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Justice, served wriggling

By Strega

Umbra stood barely six feet tall and weighed but two hundred pounds; for a gul female, quite small. Her lover Gaaren stood a foot taller and twice her weight, his rich brown fur a contrast to her near black. In any contest with weapons he beat her nearly every time; he was bigger, stronger, and better trained, which more than offset her superior speed.

Take away weapons and things tilted the other way. He spent his days with greatsword and mace, she, of the lightly armored scouting corps, learned to use her claws and fangs. So when he returned from the sparring field stripped of armor, wearing but an embroidered leather loincloth, the small she-wolverine pulled him down easily.

He could have protested more strongly and perhaps even thrown her off, but since she jumped him wearing even less than he let her throw him onto his back with good-natured indulgence. She straddled him, claws raking through his pelt almost hard enough to draw blood, and he returned the favor by nipping her breasts and belly.

Soon enough she crouched down, impaling herself as he unsheathed. She was as pleasantly tight as always and they growled in unison as she rocked back and forth atop him. It was nearly the fertile season, and was perhaps the last night they'd have together until her mating time passed. Each would have to find other outlets for their needs for a time, much as they enjoyed each other. She was not ready to interrupt her duties to bear cubs.

They had barely begun, but already Umbra's growls reached a shuddering peak. It would not be long at all until her claws dug in harder even than before. That was all right; soon enough it would be his turn. He grinned up at his smaller lover and arched his back to add force to her downward thrusts. Any minute now --

At that moment the door opened behind his lover. Flat on his back he couldn't see past Umbra, but the light footstep told him it must be a praka, one of the little raccoon-people.

The words that rumbled up out of Umbra had the sound of death in them. "When I turn around," she growled, "There had better not be anyone there."

No wanting to explain to his commander why a praka was splattered all over his room, Gaaren muttered his own warning. The intruder didn't listen, but instead stepped into view. Sure enough it was...Blossom?...he wasn't quite sure that was her name, but it was the plump little female raccoon who tidied the warrior's rooms when she wasn't helping the cooks. She was less than four feet tall and a mere fraction the weight of an adult gul.

Umbra's muzzle swiveled slowly toward the coonie and Gaaren gripped her thighs to hold her back. She felt that and tensed, her building lust forgotten. Things were about to get unpleasant for everyone concerned but he had to give the praka time to run. He had the scars still from the last time this happened; Umbra did not take interruptions well at all.

"Mistress Umbra," the little female chittered in praka-speak, "The Maker requests your presence immediately." She kneaded her hands, looking understandably nervous. "He said if you cannot come, he will find another to deal with the prisoner."

"Prisoner?", Umbra said, her ears pricking up. She dismounted without another look at Gaaren, reaching for her tunic. "Prisoner," and her voice was a grin now, though he could not see her expression as she pulled the cloth over her head. Gaaren relaxed his grip, breathing a sigh of relief.

Thirty seconds after the word 'prisoner' was spoken she was out the door. Gaaren lay blinking quizzically, his wet black cock steaming in the cool air. "Someone's going to have fun," he muttered.

"More than one someone," the little raccoon femme chittered as she glanced out through the door. No one was there to see her shut herself in the room with him.

No one but Gaaren, who watched with some amusement as she approached. He weighed nearly ten times as much as she did, but as she shucked off her apron and he got a look at the curves of her furry little body he decided that she would do just fine.

It was a mile from the fortified warrior quarters to the castle of the Maker. Umbra crossed that in seven minutes, running a hundred paces then walking the same in the wolf trot a well conditioned gul can keep up all day. Her breath fogged in the winter air and her broad, shaggy feet with their cruel white claws left melted patches in the dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. She had not bothered with her sandals, armor or formal attire, because if she was right the Maker did not need her to be presentable. No, if a prisoner needed to be dealt with then all her lord needed was her appetite.

She did not cover the distance in an all-out run simply because a lone gul sprinting toward the castle would cause alarms to be sounded. It would be assumed she carried some message of desperate import, perhaps an attack on one of the towns in the Maker's lands.

As it was, people saw her haste and expression and gave her a wide berth on the road. Umbra licked her chops in anticipation as she jogged and even pack animals shied away from a hungry gul.

The drawbridge was down and the portcullis raised. Behind the arrow slits were eyes, she knew, and spells that looked her over. Every powerful man had enemies and the Maker was no exception. Umbra stopped at the drawbridge and announced herself. "Umbra, daughter of Ragni, Lieutenant, second scout company," she growled. "I answer the Maker's summons."

Came a reply from an arrow slit: "Enter, Umbra," high and clear, the voice of a volpa foxman. "You are expected."

Unlike the outer keeps the Maker's castle lacked a courtyard. It was a great disk, flat-topped and ringed with towers. It was a great monolithic block of a building, at least as seen from without; the walls were thick and laced with defensive charms. From within it more closely resembled a conventional keep, with murder holes in the ceiling of the stone entrance hall. There was little in the way of ornamentation until she was three gates deep in the castle.

She made he way deeper, encountering others in the Maker's service. Little praka raccoon-folk, scullery maids, scouts, alchemists, jewelers, and assistants to the Maker. Elegant Volpa foxpeople, bards and archers and scholars and wizards. The occasional human or dwarf or other visitor, and the odd unique creation of her lord.

They all knew it would soon be the time when gul would not want, but need to take other-species lovers, and from little praka on up many an eye looked her muscular body over appreciatively. Volpa foxmen, popular off-species lovers even outside the fertile time, gave her sly looks and whispered complements. A pair of khardaki mercenaries, the lion magnificently maned and the lioness sleek and muscular, looked her over with interest. She returned the glances with frankly appraising ones of her own and smiled when she caught even a grizzled dwarf armorsmith looking her over.

And of course there were the gul, least in number but strongest in battle of the Maker's races. Hulking wolverines, some nearly human in shape and some feral four-legged sorts who differed only in intellect from their dire wolverine forebears. These warriors wore heavy, finely fitted steel armor; the two-legged ones carried swords and axes while the ferals had cruel steel claws to augment their own. Most she knew, for her species had existed for only half a century and numbered only a few thousand. She nodded to friends and acquaintances and continued on.

She'd seen the inmost chamber but once before. That had been to petition the Maker for a favor: she wished to be changed so to be able to swallow large prey whole. Only wealth, reputation, faithful service in his name, or, on very rare occasions, the good humor of the Maker could him to grant it. To her joy, he had done so. It had been nearly a year since her last chance to use it, but with any luck that would change tonight.

"Umbra, Lieutenant, second scout company," the volpa to the left of the door said. And then, "The Maker awaits." He nodded to the dais, its simple wooden chair and the man sitting in it.

He was a plain enough looking human, bald and tattooed of pate and wearing a saffron robe embroidered with cabalistic symbols. The lack of a runic R - the magic symbol - on his forehead meant this was the real Maker and not one of his simulacrums. Here in front of her was the man who created her entire race. Duke of Southfort, Alias, Ruhollah Rushiadah, The Maker; this arch-mage had many names.

"Lord Maker," she growled, and ducked her head respectfully. It was not he she looked at, though, and the Maker grinned as he followed her gaze.

To one side on the dais sprawled Lord Vrassry, chief general of the Maker's armies and as big a gul as Umbra had ever met. His fur was almost as dark as the pelt that gave her her name, matching the finely made black armor on his arms and legs. Big as he was he could not possibly stand now, for the fur of his belly was stretched thin. He picked between his fangs with a claw and grinned as she stared at the immense bulge in his gut; whatever he had swallowed was at least as large as his own massive frame. To one side lay his spear, along with the breastplate and helm he'd removed to get his enormous meal down.

There was movement beneath the pelt of his distended belly, constrained by his mighty hands. Whatever was in there badly wanted out, but the lord of the gul clearly had no intention of releasing his dinner until he was done with it. By then his prey would have no more say in the matter than any food does once properly digested.

The Maker chuckled and took a glass of wine from a little prakafemme. The same coonie hefted a heavy mug of ale over to the lord of the gul, who downed half in one gulp and burped contentedly. One massive hand pressed against his belly still, muffling the struggles of his doomed prey. The sight of it reminded Umbra she had cut short her mating and made her regret it. Suddenly she wanted Gaaren badly.

"A small celebration," said the Maker, and took a sip of wine. "A group of bandits who troubled the eastern trade route were ambushed this morning. Most were killed but a few were captured. Their leader provided me with some useful information before he went the way of all flesh." His gaze strayed to the vast bulge in his general's gut.

"Rank hath its privileges," Vrassry rumbled, and belched. Whatever it was in his belly gave a last kick and stilled, suffocated or digested to death.

The sight of that only excited Umbra more. It was awkward being so aroused in front of the Maker. Even if the human mage didn't sense it, the prakafemme, volpa or Vrassry himself might smell her need. Vrassry had sired dozens of cubs, but even if she were so inclined the general was in no condition to help sate her urges.

"Which brings us to you," the Maker said, and swirled the wine in his glass. "Among my followers are a few hundred with your abilities and way of thinking, who want very badly to stuff kicking, screaming prey down their throats. Now of course we can't have you eating everyone you meet, so rules have to be followed, and as a result there's never enough suitable prey to go around. For fairness's sake, when such a meal becomes available I pick a follower at random." He held up a slip of parchment he must have pulled from the bowl of the same near his chair.

Umbra couldn't help it; she licked her chops. Vrassry laughed, an almost subterranean rumble. The Maker smiled.

"I won't keep you," he said, and indicated a side door with his wineglass. "Through there is the last bandit, to do with as you wish. You may use the room until it pleases you to leave. There is of course indoor plumbing if you choose to stay until you are done with your meal. "

Rumor had it the Maker liked to watch his people deal with criminals. Watching them being eaten excited him, the stories went, and according to other stories he enjoyed watching while in the company of a pretty little prakafemme like the one at his side. Perhaps he'd watch her. Umbra didn't care.

"Thank you, Maker. General," she nodded to Vrassry in passing. Her hand was already on the door. An instant later it shut behind her and she saw her meal.

"Well," Umbra said. "Well, well, well." She hadn't known what to expect, save that whatever Vrassry swallowed was bigger than a human. Bugbear? Minotaur? A small ogre?

Tied up on the floor in the plain little waiting room lay a young male gul, only about as large as herself. Despite his youth his muscles were solid as oak and he struggled to free himself from the thick leather straps that bound his ankles and wrists. A further strap kept his arms secured to his sides, his hands against his belly. Sharp white claws lay on the floor all around him, his natural weapons trimmed off close to the quick. A leather muzzle restrained his powerful jaws.

"What have we here," she purred, and knelt next to him to stroke his belly. "Someone who has annoyed the Maker."

"Fuck the Maker," spat the youth from inside the muzzle.

"He's not my type. Humans, you know, you give them a little playful scratch and they bleed everywhere. I'm Umbra, by the way." She drew it out, 'Oombrah', the way her father did.

"Fass Strongclaw," said the youth, then "Stop that!" Umbra's hand had moved lower on his belly, finding the half sunken sheath. Young he might be, but old enough; it took only a little rubbing to bring the beginnings of stiffness to his hidden member. He tried to wriggle away and then to snap at her, but his bindings were strong and well placed. He could only squirm as his sheath swelled in her hand.

"Strongclaw," Umbra said. "Oh yes, that was one of the families who lost their holdings when the treaty with the elves happened. The Maker offered you other land but some families didn't take him up on it. Yours included I suppose."

He was trying to ignore her touch, but his body wasn't listening. Already he was hard and half out of the sheath. He wasn't as big as Gaaren, but the way she was feeling she'd have settled for a praka.

"We'll get our home back," he snarled. "My father will see to it!"

"Your father was a big gul, right?" Umbra remembered the vast bulge in Lord Vrassry's middle.

"Bigger than the two of us put together," the youth growled defiantly.

"I am sure the Maker will treat him with consideration," Umbra said as she straddled him. After all, their lord could have had the elder Strongclaw hung, or his throat cut and his body thrown into the midden with the garbage and the otyughs. The bandits had raided settlements and caravans and killed a lot of people. Getting a trip through Lord Vrassry's guts was an honor considering what usually happened to that sort.

"Get off," he growled, and thrashed futilely beneath her. It was too late to roll to the side, and he could only arch his back in a futile effort to throw her off. That was little different from the play she had with Gaaren and she grinned as she positioned herself. Despite his rage his body had reacted to her rubbing, and he could only snarl in frustration as she poised herself atop his erection.

"I plan to," she said as she sat down. There was a squelch as she impaled herself on nine or so inches of hard gul cock, and he groaned. Umbra grinned and raked her claws through his chest fur. Yes, he would do just fine.

He resisted to the end, trying to pull out or roll to the side and using what must be every curse he knew. If anything Umbra enjoyed it more the harder he struggled and bounced atop him, taking her pleasure from the reluctant young gul. She snarled her joy only a few minutes after she mounted him, coming in a long shuddering spasm. Beads of blood appeared where her claw tips dug into his chest. His young pelt wasn't as resilient as Gaaren's thick, scarred hide.

When she was done she sat atop him, panting. He'd run out of curses and just lay there growling at her. At the very end he'd not fought as fiercely and Umbra thought that it was not due to any sudden willingness to mate with her. Instead, she guessed that despite his hate and resistance the sheer physical stimulation had him close to his own finish. She decided to find out.

"What are you doing?", he snarled as she began to gyrate her hips. Not to please herself, this time; gripping him tight she worked her sex over his shaft. The sudden panic in his eyes told him she was right.

"Stop it," he groaned. "Stop it!" Umbra grinned and rocked forward and back.

"If it were a week later in the season you might leave me something to remember you by, boy." He was clearly on the edge and she rose from her crouch so his cock slipped slowly, reluctantly half out of her tightly clenched sex. It happened as she settled back down, forcing his shaft back into her vulva.

"Fuck you," he groaned, and shuddered. The big muscles in his thighs twitched against her rump and she felt the seed spurt deep inside her sex. Umbra smiled and rocked her hips, milking the rest of it out of him. It was entirely possible, given his youth, that she was his first gul lover - but likely not his first lover of any species, given the habits of the Maker's younger followers. In any case his orgasm was impressively lengthy; he was still shivering as she leaned down to kiss the leather muzzle around his jaws.

"You just did, silly." Her fingers slipped up his chest and behind his shoulders, meeting behind his neck to tug his face up toward hers. She considered telling him where his father was at the moment, but she'd had her fun already. There was just one more thing she wanted from the angry young gul.

His eyes went wide as she yawned. He froze for an instant as the pink maw unfolded around his muzzle, and managed just one protest. "Wait," he said, and then his whole head was in her mouth. He tried to pull back as she worked her jaws, loosening the joints for the coming meal, but she gripped his scruff to keep him from retreating too far. She didn't want to bang her nose on the stone floor, after all. Then, once her maw was properly distended around his cheeks, she swallowed.

There was a muffled whine as the leather muzzle, and Fass head, slid into her gullet. Umbra's powerful but rarely exercised swallowing muscles gripped his skull, sucking him nose first down her throat. His underdeveloped cheek ruffs flattened beneath her lips and disappeared, then it was the turn of his ears and the shaggy fur below his chin. Umbra had never had a gul meal before; the flavor of his pelt was little different than that of lovers she had licked, but his frantic attempts to extract himself before he slipped any deeper lent a special savor to his taste.

He panicked. His resistance as she rode his shaft had been angry, but well reasoned; he'd tried to knee her or roll so to pull his maleness from her sex. All through the rape, until his own climax, he'd kept his head. Now, though, he began to buck and wriggle almost at random, desperate to cling to life. Umbra clung tight, wrapping her arms around his chest and working her jaws bit by bit over his shoulders. Were he not tied up she'd probably have had to break a limb or two or perhaps even kill him before starting in on a meal like this. Getting an unrestrained, violently struggling meal as strong and well-armed as herself down her throat would be almost impossible no matter how eager she was for that to happen.

But he was restrained, not even able to use his hands to push her away as her jaws stretched over his upper arms. Umbra swallowed, working her jaws over his elbows as her throat muscles eased his head and neck deeper into her body. Her strong hands helped cram still more of him into her maw. Fass's shaft, still stiff due to its internal bone but shrunk from its swollen peak, slipped unnoticed from her sex as she pulled him up from the floor and into her jaws. It was a huge meal, but Umbra knew she could manage him.

Like most "gulpers" the first thing she'd done after being granted the ability was to swallow larger and larger prey - mostly livestock purchased from local farmers - to find her limits. A fortuitously timed visit to Greyston as part of a diplomatic security detail had given her the opportunity to visit the infamous Meat Market, and her first humanoid meal had been a condemned orcish thug a hair larger than herself. That had been a struggle almost as violent as this one, but just as she'd eventually heaved up the only indigestible bits of that meal - the manacles that'd bound the orc - so she was confident that Fass's fate was to be reduced to a hacked-up furball.

His struggles were almost pitiable now. Umbra rolled him onto his side and lay belly to belly with the young gul, her legs fending off his attempts to knee her as she stuffed him to the hips into her gullet. He simply could not defend himself; in fact, every time his knees smashed into her own the recoil communicated itself up his spine to force a bit more of himself into her maw. Somewhere down inside her his muzzle entered her stomach, and his doomed efforts redoubled as her digestive juices began to work on his nose and lips. He wanted, very badly, not to go where she was sending him, but Umbra was determined that this encounter would end with a belch. She dug her claws into his rump and yanked, her jaws lurching forward several inches as his hips were engulfed.

Nothing left but a pair of kicking legs, now, and those grew shorter by the minute as hungry Umbra swallowed repeatedly. Fass's head was forced against his shoulder as more of him entered the elastic, but tight and muscular stomach. Part of that tightness was due to a mistake on Umbra's part; in her excitement she had forgotten to take off her tunic. With no loincloth underneath it had not interfered with the rape, and it was not until Fass' shoulders entered her torso that the degree to which it was a problem became evident. Bit by bit the tough fabric grew tight until it stretched over her swollen body like the skin on a drum.

Umbra ignored the increasing discomfort of this at first, for it had been so long since her last massive meal that she confused it with the naturally painful process of working a broad-shouldered meal as large as herself through her ribcage to her stomach. It wasn't until her vision grayed around the edges that she realized the danger: With massive pressure from the inside and tight fabric outside, the already difficult task of expanding her lungs during such a meal became nearly impossible.

She caught it just in time, and her hands snapped from Fass's knees to her own sides. No time for subtlety; her curved claws ripped into the already stretched seams and tore. The pelt beneath was stretched as tight as the fabric and she gave herself several painful scratches before the already overstretched seams let go. Umbra sucked in a painful, straining breath as her lungs once more were able to expand. If she had hesitated even a few more heartbeats she might have lost consciousness; it was not unheard-of for new gulpers to die in this manner, wrapped around a too-large meal or suffocated by their armor or clothing. It was a mistake she would not make again.

Fass might take some comfort from her brush with death if he didn't have problems of his own. Umbra had arrived ravenous in anticipation of her meal, and as her salivary glands had produced extra drool to slick him down for swallowing her stomach went to work readying itself for the meal. By the time his head was fully in the female's stomach his nose, lips and eyes were burning. The thin fur on his muzzle didn't offer much more protection than the naked skin of his lips, and even the thicker fur of his cheeks and neck was soon saturated with acid. By the time his shoulders arrived to join his head and neck Fass was screaming into the wet darkness of Umbra's stomach. He was being digested alive.

The struggle exhausted him and used up what little air had gone down trapped in his fur. Even as Umbra worked her jaws laboriously past his knees and prepared to finish her meal, Fass was dying. As she lay swollen, only her limbs and head able to move, and as she stretched out her muzzle to take in his heels his feet gave a last kick and stilled. Umbra blinked, disappointed, but there was no help for it. With a last wriggle of her jaws she got Fass's feet into her mouth, got her tongue beneath his heels and swallowed. Heels, then instep, and finally his toes with their short-clipped claws went down, a series of bulges moving through the thick fur of her neck.

It took three more gulps to finish the job. Bit by bit the young gul's limp legs made their way down her throat, knees and calves and ultimately his feet squeezing through the sphincter dividing her throat and stomach. Umbra worked her jaws to get the complex assortment of joints and elastic tendons back into their proper places. With a last pop her jaws resumed their shape, and her mouth shut in a long, fanged smile. Stretched out on her side, midsection so distended she could not have stood, Umbra dug her fingers into her thin-stretched pelt and grinned.

"Pleased to meet you, Fass," she snarled, and belched. It was the first time she'd eaten a fellow gul. Maybe it would be the last; time would tell.

Gaaren was curled up on a thin sleeping mat in the corner of his quarters, with a pelt or two for padding. He blinked awake and yawned lazily, then snapped his jaws shut as he saw what was coming in the door. Umbra, swollen almost to immobility, had to be helped in by another gul soldier. She wasted no time collapsing half on top of him, jolting him fully awake and causing him to spit a string of profanity. The other soldier just grinned and mock-saluted as he went out the door.

"God, woman, what did you eat? Did the Maker stuff a bugbear down your throat?" Then he paused, sniffing. There was a saying he'd picked up from a Hestan cat-woman he'd bedded: "Lovers have only one scent." Umbra had mated, and recently, and with a gul. The bulky shape straining out through her belly fur resolved itself on closer examination: a small gul, curled up and in only the earliest stages of digestion.

"Now that's different," he said, and grinned. "I've been saying you need to take some time off to get a big belly, but I don't think your lover here much appreciated fattening you up this way."

Umbra groaned and slapped as his hand as he poked her side with a claw. "Stop it. I'm stretched so tight I will burst if you..." Then she paused as well, rammed her nose against his belly and took a good whiff of his scent.

"Whoa now, woman. Much as I appreciate it, you're in no condition to play." Her muzzle had missed the tip of his half-buried sheath by two inches.

Umbra glared up at him. "You fucked the maid! The second I was out the door she was wrapped around your cock like a belt, wasn't she?" The smell of lust was thick in his fur, that of his own excitement and seed and that of a female praka. Umbra didn't pay much attention to the little coonfolk, but she knew that smell. Blossom's scent lay thick in Gaaren's pelt. They must have been all over each other.

Gaaren just grinned slyly. "I've always liked the smaller ladies," and patted her on the head. "But not that small. I'd never have believed that a coonie half my height could 'wrap herself around me', but she did. Turns out Blossom's had five, six kids, and I guess that stretches a woman out some. Her hubby has a little trouble satisfying her these days, so she broadened her horizons." Twice he had to dodge her clumsy but sharp-clawed swipes; luckily she was too gorged to fight.

"I bet you broadened her!" Umbra snapped, but she was too full to stay angry. "Oh, it's all right, love. You'll need someone in a week or two when I am on heat, and that volpa bitch you were buggering last year has a boyfriend now. You need someone to distract you so we don't end up in bed and I with a fat belly for the normal reason."

As she calmed Gaaren came close once more, kneading her swollen belly with his powerful hands. Just enough of Fass had digested to form a liquid layer beneath her tightly stretched pelt; patches of his own fur detached from the muscle floated in a slick of acid and half-dissolved meat. Gaaren explored the shape of the skull where it bulged from her side, the curves of bone outlined by her drum-tight hide. While the flesh went quickly, the bone would take longer, but it too would eventually go. When she was finally done with the young gul the only residue of her meal would be extra layer of fat. When even that was gone, burned off by her active lifestyle, all that would be left of him would be memories and, should she decide to keep it, a coughed-up mass of indigestible fur.

"Did he enjoy himself, before the end?" Gaaren continued the belly rub, never having seen her this full and perhaps thinking it felt good to her. In fact, it did; the big male's persistent but gentle kneading helped her grotesquely distended gut come to terms with the enormous meal. Bit by bit her aching pelt stretched to accommodate the bulge. Soon enough she lay smiling beneath his ministrations, able to relax at last.

"Not at all," she growled, and a last belch percolated its way up as his fingers dislodged some hidden pocket of air. "But it was not my job to make him enjoy his end. He was a bandit and a murderer, a betrayer of the covenant with the Maker. I dispensed justice for my lord. I just happened to get a meal out of it."

"Wiggly justice?" Gaaren said, stretching out beside her on the mat. He spooned against her back and nuzzled her nape, his great frame so large he bulked near her well-fed size. Though he stank of prakafemme and must have spent himself repeatedly on the coonie, she felt the stiffness of his sheath against her rump. He was polite, given her swollen state, and the gentle nip he gave her scruff was a message that he would leave the decision to her. He would pretend disinterest if she was too full.

"Not any more," Umbra said as she moved her tail out of the way. She reached back to grasp his hip, tugging him closer as she pushed back. He slid out of his sheath and into her, so much tighter than the now-digesting Fass. His fangs dug into her scruff and powerful clawed handed wrapped around her belly as he began to thrust.

It was perhaps the last night they could visit before the fertile time, and raccoon or no raccoon, Fass or no Fass, she didn't want to waste it.