FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Smoked out. The dogs had his scent. There was no hiding now, no refuge they could not overcome. He could only run. So the fox ran, until his legs were sore and heavy, and his lungs stung at the very touch of air. He almost fell to his knees, but a shout in some strange language rose just behind him, and he leapt forward, wincing as his muscles seared against his hide. He found himself in a clearing. Panting raggedly, dignity forgotten, the fox darted for the far side-- and tripped over a wire. A great net clamped down, and he yowled out, shaking arms pulling at the rough fibers. There was a burst of some strange smoke, and a sweet smell filled his nose. Consciousness was stolen away, leaving only the black.

With consciousness, came the pain. His legs were sore, bitterly sore, and a dozen small cuts had long bled and dried all over him, from clambering through the bush and fighting off the dogs. His breathing was ragged and difficult-- his lungs felt brittle, and there was something heavy round his neck that seemed to cling bitterly to every breath he drew. His wrists were tied several times over in rope, fastened together in front of him. The dirt under him was packed and firm against his cheek. Finally, reluctantly, he cracked open his eyes.

A tent. He was in one of the human's tents, tied to a stake driven into the ground. He shifted to sit up, and felt a slickness on his rear, between his cheeks. He bit his lip. He was a little sore back there, too. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the tent... but he'd hardly settled on his rear before a dog peeked inside. He smirked, and stepped in, slouching. As all the slave animals did.

"You been popular already. All the masters wanted a turn, after the hunt. You smell pretty good to me..." He scratched himself, eyeing the fox. His sheath was engorged, a poke of red just emerging from the fold. "...But the masters say no." He folded his arms loosely, claws out. "You gonna help the masters, fox. Dunno what they want with you, but they all excited. You do good, good. You do bad... maybe you go to me." He smirked. "I get real hungry... and... hungry..." He glanced out. A human was walking near. They always clanked. The dog gave the fox one more hard look before stepping out. The human stopped and said something in his ugly, bellowing language. "Yes!" Barked the dog. The human said something else, a bit admonishing, then chuckled and walked away. The fox couldn't see him, the flaps concealed everything.

The fox could guess what they wanted him for. He sighed, laying back again. Best thing he could do right now was rest up. He stared at the tent over his head. Humans. Hunters, with strange tools of gleaming metal and carved bone. They killed even the most fearsome of beasts with their strange tools, their traps and bombs. And from the beasts, they carved out leathers and bones and flesh to make their armor and weapons and food. The fox had seen it, and had heard much from other folk, those that were clever enough to speak. The hunters were a terror to be avoided just as much as the dragons or the titans. And now... the hunters had him.

Foxes usually avoided hunters altogether by virtue of their cleverness, speed, and knack for hiding. And when all else failed, foxes could usually use their magic to escape capture. But these hunters had known exactly what they were doing. They'd hunted in a group, wearing masks and chasing him down with dogs. The whole area had been trapped. He'd already dodged several... He sighed. It was done. Now... he suspected they wanted to use his magic.

But foxes were not so simple to keep, once captured. The fox closed his eyes firmly. They would see. He would escape, sooner or later. He had only to gather his strength, for now. He had to rest. It took a long time, his mind churning as it was, but slowly, the fox dozed off again.

Early the next morning, they came for him. He had been curled up with his back to the flap, slowly chewing at the rope round his wrist. He had made little progress-- the rope was very strong, and the knotting intricate. They loosed the rope from the stake and led him outside. He was in the middle of a small camp, surrounded by other, larger tents, and many of the hunters were milling about. The air was cool and dry, the land rocky, barren compared to the forests he called home. They led him down a rough path that curved and descended a cliffside overlooking the ocean. A construct of wood stood at the end of a small pier-- a ship. Just how far from home had they taken him while he slept?

They took him onto the ship and tied his rope round a metal ring plugged into the wall, below deck. The hold was only a few small rooms, and he soon found that he was to be sharing quarters with four of the hunters, all sleeping on little boards installed in the wall while he sat on the floor between them. And the dogs. There were two of them, and at least one watched him at almost all times as they set out, the hours turning to days with no explanation.

The only times the dogs left were when one of the hunters shooed them out-- when, during the day, one of the humans came down and slipped out of his armor, eyes on the fox. The first day, when one had approached and pushed him against the wall, the fox snarled and lashed out with his claws-- that had gotten him a sound beating. When the man came later, he shoved the fox down and mounted him, his eyes filled with lust. More came, after that. All the men, sooner or later, came down to shove the fox over and use him. He could only keep his head low, for now.

After days of the slow rock of the ways, the crush of sand under the ship's bow startled him, and the rumble of boots overhead seemed as the coming of the storm. His heart sunk as he looked at his bonds. Under constant observation, he had managed so little in loosing the rope. Two cords were weak enough he thought he could snap them, but four more stood in the way. He'd weakened the leash itself, so perhaps he could break away, but without his arms, he couldn't run very fast-- couldn't get very far, with those dogs chasing him. He could only hope for some divine stroke of luck, at this point.

On the deck, the hunter leading him took his bonds and untied them, nimble fingers unravelling the rope until it fell in a heap at their feet. The fox stared in disbelief at his wrists a moment, before looking up to the hunters around him. They were watching him, all in full armor. The fox was gone. No tricks, no magic, no divine blessing-- he just bolted past them in a blink with barely a scrabble of claws on wood, hitting sand and darting for the strange, thick vegetation ahead as the dogs cried out. They fell silent, though, as the fox's body suddenly fell limp, twitching and numb.

The hunters had some kind of artifact, as they soon taught him with a little gesturing and lines drawn in the sand. If he went further than they wanted, first, he would feel pain-- radiating from the strange, heavy collar round his neck. Too far, and his body would collapse to their magical forces. Too far, that is, from the hunter in red armor-- or more specifically, the metal box he carried. The fox was still prisoner, as long as he wore that collar. He stared at that box. As long as they had that...

One of the hunters shoved him inland. The others were hefting weapons and gear, getting ready to move. To follow him. The fox finally turned to survey the land before him. They were on a small, warm beach, cut off to either side by rocky croppings. Ahead, thick vegetation rustled with life. Jungle. The fox swallowed slowly. There must have been something in that jungle that the hunters wanted... He glanced back at the humans. They were watching him. Waiting. The one in red waved for him to go on. The fox turned, dropped low, and padded cautiously into the unfamiliar wilds.

Foxes had a certain kind of magic to get out of the most dangerous of situations. When they could not run, or hide, or outwit their many predators-- when they feared for their very lives, they secreted a certain pheremone. Any creature that caught that scent could not eat the fox, for it aroused drives more powerful than hunger. As long as the fox released that scent, they were as a female in full heat, irresistable. The fox had only to survive what ensued, and it could escape as soon as its predator lay exhausted. That survival would be a mean feat for any other creature, but that was, perhaps, the real magic of the fox-- not their power to seduce, but their ability to withstand the most terrible of lusts. Among beasts that breathed fire and seemed to warp the fabric of reality, it was not so amazing an ability, but the fox was gifted, nonetheless. This fox magic, though, did have its downside-- captured, it seemed, his constant, quiet worrying had become a constant mist of aphrodisiac on the ship. It was likely the hunters had been restraining themselves as it was.

And now... they hoped to use the fox for his magic. He supposed that they would have a much easier time hunting a beast if it came right to them and exhausted itself on its would-be mate at their feet. The thought sat bitterly with him. They wanted something in this jungle, and they expected him to practically do the deed for them. Not if he could help it. If he could just... stay calm, not exude any scent, maybe they'd never even see the thing. And if he could get far enough out of sight, perhaps he could break that cursed collar...

The hunters were following him, there was no doubt of that-- hunters could walk quietly in the brush sometimes, but in those numbers, they were rather obvious. So they hung back, allowing him a decent slack. The little twinges of pain hung him up, the fox slowing with an impatient huff. He couldn't see them most of the time, but he would have little time before they caught up at any time. He had to stay calm.

The trees broke briefly around a stream. It was hardly deep enough to wade in past his waist. He stooped at the edge and drank deeply, panting softly. There had been little water or food-- the dogs liked to take most of his portions. He followed the water upstream, wishing the hunters weren't scaring away all the tasty little critters, when he found the stream ran right into the mountain. A gaping cave opened in the rocky wall, and water poured in a wide, shallow rush along the floor to form the stream. Within, he could see only darkness, but the scent on the drafts pushing from the depths... set him on edge.

Turning away, the fox resolved to find some very distant part of the island to explore-- when his fur prickled, a deep instinct of danger seizing him. A sudden wind buffeted him, throwing him to the ground. A scaled beast reared over him, eclipsing the sun, wings outspread as it gave a cry, a screech. The fox drew a tight breath. No fear. He rolled and darted for the underbrush, for the cover of the trees, but the beast lunged and seized him in its taloned legs. The world rolled under him with a rush of wind, and fell away. No fear. Stay calm. The fox twisted to look around. The beast swooped into the cave, and darkness fell around them as it coasted into the inner depths. His toes nicked the water below as they disappeared into the depths of the mountain. Pain twinged in the fox's neck one moment, and the next, his body jerked and fell limp. The beast gave a cry, but flew on.

The cave opened round them into a massive inner chamber. Water rushed underneath, but the beast flew upward. The fox's eyes were wide, staring at blackness. He was in the clutches of a vicious monster with teeth big as his paws, the hunters probably had no clue where he was, and... he couldn't move. He could not move a damned muscle. Scared. He was scared. He was terrified. His eyes watered. He was absolutely terrified that he was about to be eaten alive, violently and mouthfuls at a time, deep in the heart of some strange jungle far from his homeland. There was nothing but the fear in him now.

Stone shoved against him, and he fell in a heap, loose of the creature's claws. Soft light leaked in from above, and he could only just make out the beast as it landed, eyeing him. Sniffing. It had the claws, the scales, and the head of a raptor, but its arms were massive, muscled, and webbed-- halfway between arms and wings, with vicious claws at the apex. A broad, powerful tail hung close to the ground behind it-- the whole thing kept a low, crawling posture, the kind of creatures that creeps with unnerving speed over rocky surfaces. A wyvern, or something close. It doubtless would have lunged on the fox and torn it apart by now, were it not for the scent, one he could never smell himself, but which he knew had to be thick in the air by now. The wyvern's nostrils flared, its dark eyes turning on the fox as it processed the strange signals running through its primitive brain.

There was no reasoning with the beasts. Many of them were just too simple-minded, and those were terrible enough. Some said that there were great beasts out there with the power of reason and even speech at their command, but if such creatures truly existed, the fox hoped dearly to never come within a day's walk of one. As it was, the fox was uncertain what his fate held-- the way the wyvern growled and slowly shuffled closer, the magic had taken hold... but if he couldn't run after, what would happen when the beast's lusts were sated? Would his hunger win out, in the end?

A soft grunt shoved from the fox as the beast nudged at him, a simple push of that great muzzle knocking the air from him and sliding him across the stone. A few more, and the creature managed to clumsily roll him on his belly. The fox swallowed. At least the beast knew enough to want to mount its mate from behind, he supposed. The creature crawled over him, its broad, scaled belly brushing across his fur as it moved into place. He couldn't even turn to see what was coming... he could only imagine as the beast shifted, and a broad, slickened hunk of flesh mashed against one cheek of his rear. The beast could not guide it with a hand-- it could only poke blindly for the cunt of its bitch on this strange, tiny creature. He didn't entertain the hope it might not find it. They always did.

It was broad, though he couldn't tell just how much just by the way it crushed against him, the meat spongey but powerful enough to get the job done. The musk was slowly creeping up in his nose, a dry, leathery smell, though the meat was smearing juices on his cheeks already. A low nudge caught between his cheeks, and for just an instant, the blunt point at its tip flicked across his pucker. The fox let a slow, taut breath go. The beast paused at that spot, and ground in against it. He closed his eyes. They always knew.

A firm push, and that tip was grinding in at his hole, the mere round of the point on the tip about the size of his own cock. The tip of the iceberg, so to speak, was grinding against him, while the rest was grinding against his cheeks, spreading them wide. The wyvern huffed slowly, a little buck of its hips wedging an inch of meat inside the fox, his eyes snapping wide as his tailhole jerked taut around hot flesh. The beast let a low snarl, almost a hiss, leak out of it as it shifted, claws grating softly across stone all around the fox as it readied itself.

He should have died. When that monster's dick rammed almost a foot deep in his bowels in a single, sudden shove, the fox very well should have died, or at least have been well on his way. This was the fox's magic-- its blessing and curse together. He was very much alive, his blood pulsing, his muscles lapsing into twitches a moment even under the hunters' magic as his body strained around a massive, throbbing intrusion. Had he not slid a couple feet across the floor in the process, he might have blacked out from the sheer shock, but as it was, he managed to maintain some semblance of consciousness. Worse yet, he was adapted well enough now to be fully aware when the wyvern leaned down to pin his ribcage under its broad muzzle and drive to the hilt in its little would-be mate.

The fox was now very familiar with the tool the wyvern used to breed its females. It was about three feet in length, if he had to guess, and it tapered from about two inches wide at its very tip where it stabbed into the upper reaches of his ribcage to about a foot at the base, where the beast's sex slit nuzzled affectionately with the thin-stretched cheeks of his violently violated ass. The length of it had a subtle double curve, like a hint of an S shape, such that it nudged up against the back of his spine at the bottom of his ribs and pushed down gently against his belly. Much like the fox, the creature seemed to lay in shock a moment at the supremely tight fit it had claimed for itself, but it was soon drawing a deep breath, a slow, thick throb pushing against the fox's insides stating quite sufficiently-- the beast was pleased.

It was not until the wyvern dragged out, a laborious process fighting such friction, that the fox realized the subtle ridging lining that shaft-- he had to have missed it in the... rush. He was unsure if it was an actual shaping of the cock or just fat, crawling veins, but the beast's tool was accentuated with many ridges that ground across his insides at odd angles, long, solid folds that warped his tailhole in strange shapes as they slid out. They even seemed to accentuate the curve of the creature, the lower curve snapping free suddenly, the upper curve pulling a stubborn, sudden swell free at the height of the beast's draw. Then it all barreled in again, the fox's body bloating around the invader as all those ridges seared across his insides to lodge deep inside him once more.

The beast's juices were slowly soaking in, but the wyvern had little patience for it. It hauled in and dragged out hungrily, searing and rattling against the fox's insides and his taut, abused tailhole with its impatience. The fox's hips pulled clean off the floor with each draw-- he might very well have hung freely from the beast's crotch like a great, four-legged appendage had it not held him tight to the stone under its muzzle. The fox closed his eyes tight against the reaming, glad only that the paralysis assured him a very relaxed hole-- any tension may very well have instantly sprained something, even with his magic. The seduction was done, now he had only one goal-- to survive the wyvern's lusts.

This is not to say that survival was all that was on the fox's mind-- unfortunately, the curve of the wyvern's shaft happened to have the side effect of ramming that thick ridge down, straight into his prostate each time the beast drove in-- simultaneously stimulating and virtually obliterating the gland. The assault was sending jerky waves of arousal through his system, and the fox's sheath was slowly filling out until something was peeking free. He rather wished it didn't-- the constant drag up and slam down also meant that his sheath, and anything happening to pour free of it, was slapped to the floor with every thrust and crushed under the grind of that lower curve shoving into the front of his gut. The cold stone sent shivers through him as it mashed up against his most tender (or perhaps second most, at the moment) spot, slapping up against his sack, yet the fox could do little to stop himself under such powerful stimulation. Indeed, the crush of his own belly, of that powerful, throbbing mass grinding over his shaft, had some merit itself in stimulating his shaft as it grew to full mast.

And in one small, blessed mercy, the wyvern's drooling juices finally seemed to be working into the crevices of that fox's insides-- lining his depths with the musk of this beast and smoothing the way for it to drive in all the more rapidly. His hips stopped dragging up so high-- instead, the assault grew into a breakneck, pointblank rutting, the wyvern only drawing perhaps half a foot of fat cock from his ass before jamming it in again. The pounding filled his ears, a drumming he could swear was reverberating in the stone underneath him as his body was mashed against it violently. The very root of the beast, the fattest swell of it, hammered into him without a hint of hesitation or mercy, molding his ass around that throbbing meat and under the press of the wyvern's scaled hide.

The fox could not have said he was enjoying himself, exactly-- for all his vulpine magic, he could still hear his hipbones creaking under the power of the monster's lusts, and his sack was wedged down between his legs such that it was on the very verge of being crushed under him. But the stone under his abused shaft was smearing with pre-cum, as was his belly fur, and so the constant, nerve-fraying blows to his prostate were accented with a strange, slick, abusively tight friction dragging about his cock that might have been a lovely experience at any other time. As such, the fox found himself whining and shuddering and slowly clawing at the stone.

And that's when he realized that he was clawing at the stone. Or more pertinently, that he could move. His arms shook as though they couldn't believe it either, but he managed to push his head up a little. If he could move, he dimly managed to reason out between the crashes of thunder that was a monster's seed-spitter ramming into the top of his ribcage, then the hunters might be nearby! And if the hunters were near, he might survive! He craned his head, trying to peer into the dark, hefting his back up against the wyvern's belly, and he called out, crying and yelping as best he could manage, the sounds punctured by the rhythm of the wyvern's lust.

The beast, in turn, cried out, though the fox couldn't have said if it was for pleasure, since it seemed to be throbbing quite plumply against his spine by now, or if it was displeased at the fox's noise. He peered up just in time to watch the monster's gaping maw descend around his head, his nose practically shoved down its gullet before its teeth latched on around his chest and back. His heart stopped dead.

But... it was still pounding in. Deep, grinding strokes that bulged out the front of his belly. He was shifting up, he realized-- he was almost upright on his knees, hanging from that maw as the creature rammed up into him. For the moment, he was alive-- staring into oblivion, the beast's drool coating his head as a thin tongue lashed over him and sent him shivering, but as long as it still had a tasty hole to fuck, it had a reason to let him live. Those teeth dragged at his hide, and he suspected he was starting to bleed, but for the moment, they only held him in place.

The strokes drove his hips forward, but the beast pushed him down with that maw, pressing his ass to the thrusting while his knees ground into the stone. The beast was flexible-- its very tip pressed so deep into its maw, it passed the press of fangs round his torso easily. The fox was very much the fucktoy in this moment-- a hole, held in place, that was more suitable to taking that shaft than the beast's own maw. The fox distantly wished that the beast would just tend to its own needs without him, but as his paws found their way to the shaft bobbing between his legs, he could not muster much sincerity for the thought. His world was hot and wet round him, and now that the beast wasn't crushing him, only stretching and mashing about his insides with that unstoppable sex drive, he found that he couldn't help it. He stroked and grit his teeth, and his inner muscles pulled in vain, as though they could squeeze the titan that barged through his gut now. His belly shoved against his forearms with each bowel-busting thrust as the bottom of that curve ground its way on through.

The throbs were growing more powerful each moment-- he thought he could feel his own heart submitting to the beat, the slow, grinding swells that strained his every fiber just when he thought he'd been stretched to his limit. His limbs trembled as he struggled to stroke himself fervently, recognizing the menace approaching-- and it came, in what he could have sworn was a clap of thunder. The shaft swelled, and seed burst against his insides. The first burst washed into a torrent, a river that surged and waned, and his gut pushed down against his twitching, shooting fox pecker. Still the creature humped in, and seed washed out around its shaft in noisy splashes on the stone, soaking his legs. The very taste of it, almost painfully bitter, washed up in the fox's mouth before that shaft finally eased, pushing a last few lazy, half-hearted thrusts into his core as it dribbled out its last.

The drag was excruciating. It slid out, and out, and out, and after such a stretch, it actually seemed to hurt more for his tailhole to relax-- it started to cramp or something as the pressure dwindled, and finally, with a soft, wet gasping sound, it pulled free of the shaft to gape open several inches, slopping out juices in an almost constant little river, little streams dribbling down his sack and legs while the rest fell right from his hole in fat globs to splatter on the stone. Shivers ran up and down the fox's body as he hung limp from the wyvern's maw, staring up into the darkness of its flesh-devouring hole. He felt the stone drag under his knees for just a beat, then the maw swung open.

Like a broken toy, he fell to the stone in a heap-- all that cushioned him was the shallow pool of seed that had swelled around his feet. Even the dim light seemed to blind him, his eyes struggling to open, to focus, through the drool coating his head. The wyvern hissed, claws clattering on the stone, and the fox could do nothing but close his eyes.

A human cried out. The wyvern screeched, and a great beat of wings flattened the fox against the stone under a crush of air. Some device fired, and the beast's cries plummeted over the edge, into the cavern below. The fox didn't quite open his eyes again. He had been ready for one fate, and instead he had another, one he couldn't say would be any better.

He reflected on the last few moments, on the tingles of pleasure still sluggishly crawling through his loins even now. It was possible, though, he supposed. The fox drew a slow, ragged breath and sighed. The seed was soaking into the fur on his back and salting his wounds, but he could not quite bring himself to crawl out of his little puddle. The humans would come collect him, sooner or later. For now, he would sleep, and dream of open fields and eager mates.