Alright fellas, this is a story that I've been aching to write for a long time now, and I'm very excited to have finally put pen to paper (so to speak), please let me know what you think of it. I plan on extending this into maybe a full blown book so let me know what you liked, what you didn't like and any anything in between. I value your input and critiques so don't feel you need to sugar coat anything, let me have it. I am but your humble servant. Now Without further ado.
Fyn forded an endless procession of wind and rain. The mighty gales curdled through his fur in massive ripples. The torrents drenched him to the bone, pelting him mercilessly from every side. It was as if he was in the crosshairs of two raging storm Gods, the squalls screaming against him so hard he felt on more than one occasion that he might be thrown backwards by its adamant billowing. After so many miles of this abysmal weather and so much misfortune on the road Fyn was beginning to lose all hope of reaching his destination in one piece. His optimism fluttered like a candle in this unending storm. He supposed that's just what he might look like to any miserable creature fool enough to be out at this hour, in these conditions; a tiny flame furred fox, naked as the day he was born, trapped in a maelstrom of wind and rain. When he had first set off nearly a fortnight ago he was filled to bursting with anticipation. In all his years as a royal courier never before had he ventured so far north, and never before with such a foreboding parcel.
Suddenly remembering, he clutched the tiny scrap of paper inside his paws for the thousands time since he set out. "Still there, still safe." It was a letter, as to its contents Fyn could only speculate, but the letter had been sealed by no less than fifteen glyphs. The most powerful Weavers from the king's own guard fixed the most archaic of magicks to it. Even Fyn, a royal servant, who had spent the majority of his life inside the castle walls, knew only enough about the Weavers to be wary of them. Rumors tell that the Weavers could reposition the elements of any substance; that the strongest Weavers could even call down elements from miles away, even rip them apart. Once during his travels he heard a barman swear by every God that ever lived or died that her brother once saw a Weaver vaporize a pickpocket just by looking at him. "Nothing left but a pile of dust." he had to sweep the remains of the poor sod up and chuck him into the trash himself. Fyn wasn't sure he actually believed that, but the story was enough to extinguish any curiosity the fox might have had about trying to decipher the contents of his message.
"Damn this rain, damn my sore feet, and damn those flea-bitten-sons-of-sheep-fucking bandits!" He had lost everything when they came down upon him. Fyn had been given a more than ample purse from the king's own treasury, and all the provision he could carry. A modest tent for shelter against the elements, a map, preserved foods, a knife, and clothing, now he didn't even have the clothes on his back all he had left was his parcel, and of course his life. Fyn realized now after the fact that his life was a luxury he might not have had if it hadn't been for the letter.
After being restrained and tied to a tree, a coyote with an eye-patch pulled the letter out of his pocket with a flourish after performing a far to intimate search for Fyn's gold. He linger for several moments longer than he needed to on Fyn's other pouch asking him if he guarded his family jewels as well as he guarded his king's gold. Sometimes Fyn truly hated being a fox, always being accosted by other beast's stereotypes. It was worth it however when he found the letter. The one-eyed coyote flipped it back and forth inspecting it with haphazard curiosity. Not everyone knew what a Weaver's glyph looked like and it seemed he was no exception. All that this coyote saw was a letter covered in strange sigils, circles and triangles and symbols, foreign characters that vaguely resembled words. The other bandits were rummaging through Fyn's pack, and squabbling over who would get what. A wolf gestured to the fox bound to the tree and announced, "Almighty boys, you can keep the kettles and berries; I'm getting the first round on the fox."
No one protested. Except of course Fyn, but they all ignored him. The wolf trotted over, casually unhinging the lock on his belt buckle. The belt jingled nosily at his side, lulling like a large leather tongue. The wolf had an air about him smug, and calm, and confident a dog that was used to getting what he wanted, and right now he wanted fox. Fyn wasn't sure what to do. Gratifying these mangy beast who were at this very moment robbing him blind was certainly not something he was looking forward to. One of them, the one counting his coins with an awestruck look on his long face was a Clydesdale, if he also wanted "a round on the fox." Things certainly won't turn out well for him.
The wolf had undone the laces at his crotch, and a soft white pouch emerged jutting from behind his pants. In an instant, the wolf's paws cradled Fyn's head, holding the fox's head firmly, but not roughly. "Relax little fox, yes we will be...re-appropriating your burden, but that doesn't mean we both can't make the best of the situation." Fyn's eyes darted around to look at the coyote with the letter; he was still just examining it, holding it up to the sun and squinting.
_ _The wolf pulled his sheath in close, pressing the wet fox nose into his white belly fur, it smelt like musk, and leather with a faint hint of something sweet.
Fyn just sat there on the ground, his arms squirming feebly behind his back, his nostrils flaring with the strain, huffing in the heavy stink of the wolf. He could no longer see the coyote; his entire world was of downy white fur, and a small pink fold of flesh that was slowly being parted by a shiny red wedge.
"Open it you idiot!"
The wolf began slowly massaging the area just behind the fox's ear, "Well get to it foxy." the wolf coaxed, "I haven't got all day."
Slowly, reluctantly Fyn's lips parted and his tongue slide the length of the bandit's sheath. He left a slick trail of wet fur in the place his tongue passed over, sensing the pressure of the lupine's hard-on behind the sheath. Fyn's tongue grazed the tip of the wolf's exposed penis, beading it with saliva. In that solitary move everything about the wolf transformed, his scent changed becoming more metallic, his posture grew tight, his grip more urgent. Fyn licked once, twice, thrice. The bandit began to roll his pelvic into the licks. Someone behind the wolf hooted, and jeer encouragement. "Gods Damn it open the fucking letter!"
During one of the wolf's more earnest thrusts Fyn could see that the one-eyed coyote was looking on with his one good eye, watching his pack mate's shinning red cock slip in and out in and out. The letter had been discarded and was now lying in the dirt as his feet. The lupine was never unnecessarily forceful, and his humping went together in an almost musical rhythm. It also didn't hurt that Fyn was indeed a fox; he knew how to handle wolves. All in all, the wolf didn't last more than five minutes. When the wolf finally came he hugged Fyn's face to his groin, firing torrent after torrent of warm sticky liquid down Fyn's throat. Groaning and grunting the bandit murmured one banal bit of praise after another, his shaft and fully engorged knot twitching incessantly. When he finally removed his member it streaked a few accidental shots across the vulpine's crimson face. The wolf apologized weakly as he fastened his pants, and latched up his belt buckle.
Fyn's head drooped to the ground, he was panting heavily and wolf semen drooled from his mouth, he was too exhausted to bother licking it away, too exhausted to be concerned about his pride, or how he must have looked. Not that it much matter with these lecherous bastards. He rested there panting for what seemed like only a few seconds before he realized that the knots that bound his arms behind his back had been undone. This was it, he thought, all it took was one blow job and they are letting me go. He didn't relish the payment surrendering his body along with all of his earthly goods, but the price was paid, paid in full and he was free to go. Fyn rose to his feet, or at least he meant to. A massive hand fell onto his shoulder and pushed him back down to his knees. He didn't understand at first until he realized the Clydesdale wasn't counting coins anymore.
Before Fyn even had time to process what was going on, his pants were snatched down, his rear exposed to the open air. It sent a shiver up his spine. Fyn's head spun to look over his shoulders, to leer into the beady eyes of his assailant. The horse was a monolith of short brown fur, his musculature was so tense he might have been carved from bronze, his dark eyes as unmoving as stones. What without a doubt was the most promenade feature stood erect more than two feet long and as fat as a baseball bat flicking now and then in the dewy morning air. The horse wore nothing but a dagger belted to his thigh, and something about the look in his eyes seemed to suggest he wasn't afraid to use it. Fyn turned to glare at the wolf. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" The wolf just shrugged and pulled bag of jerky from Fyn's pack. He brushed some dust and twigs off a tree stump, sat down for a front row seat, and took a bite of the salty meat.
"Have a heart fox, it's not often we run into any mares on the road, and the brothel whores are too craven to let Garth have any part of them but their tongues give the big guy a break." He took another big bite of jerky and chewed noisily. "You know you won't get very far in life being so selfish." "Give the horse a break, he's going to break me" He felt it, the domed mast of hot flesh slip down below his tail. "Damn it, I'm on my own. I'm not going to die like this, not now, not impaled on this fucking horse." Garth, the Clydesdale whinnied triumphantly and without further warning he plowed his member into the fox's much-to-tight anus. The force sent Fyn into a snarling rage, his chest arched into the dirt. This horse's aim was impeccable, with his first lunge he had implanted the enormous mushroom gland into the little red vulpine and from there the pressure only increased propelled by those monstrous pelvic muscles. Fyn didn't know what to do the pain blasted all logic from his head; he could feel the mad panic creeping in. He had only one chance to do this, only once shot to make this insane, impossible decision.
Fyn pushed himself backward throwing himself into the horse. The battering ram of a cock plunged suddenly much too deeply inside of him. It was only half way in, but that was more than enough to send solar flares of pain, he was seeing spot, but he didn't have time to think about that, he didn't have time to consider now he was close enough. The shock of pleasure stupefied the stallion, no one had ever done anything like that before, he hadn't even fully inserted himself and he was dangerously close to orgasm, he was really starting to like this fox. That was until the fox grabbed hold of the dagger strapped to his thigh. Garth's instincts drove him to snatch the fox's wrist before he had time to stab him, but the fox was too quick and he didn't seem to be aiming for him.
The dagger sailed through the air, glinting in the sunlight as it flew until it landed with a thud on a piece a paper on the ground, the letter the courier had been carrying. It was only a guess but if those glyphs where there to protect the letter what would happen if the letter was damaged? For a long moment no one breathed, nothing happened. There was no way to know what the spells would do, if they worked at all. His eyes grew large one second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
A roar of laughter broke out around him, even Garth was laughing, his cock rolling uncomfortably inside the fox with each booming laugh. The brown horse lowered himself onto the red fox's back, he was so much taller than Fyn that he nearly crushed him; the fox was easily half the horse's height and he was now at the perfect angle for penetration. When Fyn looked up he could see all the way up the Clydesdale's chest, he gazed horror struck up at the lower jaw of the giant of an animal. The horse's nostrils were flaring like the cock he had wedged between Fyn's cheeks, and instinctually Fyn knew it was over when the horse said those two simple words," You missed." Fyn's heart sank.
Light. blinding white hot light, a horrible deafening eruption of fire and air and earth and then, nothing. When the color returned to Fyn's eyes he found that he was laying naked in the dirt. For a long time he didn't move, his heart beating like a pack of humming bird wings, the tinnitus in his ears ringing so loudly he doubted he could hear himself if he screamed, and screaming was certainly something he felt like doing. All of his senses felt so violated and inept, even his muscles didn't seem to be able to function quite right; when he finally stood he was as clumsy as if he'd never stood before in his life. On his feet he could finally see the scope of what had just happened.
He was standing inside of a crater. Fyn took stock, there was no trace of his attackers anywhere, a paw went up to touch the wet spot on his forehead where the wolf's seed has been, only to find it was no longer wet in fact it was slightly singed. All of his fur was slightly singed and crispy. Any hopes of reacquiring his provisions were dashed, nothing anywhere, nothing except for a single rectangle of paper laying innocently on the ground, completely undamaged. Fyn stumbled over to it, picked it up and counted. Fourteen, one of the weaver's glyphs was missing.
That was five days ago Fyn recalled almost envious of the days before the endless rains. Normally he would have found a detour, a place that he could restock up on supplies and sleep under a roof instead of in a cave or out in the open, he would have purchased some clothes at the very least, but his map had been destroyed in the explosion and he hadn't happened upon a single village or hamlet yet. Not that it would do him much good if he did, beasts aren't typically in the habit of providing charity to rabid looking creatures, all of his gold coins had literally gone up in smoke. All he could do now was keep heading north. He was heading to a place called Zether to deliver an important letter from his liege lord to some northern king. It was his duty to serve the crown, to live and die for the kingdom; but lately he was beginning to fear that he might be dying for the crown sooner than he would care to. He's a royal courier now, a young, dedicated fox with a lifetime of adventures before him, but what would he be if he allowed himself to die here? Just some unknown, unnamed dead fox without even a badge of office to distinguish him. He doubted he would even be granted the decency of a grave marker, whoever found him would just toss his body off the main road and go about their business, and hopefully they won't try to open his letter. Somehow he didn't think they would be graced with the same protection he was when the weaver's glyph was activated.
The wind gusted against his face waking him up from his melancholy and then he realized something, something outrageous, something unbelievable - a miracle. Cobblestone. His feet were under cobblestone, the rain was beating against stones now, not soil and grass, and the water pooled inside the cracks between stones leaving a reflective film on the surfaces. Inside one of those pools was...light, candle light. Fyn stopped dead in his tracks, he had been walking so far and so long in the rain he keep his eyes trained on the ground, never once looking up lest his eyes be pelted by rainfall. He realized with a sudden astonishment that he wasn't going to die after all, a town. Not the largest town mind you, but it would have food, security, shelter. The soaking wet, naked fox followed the trail of light on the ground until he found its source, one of the only building with lights in the window, the only building that would have lights on at this hour, a tavern. Ale!
It was more than he could have wished for, from somewhere Fyn summoned up enough energy to run. For the first time in what felt like a century Fyn wasn't getting rained on, standing under the tavern's overhanging terrace, he could hear a cacophony of noise from inside the hovel; Beasts were shouting and singing and merry making, there was a shrill flute and a mandolin, and drums and the distant sound of laughter coming from within. The fox turned to look behind him, back from where he had came from the dreary suffocating darkness and immortal rains. He extended a digit to the void, turned on his heels, grasping the handle and opening the door.