting you.

Your struggle is a doomed one. Your last real chance to escape was before she got her jaws past your shoulders. You still struggle, trying to find purchase on the slimy stomach walls, trying to escape the acidic fumes that contaminate the few sips of air that are all you have left to breathe.

You kick and squirm as her strong padded hands press in, and the combination of movement and pressure pushes most of the remaining air out of her gut. From inside her you hear the tigress let out a long, satiated belch. It's the last nail in your coffin and you know it. You won't get out of her the way you got in.

Today she came to the park and hacked up a mass of fur and clothing from some luckless skunk. Tomorrow she'll cough up your clothes and go looking for another meal. Maybe your underwear or socks will make its way out of her body with the rest of what used to be you. They are small enough to navigate her intestines and escape that way.

Your jacket will come back up, a slimy stinking mass. Maybe someone will find that mass, that ersatz hairball, and wonder what happened to you. It will be all that's recognizable of you, in the end. Hopefully no one will see her throw it up. You know what will happen if someone does. That witness will make the same trip down her throat that you just did.

You haven't heard about any giant hairballs at the park. No missing people, either. She'll hack up your clothes in another park, maybe in another state. In that park she'll take her next meal. She's too good at this not to do it as a habit. There's no telling how many people have disappeared down the tigress's gullet. You're just the latest occupant of her belly. When you're gone another will follow. Welcome to The Tigress Hotel. Enjoy your stay.

You whimper in the hot darkness as more acid comes tricking in. The pain will be over soon, at least. The slow gurgle is growing and the remorseless process of digestion is at work, dismantling you bit by bit. You went to the park a man. You leave it as tigress food.

You feel Swift clamber laboriously to her feet, unbalanced by a belly swollen big as the rest of her put together. At least you're causing her that much trouble.

She shifts, lifts a knee, and settles down again. It takes a moment to realize what is happening, then a curious rocking movement communicates itself through her body. She's not walking. She's riding something, some mount low-slung enough to clamber atop despite her overstuffed condition. Not a machine, but some living creature that came to the park with her. You wonder if it eats people too.

You curse. It's your last conscious thought. The hot dark presses in, the pool of acid grows. It's all over but the gurgling. The last thing you feel is Swift stroking her swollen belly and the last thing you hear, over the slow drum of her pulse, is the tigress letting out another long burp.