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"Madam Sheriff, you must not understand the scope of the problem."

Sheriff Scept put her face into her paws. The feline woman was an illustration of anticipated regret. "What if I said please?" she moaned. Her small town couldn't afford mage hunters. Well, it could afford them, but it couldn't afford them.

The town wizard, a mahogany mink man named Mep, wiggled his whiskers imperiously. "They're entrenched, Sheriff. They tagged my tower! They tagged my tall tower! With glitter paint!" he plaintively warbled.

Scept looked at the wiry wizard with a wry gaze. He often complained people didn't take him seriously, and then said things like that, while attempting to puff himself up even taller. He wore robes that fell straight to the floor from his shoulders and accentuated his slender, beanpole physique. She peeked a golden eye out from under chocolate-colored, furred hands. "And you're sure you can't do it yourself?"

He sniffed. "Hmph! Count yourself lucky. If I were old enough to know the magic to wrangle a gaggle of giggling gadflies, I'd be too wrapped up in the philosophy of it to do so."

Wizards lived a long time, and while it was nice if some centuries-old master was on your side, long lives with access to power left people a little... eclectic. The Sheriff's small town, however, didn't warrant a wizard so wise. So they had Mep. "And how old are you?"

"What!" He actually hopped backwards, affronted. "How old are you?"

"Forty-one."

"Oh."

Scept finally looked up from her hands and glared at him. In her crimson shirt and bright azure jacket, all sharply cut to wrap her muscular body in authority, she was intimidating when she chose to be, even in this tiny, cluttered room she called an office. "What."

"I'm thirty-three."

"Are you even out of college?"

With the grace to be sheepish, he answered, "I only have seventeen more semesters before I get my B.S. in divination." The long lifespan and awesome power were at least punished with maddening amounts of required schoolwork.

"All divination is B.S.," Scept muttered under her breath.

"I divine that you're upset. I can do that much."

"Fine. Call the mage hunters. But just one. I won't have a pack of them tearing up my town."

"Well. I'll send a raven for Hunter Hasker, then."

"Let me tell the Mayor first, at least."

There was a flap of wings and a corvid croak_._ Mep looked guilty. "The raven is sent."

Scept narrowed her gaze. "Fine. Then you explain it to him, and you figure out where Hunter Hasker will be housed."

The humbled hermit hustled out. How in the world had he sent the raven so quickly? It was like he'd had the message already written. The mink was up to something. Mep never wasn't.

--

"I thought you said you called them!" Scept screamed behind her as she cocked her crossbow, aimed, and fired again. A hasty shield deflected the bolt before it could hit her target, a wolverine in black robes and intricately stained hides who had stormed into the town hall. His name was, as he'd said many times while making demands between volleys of crossbow fire and magic missiles, Graxigor the Poxbringer's Pope Primeval, Filbert. He and his gang of rogue mages had finally done what such groups always done and decided it was time to conquer a town. They always did, always, always got cocksure and decided they needed to own a town. Except they kept referring to it as a "die-ocese," because half of them were still teenagers.

"I did! You saw me do it!" Mep squeaked. Scept's cover fire had given him time to finally put a proper shield between them and their assailants. The civilians who weren't harmed had been herded into their homes or into a makeshift bunker in the grain barn. Scept's only deputy was disabled by a snarl of angry-looking vines that had burst through the floor - the work of a druid, no doubt. What was a druid helping a dark cleric? These parties never made sense.

"Where's the mayor?" she hissed as she retreated another step back to Mep and reloaded.

"Basement," he whispered back. Inept though he seemed, Scept had to admit that the array of shields Mep erected in front of them was impressive. Luminescent and blue, like looking through stained glass. A sharp-eared squirrel in a black robe that matched the wolverine's approached the shield as they watched, though, and barked a word as he gestured. Two layers of shielding simply vanished, and a fireball smashed into the last one, vaporizing it. For a wizard as young as Mep to hold this many back for this long was an achievement. The defenders just didn't have the numbers.

"Oh no," Scept whispered as the bandits closed in.

The side of the building exploded in wood shrapnel. Dust billowed in from the streets outside. Where there had been a sturdy wall of quality timber was now a nine-foot high, man-shaped hole. And, standing just inside it and framed by it, there was a mage hunter. He smirked around a gleaming tusk that jutted up from his jaw.

"Thought I'd..."

"Don't say it," Scept snapped. This was why she hadn't wanted to hire him.

"... make an entrance."

"Goddammit."

--

Hasker surveyed the battlefield, such as it was. The town hall was little more than, well, a hall. Except for a few offices attached to the back, it was a converted barn with some rows of benches for seating, a desk for the council - which was probably just these two and the mayor - and a small soap box for speakers. He had, unsurprisingly, immediately become the center of attention. On one side were a feline swordswoman with a crossbow and a single, young wizard, both at last able to put the desk between them and their unwelcome constituents. The same couldn't be said for a lupine deputy that had gotten completely entangled in grasping vines. On the other side were seven black-robed figures led by a wolverine in a kitschy warlock's hat that looked plucked from a fairy tale. In between the two embattled forces now stood Hasker, a nine-foot tall, half-orc werewolf. His fur was a greenish shade of brown, like a woodsy lichen. Both arms were adorned with furred leather bracers and ropes intertwined with teeth from some large carnivore or another. He only wore enough of a loincloth that he could pretend he was being civil, but the flap of deerskin left little to the imagination.

Hasker sniffed, breathing in the assorted scents. He knew he seemed more beast than man. Teeth so yellowed as to be nearer to bronze protruded from his jaws, two lower tusks and two upper fangs. The whites of his eyes were, instead, a dim orange that surrounded crimson irises. Two heavy, old scars creased the right side of his face. His nose held a heavy, iron piercing from which hung more trophy teeth. And besides all that, he was monstrous. His were form was titanic, but lean. Muscle cut into his skin as a mountainous landscape, its precise definition starting low on his hips and rising, mound by mound, to the great expanses of his pectorals. His upper body seemed impossibly broad for his frame, until you considered his tree trunk thighs and the enormous feet beneath them. Thumb-thick tendons stretched along his toes, more akin to corded steel than mundane flesh.

The sniffing wasn't just for show. Deep inhalations gave Hasker the equivalent of visible threads to each magic user in the room that defined their magic by their scent. From the faintly fermented fruity flavor, he was sure the wolverine was a cleric for some dark god or another, despite the impressive hat. Two others shared in that same odor, so they were likely his acolytes: a burly river otter and a diminutive mouse in similarly-decorated hides, wielding maces. From back in the corners wafted the smoky, woody, barbecue smells of two warlocks, a pair of twin red foxes carrying wicked scimitars and looking ready to cast puny cantrips until the end of time. Finally, flanking their leader were a loam-and-leather smelling badger druid and a spicy, chilis-and-fire dragonkin squirrel sorcerer.

Altogether, they were a banquet. Hasker felt his loincloth stir as he thought about his options and started salivating. Oh yeah. This was the stuff he never tired of. He rumbled out a low sound of arousal that vibrated through the open area.

He faintly heard, to his right, the sheriff mutter to the town wizard, "Oh, skies, is he getting off on th- are you getting off on this?!"

And then it started.

"Mage hunter!" snarled the leader in outrage. He turned to his crew and barked, "Don't cast- Serge, no!"

Too late. These small fry were so dependent on their sneaky little spells, they couldn't help themselves. Respect to Serge the squirrel sorcerer, though: He knew not to pull punches against powerful predators. Fire ripped out of his scaled fingers as he screamed an incantation in the language of dragons. It formed into a roiling sphere of flame, then brightened in a series of flashes as the little guy cranked the amplitude using the innate, nature-breaking powers of his class. It all happened in an instant before the incandescent sphere was sent hurtling towards Hasker, faster than he could hope to react.

If he had wanted to.

The fire set the floor and ceiling alike to smoking where it passed, then splashed over Hasker's form, bathing him in its sorcerous, pseudo-draconic heat. He bellowed as his frame was masked by the blow and took two steps back as the force alone lowered him into a crouching stance. A dismayed yelp sounded out from somewhere to his right and frantic orders were being shouted to his left while the flames licked across his skin. And then, Hasker's face and body emerged from the inferno. His head was tilted backwards with his eyes were closed. He shuddered, the movement audible. And then, while six casters prepared spells to try and follow up the blow that had seemed to stagger him, the great wolf swallowed.

He didn't have to. The magic had been drunk into him by his abilities from the moment it got near him, and his physical throat had nothing to do with it. But the picante scent of it enlivened him, suffused him like a hot meat pie on a cold day, and he gulped luxuriously as the spell, so fiercely amplified, so generously spending one of the little mage's most powerful abilities for the day, flowed into him. His accoutrements that bore harvested trophies had been on him long enough that they shared in his magical invulnerability, but the loincloth - always an optional courtesy - was subject to the searing flame he had just consumed, and nothing but ash remained of it. Which revealed, to any who hadn't noticed, yet, that this was a more than gustatory appetite. Most of a foot of red, glistening wolf cock throbbed eagerly between his thighs over a thick iron sheath piercing - and it wasn't even hard, yet.

Hasker looked behind him at the hole in the wall he'd made, ignoring the prepared battery his foe held in the collective arms. It was a little small for him, now. His form hadn't just swallowed the spell. He couldn't digest something that quickly. It had triggered his body to grow, and now he stood easily a foot and a half taller than he had before. He suddenly turned ravenous eyes on the squirrel-drake. "I'm gonna turn you into a furry little condom," he huffed with wide, gleeful eyes. He pounced.

Hundreds of pounds of muscle crashed into the floor where the anthropomorphic woodland critter had been standing, and then the combined might of six (amateur) spell casters slammed into the orc-wolf. In the heat of his ravenous battle rage, Hasker crooned his pleasure at the buffet: The acrid, electric sourness of mind spikes splayed around his skull, playing at his ears and brain and draining into his lips before slipping down his throat; sugary-sweet, luminescent bolts from the clerics intended to guide the paths of other spells glowed faintly from inside his belly once he'd consumed them; and the piece de resistance was when the leader attempted to bless his druid companion with size and strength. The magic flowed out of him... and into the nearby Hasker, getting stolen away. He swelled again, and again, each spell driving spurts of growth. And, now that he'd had a few moments in the action, the last few enticed out spurts of hot, eager precum to wet the floor.

Scept covered her face with her paws, looking sick, while Mep cheered through a brilliant flush.

Hasker sniffed hungrily. The squirrel. He needed to fuck that squirrel. A staff thwacked the side of his head, momentarily dazing him. Oh, right. Physical things. He could still get hurt. He got a hold on his hunger and looked up from his hunched position to find the mustelid trio of clerics forming up. They looked skittish now. From muttered arguments, Hasker picked up the names Filbert, Ti, and Terry. They wanted to form a triangle around him to maximize the effective radius of the clerics' famous auras, but they weren't sure if those magics would simply feed him more, so their attempt to make a formation was awkward and stumbling. Hasker swung his hand out at the big otter - Terry - trying to sweep his legs, but grinned wolfishly as his quick movement made the mouse cleric dart away in a panic that was tragically direct. Size isn't slow. Size, especially with muscle, is fast. Ignoring the crack on his exposed arm he got from the otter's mace and a pair of bruised ribs when the badger and wolverine took the opportunity to swing, the mage hunter jumped over his fleeing quarry, blocked the exit, and snatched the little cleric in both paws to pick him easily off the ground.

Everyone but the wolverine crouched away in shock. He loved this part. "Will he really eat him? Will he really fuck him?" they were thinking. He was twelve feet tall now, easily, and that cock was a lethal twenty inches and still not erect. And so he answered, in a voice that was deeper with every spell he consumed:

"Better get those healing spells ready, folks. I don't know how long the little guy will last." And then, he gaped his jaws wide, brought the mouse up to them, and muted the creature's shrill shriek by cramming him snout-first down his throat. With Hasker's breadth, he easily widened his throat for his meal. To his delight, the mouse threw a last-minute shield spell, like a bubble, that made his throat bulge comically, stopping the snack's descent, until the bubble popped with the pleasant taste of champagne and the cleric dropped down, consigned to a curled-up seat in Hasker's stomach.

The druid - Gerald, from the hasty rapport in between combat beats - and clerics hurriedly started muttering healing spells. Inside his belly, Hasker felt the mouse frantically casting and re-casting his shield ability. In his panic, he sacrificed powerful incantations just to try to maintain the shield, like using a ladle to eat cereal. With each one, Hasker throbbed a few inches bigger, and the rampant growth made his massive, protruding shaft bob with the added height. As if it couldn't get better, Hasker felt one healing spell pound directly into his stomach - gulp - and then felt the palate-cleansing, coffee-like scent of a counter-spell belatedly slung from one of the warlocks. The self-appointed Pope Filbert clenched his fists in outraged confusion at his lackey, who shrugged.

"I thought it'd stop it getting to him, boss."

"Blade! Scar! You idiots! Just hit him! Hit him with your fucking swords!"

"I dunno. I think what he's doing is extremely arousing, Kev," chuckled Terry the burly river otter, angling a smolder up at Hasker.

"Seconded!" squealed Mep from out of sight.

"No it's not! It's high perversion and blasphemy and he's going to eat us! Kill him!"

"Wait," said Hasker with a supplicating hand out. "Pause." He turned to the warlocks. "Your names are Blade and Scar? Bladescar?"

"Yes?"

Hasker roared his amusement in a laugh that shook dust from the rafters. "HAH! Ah, hah. Oh, you are all, so, scrumptious!" He grinned and lunged at Filbert again. The dark cleric sidestepped gamely and whacked at Hasker's wrist with his mace. The heavy head of the weapon felt like it might have actually cracked a bone, and Hasker yelped in surprise. He heard the padded footfalls of the warlock twins behind him and jumped up to dodge scimitar blows, then twisted in the air and fell back down to face them, only to get bonked on the forehead by the badger's staff again. His eyes crossed and he shook his head, narrowly evading a brutal follow-up swing and then getting back up by a ferocious sequence of swings from the otter. "Little help from the peanut gallery?" he snarled over his shoulder. "They're going to surround me soon!"

In answer, a crossbow bolt zipped up past his nose, getting a yelp from the squirrel sorcerer, who had climbed into the rafters for an aerial assault and was forced to abort. From behind his other shoulder, a frigid, magical wind blew up against his backside, seeming aimed at his low hanging nuts. He ground his teeth and let out a whine as the sensation sank into him, drawn by his body's insatiable hunger. It had the unmistakable, clean, crisp, scent of wizard magic. Just as he was about to snarl something in irritation, the bitter bite of black tea hit his nostrils and at the same time, he felt a hand slap his ass and transmit a spell of hastening into his body.

Had Mep just goosed and spanked him with magic?

"Get back in there, big guy! We'll cover you!" the absurdly-dressed wizard chirped.

The mage hunter rolled his eyes, but he couldn't deny that the wizard's gift of food got his head back in the present. His body puffed up again. Fourteen feet. They had been powerful spells. The menthol tingling on his loins turned into a glorious heat as it sank into the skin of his cock. He timed a grasping strike of his hand with the surge of growth, surprising the enemies' leader with his reach, and finally wrapped the wolverine in an enormous paw.

"Gotcha." He slammed the man face first on the ground, plucked the mace from his fingers to toss it up at the again-airborne squirrel-drake and knock him to the side, then went to all fours and, using one hand on the back of his cock, pinned the snarling wolverine with that enormous log. In a panic, the cleric attempted to cast a short-range teleport spell, which normally would have turned him to a thin mist... but instead, it was simply drunk down by the cock pinning him, making it all the heavier, hotter, wetter, and broader.

"Kind of you," Hasker growled.

Another crossbow bolt caught one of the foxes under the armpit through his armor and stuck him to a wall. With two clerics now in constant contact with him, Hasker's growth intensified. Fifteen feet. His very size was starting to make it hard to keep track of his enemies, but as long as he had his eyes on the only exit and as long as his nose was working, he felt sure this was all but over. There was a scent of damp fur and campfire wood, and Hasker darted his head around to snatch the neck of a full-sized grizzly bear in his jaws. He bore it easily to the ground, then swung his head around again to clear the other, opportunistic fox out of the way, before breathing in sharply and throwing his head back to toss the grizzly up. It of course was no longer a massive beast, but instead the druid Gerald, who had clearly thought shapeshifting wouldn't be part of Hasker's infinitely expansive palate. Mid-air, Gerald summoned the iconic druidic shillelagh, but fumbled it as he tumbled. Hasker caught the smooth, magically lacquered wood and stuffed it into his cock like a sounding rod, where it swiftly began to dissolve back into primordial magics to feed his ravenous body through that orifice instead. The mage hunter caught Gerald in his jaws, then pumped his hips along the cleric's back in time with his rapid, hands-free gulping, and in short order, a second of the seven were imprisoned in his body.

Gods, this felt good. He looked over at his shoulder as it bulged another stage bigger. His body greedily sucked out every spell left in the druid inside him. His thighs bulked out against the floor, one of them crushing a bench just from the growth. Precum was by now beginning to spurt from his cock in his excitement and had soaked Filbert beneath him. He couldn't cum, yet, though. Firstly, not in someone's town hall, and secondly, he wanted them all inside him, first.

And he was finally big enough that this had become child's play. He dragged one arm in an enormous scooping motion across the floor of the town hall. The free fox, normally nimble, found himself being shoved down by the otter cleric so Terry could launch himself over the sweeping limb, and was thus snatched up. Unable to resist the delightful opportunity, Hasker knelt his weight on the wolverine - still struggling in wondrous ways against his shaft and knot, but unable to free his clawed hands enough to do any damage - and grabbed the other fox, easily ripping his armor free from the bolt that had pinned him. Hasker clapped the two of them together in his paws and gave them his toothiest smile. "Hope you two get along, Bladescar," he rumbled. "Workshop the name while you're in here." And then, in they went, heads first, squirming and barking out their vulpine sounds all the way. He savored the way they twisted on his tongue. Panic and instincts seemed to yank cantrips out of them, and blasts of eldritch power peppered his tongue and the back of his throat like pop rocks before sliding down his gullet with their two lithe, tender, writhing bodies. He groaned in ecstasy and flexed his loins, shooting precum through the air as they joined the other two inside him and, again, he swelled. Twenty feet tall and no longer able to safely stand up on two feet.

A weight flopped onto the top of his member, startling a half-yelp, half-belch from the titanic wolf. "Y'know, I think I give up," said Terry the otter from where he'd landed. "Chances are I never see something like this again in my life, and we aren't winning this one, so I'd like the chance to see a giant jack himself off. Wouldn't you, Fil?"

"No!" cried the wolverine.

"Yes!" shouted Mep from behind.

A chattering voice came from overhead. "By the seven-headed mother who bore my grandfather, I sentence you to-hrk!"

With a toss of his head, Hasker caught the flying squirrel's entire upper body in his mouth. Surprised by his own dexterity, he pulled the little fellow out, though of course kept Serge's arms pinned inside the grasp of his hand and started sucking the magical power from him to swell anew. "You gotta not call your shots, my guy," Hasker rumbled like an approaching avalanche.

"I AM A SON OF DRAGONS!" the hybrid creature shrieked, before inhaling and belching out a gout of flame directly into Hasker's face. Dragonfire wasn't really cast the same way all these other spells were. The orc-wolf giant grew concerned that he might have at last made a compromising mistake.

His instincts, however, ignored his conscious mind's fear of getting well and truly burned, and if Hasker's animalistic nature had taught him anything, it's that instincts were not to be ignored. Instead, with an expression of surprise at his own actions that swiftly melted into lascivious hunger, Hasker simply dropped his jaws open. The truly impressive signature of dragonkind's scions was elemental breath, and it poured from sorcerer's mouth. The entirety of it went directly down the mage catcher's throat. The four inside him twitched and yelled at the sudden heat, though they were unlikely to be more than singed. As the sorcerer put everything he had into the breath, dismayed to find it wasn't working, Hasker simply held him still and let the growth of his yawning maw draw the half-breed closer in. Every cubic foot of draconic conflagration became cubic inches of Hasker, until he snapped down, tilted his head up, and gulped, quenching the flame.

A strident, triumphant voice proclaimed, "Oh I am pleased as peaches that worked! It's a prismatic filter! A little bit of light-bending, a little- eep!" Mep was silenced as Scept snatched his robe and yanked the little wizard back behind cover.

It wasn't necessary, though. With the squirrel chattering furiously inside the hunter's bulging belly, the fight was over. As much fun as it would be to use this little cult leader as a toy, it would be much more fun to enjoy the otter and mink, who were willing, so Hasker unceremoniously grasped the shouting cultist in his hand and stuffed him down his throat to join his fellows, not even giving Filbert a satisfying one-liner. They wouldn't be harmed: Hasker was more walking prison than walking executioner. However, they would bear witness to what he was about to do to Mep and Terry.

"Listen, before I take the two of you out of here to drown you in orc cum, for the Sheriff's sake - what made your boss try to attack the town?" Hasker rumbled down at the otter, who was still lounging on top of his cock.

"Said he had someone on the inside who would make sure there wasn't any resistance. Never told us who it was."

Scept, who refused to look in Hasker's direction, had finally come out from behind the desks to survey as much of the damage as her self-limited field of view could scope out. She grunted. "Are you sure he even knows?"

A shrug. "Some other caster who seemed all for it. No idea where the informant went; musta gotten cold feet."

"My feet are quite warm, thank you." Mep plopped himself on one of the desks, letting his slippered feet dangle pointedly.

Scept rounded on him. "I hate you. I hate you so much. That's why you had the raven ready."

"Yes! Yes, and it's why I'd been working on a spell to convert innate magics into artificed form."

"I don't... what?"

Mep drew himself up primly - an impossible task, in slippers and a robe. "Hunter Hasker! Consider this my application."

Scept's eyes bugged out. "They're_were-people!_ You... you're not a were-person, you're...! You told those cultist fucks to attack my town so you could get mega-dicked by a werewolf?"

The mink rolled his eyes. "If they require lycanthropy as part of initiation, I assume that biting is included in sex, and if you would please spare some courtesy, yes I want to get mega-dicked as well as the size differential will allow and the poor fellow is fit to burst after all that." He hopped off the desk, took a few steps with regal propriety, then practically skipped towards the door. Once there, he waved his wand to temporarily expand the door to Hasker's size.

Hunter Hasker rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You're weird," he rumbled down at the wizard. "I like it. Take me somewhere I won't ruin any crops, wizard. Sheriff, I'll be back in an hour."

"An hour?" Mep queried, crestfallen.

Hasker grinned enormously. "Two hours. At least."

"I will. I will kill him if he comes back," Scept muttered to herself. "And I'm setting that whole fucking tower on fire."

--

When Hasker was finally able to stand up, he was easily a head higher than the town hall. Terry rode his cock out, happily rubbing his body along it and squeezing his knot with his legs, while Hasker resisted the urge to use him as a masterbater right then and there. Instead, he turned away from the town center, where some curious townsfolk were screaming indignity and averting their eyes and others were swooning, and followed Mep up a short hill to a four-story stone tower the wizard apparently used for his studies.

The mink scrambled out of his clothing, then blushed a furious red beneath his fur. "I, I hope I'm not imposing, but I."

"You either deserve this or you deserve it, and I don't care which," Hasker growled. He picked the side of the tower not facing town, then scooped up Mep's soft, plush, nude body in his hand. He pressed the mink up against the belly of his cock and whined in pleasure. No wonder the feral versions of these were farmed for their coats. It was soft as silk, but thick and warm. With the otter on the other side making a sandwich with his meat in the middle, Hasker held the two of them in both hands, leaned back against the tower, and started bucking his hips.

Precum slicked the two smaller men immediately. The mink was too awash in shock and pleasure to be more than something squirming and warm to stroke with, but the otter seemed to know a thing or two and kept his legs squeezed tight around Hasker's knot. They were strong enough to give the multi-story orc-wolf something to well and truly fuck, and he snorted out his need as he did. The claws of his toes cut troughs in the dirt as he strained with his pleasure. Six little rogue mages shuffled about inside his belly at varying stages of exhaustion. Terry teased them, encouraging them to try banishing spells that, like everything else, simply fed Hasker and made him even bigger. His hands grew around his two stowaways and his cock swelled between them, ever huger, ever firmer. He huffed greedily as he sucked away their magic and soaked in it. The wizard had still been fully stocked. Hasker took everything from him in his lust and greed. Twenty-five feet tall. Twenty-eight. The very earth dimpled under his feet and he felt the tower he leaned on groan in protest. His breath steamed out from clenched teeth and tusks while he fucked the two smaller men's bodies with a cock closer to the length of their bodies than not. Each thrust swung nuts as big as boulders up to crash down against his thighs that could have lifted that tower from its foundations had he wanted to. The edge of climax was rapidly approaching. He needed to let this all out, needed a little more growth, a few more inches, one more spell... and Mep moaned out a single prestidigitation, just a touch of heat and light from the little mink's grasping fingertips.

Hasker was an act of nature. Cum fired from him so quickly there was spume in its torrent. Some climaxes are described with "ropes of cum," but these could have suspended cable bridges. After the first three multi-second bursts, he turned mischievously and grasped enough consciousness to set Mep's scrawny self in a window on the third floor, then aim floods of his seed at the wizard. It drenched him head to toe and flooded inside the building, gallons of supernatural spunk suffusing the tower and its owner, which had both once smelled of the sterile magics of wizardry, in the thick, heady musk that made Hasker's presence a permanent emblem on the place.

At long last, he petered out. He released Terry at last, who he realized had been mostly clothed the whole time, to watch the soggy otter slowly sit back up and come to his senses.

"Oh, yeah. That was worth it."

From inside Hasker's belly, the word "blasphemer" could be vaguely heard. Terry thumped the wall of muscle and was rewarded with a muffled yelp.

"Suppose I have to get in there with the rest of 'em? Bunch of kids, honestly."

"They'll learn or they won't," Hasker rumbled. "Not my problem. But even if you are headed in there - did you think after I ate the combined spell power of eight trained mages, I'd be satisfied with doing that just once? I haven't finished marking this tower."

"I was promised two hours!" Mep pouted, though his voice shook with the aftershocks of intense afterglow.

Hasker nodded. "He was promised two hours."

"Well. Best make good use of my last hours of freedom, then. But I don't know if I have that kind of stamina in me."

"Stamina!" yelped Mep. He fell backwards off his windowsill with a splat into his cum-soaked room and darted away. With a Doppler effect, his voice echoed through hallways, "Stamina potions! I stocked up for the occasion! I have dozens!"

Hasker stomped a foot so hard as he laughed that the earth shook. Oh, fuck he loved his job.