FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Pigs.

They're all I can see at first. Pink- and brown-skinned porkers of various breeds trotting around in the muddy filth that covers the ground beneath their hooves, forming a mass that shifts around under the dull, dispersed light spraying from the distant fluorescent bulb over the small, wooden-fenced pen. Pairs of pointed ears spring up above the mass of mingling bodies, quickly followed by creepy black, dull eyes and grubby snouts. Curly tails twitch in the air above plump rears and pairs of giant, jostling balls. Some of them raise themselves off the ground, twisted pink erections stabbing towards the nearest hole between another boar's dirty buttocks. The squeals and grunts seem to get louder. The boars don't seem to be picky.

Then I start to see things that, until recently, you wouldn't expect to see in a pen of squirming, grunting, rutting pigs. Some of the raising heads still carry the hints of human faces. Sometimes the eyes staring out of the fleshy faces aren't animal black; they're human brown and blue. Thickening tusks protruding from the squealing mouths push past lips that still look like they belonged to someone who could talk or kiss you back. Sometimes the ears aren't quite in the correct beastly arrangement on the head. I catch knees and shins, and even hands, sliding through the mud. Sometimes, the rears getting mounted are tailless, and the penises doing the thrusting not looking beastly enough. There's lots of muddy streaks on the sides; some are clearly handprints slapped by an encouraging human hand. Even some of the cries and moans contain just recognisable words in them.

I wonder if it's just a hallucination. After all, I've only got the latest news and the words of these two farmers that what they've given me isn't just going to send me on a wild trip. Did I really know what was in the stuff they injected in my arm a few moments ago?

It's too late. It was too late when I came out here to park amongst the other cars and vans and bikes that ate through the top layer of grass, as if the drivers had already become pigs. It certainly is now. A pinprick bud of intense pain has already blossomed into a full-body fever. The night air covers me in goose-pimples, but I no longer feel the bite against my naked skin. My whole body quivers from the hot pulses shooting through me. My legs wobble like wet noodles. The two burly guys running this spectacle are the only thing keeping me upright; one props up each arm.

One grabs my chin, turning my face to meet his. His face pulses along with my heartbeat. The drugs have robbed my brain of his name. I can't even remember if they're brothers, lovers, or both. "Ready?" His hand is rough and strong, matching the body straining against his flannel overshirt. Unwashed sweat and other scents fill my head as I breathe whatever's coming off his sleeve. I want to look down, curious if it's their arousal I can smell, or that it's just from the pigpen. I can smell my own, too, but that's no surprise.

The other guy nudges an answer out of me; I just nod and grunt weakly. If they can't tell by the star-hot erection slicing into the air, then no words are going to help. I guess they accept that as an answer, because my support crew then bend down, my body slouching over as they each grab one of my legs. They lift me over the fence, gently throwing me into the pen.

I hit the ground hard, even though it's soft and mushy, and my back stings from the impact. The nearby boars scramble away, loud squeals filling my ears as they are annoyed at the interruption. I groan, turning over slowly. The shock of landing doesn't last long, and the tingle disappears and the pigs return to what they were getting up to. One of the farmers mumbles something incoherent as they both lean over the pen, watching us.

I groan, the vague - and, I hope, unrealistic - panic of being eaten alive by pigs throbs through my drug-addled head as I panic over just how little room there seems to be. I try to find my footing, acting on old instincts, but my legs continue to be stubbornly useless. My arms feel weak too, so when I do manage to turn myself over I can only crawl around, my head at pig-height. Realising that gives me an odd thrill. I feel a bump, and twist around, wondering if any of the boars have taken an interest in the newest rear end in the pen.

When I turn back, I'm staring into another man's face.

I blink, my head still reeling that I didn't see anything that human when I was looking before. He's still there when my eyelids open again. He looks a little worse for wear, with a trickle of dried blood coming out of each red, pulsing, swollen nostril. Either he was clumsy or the pigs got a bit rough; or maybe the thick ring piercing his septum is a recent addition and the transformation doesn't like it. His mud-splattered forehead wrinkles, his brief smile getting knocked off as a boar slams a dirty trotter right onto his foot. An ugly ring of long black hair surrounds the top of his head, matted and muddied near the freshly-balded central spot. His smile returns, the corners of his lips parting open to show off the two oversized canines pushing out of his gums.

"Hey!" he greets, his voice hoarse. Even though we're nearly close enough to kiss, I can barely hear him over the din. Things in the pigpen seem to be gearing up. He seems to still be acting on instinct, reaching up one of his hands to shake mine, then pausing as we both give them a good stare. The flesh between pairs of swollen fingers has started to fuse together, the skin between them knitting closer as his dirty nails start to crack and peel off.

His hooves, I realise. They're peeling off so he can grow pig hooves.

Arousal grips me. I can almost feel the slow, steady march of the boar growing inside the stranger in front of me. He twists his outstretched hand, apparently numbed to what should be horrific pain as they turn into trotters. His gaze shifts to the one still in the mud, his mouth opening and closing in pleasured moans. I watch his face; is it my imagine, or are his tusks already longer? His snout certainly seems to be increasingly prominent. I lick my own lips, feeling the raised enamel buds of my own teeth as his eyes look towards me.

My reason for coming here returns, and I start to lean in forwards, wanting the thrill of kissing a stranger with the same kinks as me. My limbs wobble, and I slide back involuntarily as I try to maintain my balance on the slick mud. My rear end slams into the wall of warm flesh behind me, which jiggles. I hear an annoyed squeal, and twist my head around to look.

"Just a pig," I think instinctively. The illusion doesn't last long, because although this guy was probably one of the first in line, I can still see the slowly-retreating pattern of an elaborate tattoo peeking out from a patch of mud. From what I can tell, it's the only hint that he was ever human. There's nothing but animal emotions in his face or eyes as he squeals, moving away as we all squirm and shift around in the small pen.

"Sorry." I don't even know if he can understand me. If I had the strength, I'd shrug. When I turn back, the world spins for a while. My head's pounding as the fire overwhelms me. I suddenly need to pee, and very badly. My body reacts immediately; I don't even bother thinking of it as embarrassing. I feel the warm stream pour out of my body, leaving and almost ticklish, maddening glee running along my shaft as I try to shake the annoying doubled vision from my head.

The first pig-man I met is still there. I'm surprised by how quick his transformation has advanced in such a brief time: the ring of hair has depleted further, and it looks like invisible fingers have seized the tips of his ears and are busy pulling them into a new shape. The nostrils bulge, flaring at me as he moans. "Hey, you wanna..." The rest of the words catch in his throat, bubbling out in a piggish squeal. His dirty skin shines with sweat, streaking through the mud as he twitches him place.

I know what he means. I wonder what he looked like before; if I could focus, I would've been able to take a guess, but right now I'm just admiring his growing jaw with a mixture of pointless envy and attraction. Our eyes lock, our mouths opening; I can see how angrily red his gums are as we shift in towards a kiss. It's hot and clumsy, and the boars buffet us around so it's not completely satisfying. It still makes for a good bit of human foreplay, though I doubt either of us need it.

We pull apart; it's hard to get the right position to kiss when both your faces are extending outwards at the jawbone. I glance down at my fingers sinking into the mud. Is the flesh on them growing together, or is it just my throbbing vision causing them to blur together? As they slide through the mud, small rocks and firmer bits of the ground underneath rub up against flesh I'm not sure was there only a few moments ago. This time, I'm the one who's moaning at my own metamorphosis.

Even in the blurriness at the edges of my vision, I can sense there's less humanity in the pigpen than there was just a few moments ago. It's almost tangible, like a shadow of weight that I can feel just beyond the overwhelming burning pumping through me, half-lust, half-transformation. I know what must be happening: bones snapping one second, only to reknit into a slightly different configuration the next; muscles pulling beyond their natural elasticity to shift around the changing skeleton; flesh changing, cell by cell, from that of one creature into a completely different one.

I go to move; I'm not sure what we're going to do next, but I don't think either of us cares to plan or discuss. We just want to do. Then I stop; our moment of bonding as a pair is interrupted when one of the other boars, much farther gone, waddles up to him, sticking his snorting, muddy snout right into his rear. He glances back from the shock of cold mud and hot flesh pressing into a sensitive area. I hear the slobbery wet sounds of the tongue wriggling around next to a tight hole.

I can't see much of this third wheel's lower face, other than his obvious snout. There's no humanity left in the black orbs sunken into his brown, fleshy forehead. There's none in his genitals, either: if someone's going to interrupt me having sex, I'm going to want to see why. They're hard to miss. Grotesquely large balls twitch between his legs, swelling past his buttocks. His pink cock corkscrews out of a sheath of brown, prickly flesh before extending into a smooth shaft.

He's not completely consumed yet though. The boar-man moves with surprising speed on his transformation mid-point limbs. Partially-hooved fingers lift up from the muck to push apart the cheeks in front of him. His legs slip about, his rear trotters trying to gain traction while his legs are still too long and unsuited for that stance.

After checking out the competition, I go back to just watching what's happening. The surprise has drained out of his partner's face, leaving only lust behind. He opens his now obvious pig snout to squeal as his lover's tongue probes his hole. I can hear the licking, still going like crazy. I look at his eyes, watching as the colour starts to darken. I don't know if it's a sign of his mind submitting to the sensations of his new body, but I believe it to be. He's definitely enjoying himself.

The chemicals continue to eat their way into my brain in the same way they've soaked through my body. I'm both jealous and turned on by the continuing performance before me. My cock is as still as a metal pole, and feels white-hot. Grunting in a still-human way, I drop my rear. My body shakes as I shift my legs into a sitting position. The cold muck underneath me invades my crack, sending a chill shudder through my body.

As I get comfortable, I continue to watch. The rimming has stopped; the more-transformed boar pulls his head out, letting the buttocks go at the same time. I can kind of guess why; now they barely look like hands at all. His muddy bulk slides forwards, and I hear them squeal at each other, watching the pig cock's tip bounce and disappear into the changing fold of flesh at the rear of my acquaintance. He squeals again; probably, I guess, because of the stabbing of the corkscrewed shaft into his rear.

My own changing hands find the decreasingly familiar way to my dick. It's not gone untouched by the chemicals surging through by overheated body either. Although nowhere near as far gone as the rigid pig pole I've seen under the two males in front of me as they start to rut, I can easily tell what's changed from the familiar sight between my legs. It's longer, but thinner, as if the volume was kept as constant as possible. It feels harder too. My sack suddenly groans; I was so caught up watching the boars fucking in front of me that my own needy balls now feel neglected. They swell down, the scrotal skin tugging them into the mud-coated crease at my rear.

I stroke as best as I can. It's hard to really get a grip on it, and I can smell burning bacon from just touching it, but it also feeds a need that is clawing for attention. Once I start, I can't stop. Erotic thoughts bounce around my mind like pinballs, knocking away everything else. My nostrils twitch, another changing part of my brain starting to interpret the scents differently. I'm doing better at telling the pig smells apart, although it's really hard to tell over the growing smell of pig spunk. I moan, a real animal sound now, as I feel the ghostly fingers grab my ears and feet, and the scrape of my tusks against my straining lips.

The rutting males in front of me finally align. The brown one on top slides forwards, trotters sliding through the mud. The pink one squeals, the last of his hair disappearing into the mud. I snort, smelling the bottom's piggish dick as it stretches and grows and twists into its new proper shape. Each rough thrust comes with squeals and heat. I give a brief look at his face, and struggle to remember the human features that are quickly fading away.

I grunt more, getting off on the true boarish quality it has. A part of me, dulled by need, feels a little disappoint I can't relish the act of transforming more. The need of my growing, bloating balls is too strong. Either my growing boar side can't control himself, or pig lust is too potent for my self-control. I ignore the wriggling nub of my tail, and the feeling of hairs, strand by strand, trickling down the side of my face. I can even ignore the chill as more of my swelling sack starts to touch the mud.

Maybe next time.

I continue watching the rut and trying to get off. My hand's moving as fast as possible, but the changes are making it hard to hold on. The digits have mostly fused, but there's enough of a gap for the moment to run my growing, transforming cock between them, giving me just enough tactile stimulation to feed the need. My other nearly-changed hand rubs at my stomach; I was never exactly ripped, and I don't look overly fat now either, but the muscles in my chest are changing, spreading out around my sheath.

The grunting before me reaches fever pitch. Suddenly the scent I've been smelling even before I arrived - it wasn't that long ago, but those memories are already hazy - is just overwhelmingly intense. The grunting boar has climaxed into the other, his body shuddering as his seed squelches and squirts around his shaft as he fills his lovers guts with fluid.

It's too much for me.

The scent. The lust. Trying to keep indulging the way that a human would. Watching that boar cum seems to shred whatever's holding me back. My last lucid thought before my human side goes under is to wonder if my eyes are starting to turn back.

My body hasn't caught up to my brain, and I struggle to move what I expect my legs to be. I still move, burying my snout into the cool mud. My prickly-haired, rounding sides brush up against those of my pig brothers. I push past. Any of their holes would sate me, but I know the one I want.

The brown boar is still inside, pumping out his massive balls' equally massive load. I don't care. A quick sniff is enough to tell me that he's already taken a load or two tonight, so I don't bother. I want to tongue it, but I can't yet. I can't think.

I need to cum.

I grunt, and mount on his back. My fiery boar dick stabs the air, the flesh twisting. Our three bodies jiggle as I start to thrust. My aim is off, but I know what I want. He squeals for me, wanting me as much as I want him.

Must cum. Must cum. Must cum.

The male beneath us shudders, ejaculating from the further thrusts and the increasing smell of pig spunk trickling out of his ass. It just makes me want the hole, and it's relief, even more.

Find the hole. Find the hole.

I slide in. His insides are still hot from the change. The folds slide out as my hot flesh enters him. I start to bounce. A squeal shudders out of me. Our bodies jiggle as my thrusts get faster.

Must cum. Must cum must cum must cum.

In and out, over and over. I'm surprised. I feel I'm filled with spunk. How have I not ejaculated yet?

Must cum must cum must cum.

My cock delves deeper. I hear a noise, from outside the pigpen. I barely give it a thought. It's no threat.

Must cum.

I hilt as the male beneath us slides out. We shudder as my first fuck drops down, with me following. I smell the cum on his ass. I smell the jizz leaking from his dick. He snorts and snuffles at my rear. I don't mind, or think about what it means much.

Almost there...

My boar's head opens, my black eyes staring up at the sky, unseeing. My seed starts flowing: through my balls, then my insides, until it gets into the long shaft still slamming into a boar's rear end. Some invisible force sucks it out of me like a straw, wriggling sperm gushing out. My body shakes in pleasure, as satisfaction fills in. A still-dripping, hot point stabs my balls as I feel a boar slide on top of me. I grunt, knowing the feeling of the flesh around me. In me.

Pigs.