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Sergeant Fur

By Strega

His name tag read Furayl and when asked for a first name he'd just shrug. Everyone called him Sergeant Fur and you would too, if he let you. He and some friends were sitting around a battered folding table playing cards when Fur smelled smoke.

The two junior airmen, Carl and Matt, were nearly out of money anyway. The nickel-dime-quarter game might cost you twenty bucks if you had a really bad night, but even so no one was willing to lend them so much as a dollar to continue. They had a reputation for weaseling out of bets.

Jerar, a muscular black staff sergeant here to service generators and sneaking in an hour of play before turning in, was holding forth on his latest sexual conquests. To hear him say it there wasn't a single woman in the dorm he hadn't bedded. He was a liar, of course. Sergeant Fur could smell sex on someone days after the fact and the only thing Jerome had fucked in the two weeks before this deployment was his hand.

Bob, balding though only 20-something, was newly off shift along with Jerar and the highest ranked of the five poker players. He'd gone through Basic training with now-Sergeant Fur and told stories of the hell the instructors put Fur through. He liked to joke that the only reason Fur got through Basic was that he ate their T.I. That sergeant -had- gone missing during that eight weeks and they never did hear if he'd gone AWOL or just plain vanished. Whenever that joke came up Fur just grinned his sharp-fanged grin.

Staff Sergeant Furayl was six feet, seven inches tall when he wasn't hunched over like a werewolf and well over 350 pounds of muscle and fur. He had the distinction of being the first "exchange student" from the far side of the Gate, the one and only Gul wolverine-man on the planet for eight weeks of Basic and several months after that. The Air Force shoehorned him into Security Police and he hadn't objected until he learned he had a natural aptitude as a mechanic, quite a surprise considering the 13th century technology of his homeworld. He cross trained into the environmental career field - generators, heaters, air conditioners - and he made extra money working as a bouncer on weekends at bars in Anchorage.

Furayl wasn't the only Gul on Earth now but he was the only one in Alaska as far as they knew. Higher headquarters had for some reason decided to make Elmendorf A.F.B. a test base for the Maker's people in the U.S. military and there was a foxman in the comm squadron and two of the little raccoon-people there as well. Those last two couldn't even speak English (their muzzles and vocal chords weren't up to it) but their clever little hands got them work in the equipment calibration shop and radio shop respectively. You got some leeway when your nickname was SAFE: Senior Airman Fixes (Fucking) Everything.

"Bah," Furayl growled, and thumped his cards face down on the table. "I fold."

"You have a great poker face," Bob said as he raked in three dollars in change. "But you still don't bluff worth a crap."

Furayl shrugged. He was decent at reading human expressions, having known the furless sorts since he was a cub. By all rights it should give him an advantage among humans who only knew one gul, but Bob was just better at this game than he was.

With the game winding down and no alcohol to be had (unless someone had snuck some in, but if so no one was talking) the talk turned once more to sex.

"When's the last time you got laid, Fur? That little peach of a aerobics coach was looking you over at the gym before we left."

Furayl grunted. "Since I was on leave back home. Women in the Maker's lands, even human ones, know about gul. Here I would worry they'd start screaming at the least little scratch or nip. It's like fucking a crystal sculpture. So delicate."

"And the commander ordered you not to, right?" That was Jerar. Word of that had made its way around the base within weeks of the first furry airman's arrival.

"It's not an order," the wolverine growled. "The Major asked me, us rather," he gestured to his chest to show he meant the fox and raccoons too, "To be discreet. The military is not sure what's happening with that bestiality case in California." That one involved one of the raccoon-folk and a human man, and somehow it was being called 'bestiality' even though both parties were intelligent. It didn't help that the little raccoon lady in question was less humanoid than most.

Furayl too, for that matter. While not 'feral', he was of the shorter legged, longer armed sort of gul, and when he ran for speed or distance he did it on all fours. Having him loping around the track motivated people to new levels of exertion. Even if you knew it wasn't a bear chasing you those claws and teeth tended to get the adrenalin pumping.

He kept silent on the fact that he was using a narrow definition of 'sex'. The weekend before the deployment a shaven-headed biker had started slapping his girlfriend in the bar and Furayl straight-armed him so hard he left a dent in the drywall. That impressed one of the barmaids and after his shift she wondered aloud, and then found out, what gul cock tastes like. It wasn't the first time that sort of thing had happened though it didn't happen nearly as often as he'd like. All the self-service in the world didn't kill the urge to unload himself into, or in that case mostly onto, a female.

The obvious answer was for the Maker to send some females of the furry races across, but the mage had decreed that only twenty people could go through in each direction a year (not counting returnees) and his picks had so far all been males. The United States and its allies for their part had sent several women across, two of whom were "thought to have been eaten by a dragon" and one of whom had been captured by gnolls. The best case scenario for that poor wight was probably being sold into slavery, the alternative being learning a lot more about gnoll eating and/or sexual habits than she wanted to know.

"If it weren't for that 'request' I'd have no trouble getting -" he started, and then sniffed. "Something's burning. That's not the heater."

They had learned to trust his nose but by the time they opened the door to the store room all they could do was run and get snow to throw on the blaze.

"Maker preserve us," he growled as he looked over the damage. An electrical outlet under the shelves had chosen this day to short out and by bad luck was right behind a pallet of paper towels. The long storeroom that ran down one side of the shelter had been engulfed in flame and there was no saving most of the food.

Jerar showed up from behind them. The structure of the radio site meant you had to take two hallways to get to a room that was right on the other side of the wall. "The fire got through the vent into the generator room and set the rag barrel on fire. Bunch of damage in there too."

"The only thing that survived was a case of Lima beans," the radio tech-cum-supply sergeant said.

"Why did we have Lima beans? The give me gas."

"I just sign the paperwork, Fur." Furayl rather liked the sergeant. The man never gave him a funny look or complained that he smelled. And he did smell, he knew. He couldn't bathe often enough to get rid of the wolverine musk and it would be bad for his pelt if he did.

"Well, we can melt snow for water," Sergeant Colindres said. The bottled water would have survived but the plastic tops, above the level of their cool contents, had melted and flowed. No one knew if it was safe to drink now.

"Five days until we are relieved," Furayl growled. They were three days into the eight day maintenance visit to this unmanned site. "People are going to be very sick of Lima beans by then."

"Even if we cut corners I don't think we can all our maintenance done in less than four days," Airman Gantz said. "Maybe three if no one sleeps."

"Fuck that," Furayl growled. "Can we salvage anything from this mess?"

"Maybe a few pounds of rice if we dig past the burnt stuff. Same with the flour, there might be enough to make a few loaves of bread. I think there's some dry yeast somewhere. And I brought my own spice rack, so at least there's that."

"Rice, bread and beans, at best, and not even good beans," Furayl said. "I don't know about you, but I'm not going to be happy after five days of that."

"Maybe three," Gantz said hopefully. "As long as you don't eat anybody." That drew a laugh from the airmen looking in through the door.

"I haven't eaten anyone in quite a while," Furayl said absentmindedly, which calmed the jokesters right back down. "The Maker would not approve of me doing so now." He kicked at the scorched side of the freezer as he thought.

"I need to talk to Sergeant Shineflew," he growled. "I have an idea."

"You want to go on leave?" The master sergeant said. "There's three feet of snow outside and it's below zero."

"My winter pelt is grown in," Furayl growled. It was barely sixty in the shelter since the main heater went up in smoke, and he was, by permission of the squadron, in summer weight BDU shorts and top with rolled-up sleeves. "It's going to take an E&I team to fix most of the damage and what we can do Jerar can get done solo. Weather like this is like going home for me. Give me four hours of leave and I can probably catch something for us to eat."

"Denied," said the master sergeant, then smiled. "I'll consider you off duty until dawn, though. What you do with your time is your own affair."

Ten minutes later he was down to shorts and fingerless leather gloves he wore for long-distance running: he didn't run on all fours as much as he walked upright and the pads on his hands weren't as thick as those on his feet. There was a light snow falling and he stretched as Bob watched him through the narrowest possible crack in the door. To his friend it was cold as death outside but Furayl had the mass and fur to enjoy it rather than fear it. He blew out a cloud of fog and grinned.

"See you in a few hours," he said. He checked that the hunting knife was secure in its sheath, fell to all fours, and was off into the snow.

Loping along in low visibility, showers of fresh snow kicking up to half obscure his form, he could pass for a real Earth wolverine. Dark brown fur, almost black on arms, legs and face. A broad lighter stripe that started at his front legs and ran down his flanks to meet at the root of his short but long-furred tail. Then he'd get closer and you might see the fine details, like the shorts, his thumbs and a not-quite-feral build, but mostly you'd notice that he was ten times as big as a real wolverine. With his thick winter pelt grown in and a bit of fat - he always gained weight in the fall - he was a hair shy of four hundred pounds and strong enough to turn over a car. Few creatures in Alaska were a threat to an adult gul.

He was alert for all of those. A big bear, a moose, a hunter with a rifle. He might kill one of the first two if he could get surprise, and hoped to avoid the last. They were two hundred miles west of Talkeetna and the nearest village on the map was twenty-five miles away. There were a few cabins built near local lakes - commuting by float plane was a real thing here - but he's headed away from those. It should be just him and the wilderness.

And wolves. A pack of wolves could kill him but they'd know they had been in a fight and his sharp white claws could take him up a tree if need be. And then what? He momentarily regretted not bringing his phone until he remembered they didn't get service here anyway. He kept running. His big feet and hands, legacy of his truly four-legged ancestors, were built for this sort of work. For all intents and purposes he came equipped with snowshoes.

He wasn't boasting when he said he could find something to kill. This wasn't the first time he'd loped through the snow and several snowshoe hares had been tasty snacks on previous runs. In passing he'd seen and smelled the tracks of larger beasts and in his head was a map of well remembered game trails.

By skill or pure luck - probably luck, he'd admit later - he was only out for an hour when he scented his prey. With the bears hibernating and the local wolf pack presumably far away the caribou were incautious and his guesses as to their lying-up places was right on only the third try. He smelled them before he saw them and was on a caribou, belly down in the snow and and chewing its cud, before it could stand up.

The most efficient way to kill one was to leap on its back and use his knife. The dagger was a parting gift from his old patrol commander back home and though not magical - magic didn't work here any more than gunpowder and quite a few other things didn't work there - it was finely made, heavy bladed and long. For most humans it would be a short sword.

On all fours like a truly feral gul he followed his instincts and locked his fangs into the deer's throat. His rush carried him past and twisted the caribou's neck around until its cheek touched its flank. Not quite enough to break its neck but there was no need for that and he dug cruel claws into its snowy fur and held it down as it struggled to rise. By the time the other caribou were out of sight it was kicking its last, strangled by his canine fangs holding its windpipe shut.

Furayl's pulse slowed as he rose from the body. He'd killed a quite large male, probably about his own weight. Plenty of meat and the most fun he'd had in weeks. He hadn't killed anything bigger than a rabbit since he was home last.

The temptation was to start eating but he had people to feed. He gutted the caribou where it lay and treated himself only to a long drink of its blood and the heart, which he doubted anyone would miss. After further thought he separated out the liver and kidneys and wrapped them in part of the hide in case someone had a taste for organ meat. He was cleaning the blood off his hands and muzzle with snow when the bear showed itself.

It was a big, brown bear, a grizzly the locals called it, and it was obviously not hibernating at the moment. It wanted the caribou and Furayl went down all all fours, this thick winter pelt bristling. He snarled and was met with a growling roar in return.

With his cold-weather fur grown in and a little winter weight padding his flanks he was twice as heavy as most men, but this bear was bigger than he was. His ancestors were wolverines, though, and he had hungry people to feed back at the station. He snarled and spit and soon realized the bear wasn't desperate enough to fight a wolverine almost as big as itself for the meal. It circled the kill repeatedly only to be driven off by snapping jaws and a clawed swipe that fell just short of a broad black nose.

And then something happened that he had not expected. The bear did not retreat after its latest approach but instead turned its rump to him. When it moved its tail aside he realized it was a female.

Furayl, on all fours and hackles up, blinked in confusion. Then it hit him. She thought he was a bear! He was as big as a young grizzly or medium-sized black bear and she'd never seen a gul before. The wolverines around here were small - there was no equivalent of the dire wolverines the Maker had changed into the first gul. On all fours he looked quite a lot like a bear and she'd somehow figured out he was a male. The smell of blood from the kill must mask his musteline odor.

With her rump toward him and tail moved aside to expose her sex she backed toward him and toward the kill. He'd watched many nature shows since arriving on this world but had never heard of behavior like this. Was she actually offering herself to him in return for the meat?

It had been months since he'd been with a real woman, a blowjob or two aside. A thick furred, well muscled female he didn't need to treat like a fragile doll. It'd been his own rough palm and his own muzzle for too many weeks and though she was merely an animal and here to steal his kill the stiffness came naturally to the long ridge of sheath along his abdomen. She did not protest when he climbed up her rump and wrapped his claws around her flanks.

As she lowered her muzzle to eat he entered her and her ears went back in shock. Furayl was almost as startled. For such a big creature she was fearsomely tight. If she wanted that caribou meat she'd have to put up with him, though, and with an eager growl he was in her to the balls. She was at least deep enough for a gul's shaft, which was more than he could say for some of his lovers, and he'd slammed his hips against her rump fifteen or twenty times before she stopped shivering in shock and finally took a bite of the caribou.

Maybe bears were hung small, he thought, but horny as Furayl was he ignored the discomfort of too-tight vulva and kept right on humping. Slowly the vice grip of her sex slackened but even had it stayed tight it would not have stopped him. There was just no holding back the lust building in his loins.

For half an hour Furayl rode the groaning bear, arching his back as he drove against her well-padded rump. All-fours mating was his favorite and even back home he'd rarely enjoyed it. He'd met just one female 'feral' gul willing to couple and she had tolerated him only because he plied her with drinks until she flipped her tail aside and accepted him. He'd been too aroused to last long and the moment he came she swiped at him and that was the end of his fun that evening.

With a snarl of lust he spent his seed in the bear sow, great ropes of gul semen spurting forth into her brown-furred depths. She wasn't like a female gul; tight as she was, he hadn't made her climax. Maybe female bears just didn't come? Maybe he was too tight and uncomfortable in her to bring her to pleasure? As the sheath once more covered his wet black cock he found he didn't much care. This was more a deal with a whore than true loving, after all.

Back on all fours in the snow he squabbled with her. She seemed to think that the caribou was entirely hers now, and she'd already eaten much of the flesh from one haunch. He had to thump her hard on the nose to get her to back off, paying for it with some bruises where her claws grazed the tough hide of his forearm. Then he retrieved his knife to cut the leg free. If the others back at the station saw the tooth marks they'd think he had gnawed on it and maybe they wouldn't want a partially eaten kill however hungry they grew.

She was still hungry and determined to get more meat, but he kept her at bay with snarls and clawed swipes until he had the one leg detached. It was a big caribou and even this part was a meal for a creature the size of the bear, plus there were still the guts in the snow nearby. He threw her the haunch and thrust the rest of the deer into the branches of a tree. There it would be safe for a while, because the she-bear was eating again and one mating was not enough to satisfy a young and long-deprived gul.

She roared at him as he approached, sure he was there to steal this last chunk of meat, but went back to ignoring him when he circled around behind. She didn't even react when his forelegs went around her flanks, and only grunted again, used now to the too-thick cock that slid in beneath her tail. Her meal lasted an hour, and even then Furayl had to rush the last of it.

A gul mating can last for hours if the male is not pent up and she was growing impatient with his presence atop her as he humped a last few violent times and ejaculated. With a long growl he bit into her tough hide, jerking his hips forward against hers as his balls pulsed. She walked out from under him as he came down from the orgasm, not in heat and not at all interested in a third coupling. She had only let him fuck her to get a meal.

He could offer her more meat...but no. Furayl rolled in the snow, cleaning off the last frozen blood and the mixture of her juices and his own that clung to his belly. Eventually he found the shorts and gloves he'd taken off when he undressed to gut the caribou, though he had to sniff for them. His antics with the bear sow had kicked up a lot of snow. With a couple hundred pounds of stiffening reindeer on his shoulder and his dagger back at his side he set off for the shelter.

When he arrived and banged on the door Sergeant Shineflew remarked on his fanged smile, but chalked it down to the missing haunch and the presumed meal Furayl had before bringing the rest back for the squad. Or perhaps the furry and savage - but loyal - gul had simply enjoyed the hunt. He would not have approved of the visit Furayl enjoyed with the bear.

Yet what did he expect? Furayl was under sort-of-orders not to fuck human women and he wouldn't get to go home through the Gate for months. Paw and muzzle could only sate a young gul for so long and the urge to slam his hips against a female tough enough to take it was powerful. He might be more humanoid than his forebears but the instinctual urges still built up and still had to be discharged lest he grow surly and impossible to live with.

A bear sow wasn't as good as a female gul, feral or anthro, but it was a lot better than nothing at all. Memories of that one meeting would last Furayl quite a while. That and the faintest worry that he might have sired young in her despite the season and species mismatch. That seemed very unlikely, but what did he really know about the Earth bear other than how she felt wrapped around his cock?

When weeks later and quite drunk he finally mentioned his adventure to his friends he was met with wide-eyed astonishment and the realization that he was never going to hear the end of it. He really should have kept his mouth shut, but how do you keep from boasting about something like that?

That was how Sergeant Fur got a new nickname, though not one often said in his presence. You only had to see his ears go down and his fangs appear from behind his lips once to have a devout desire to never see him angry. That didn't mean he didn't know about the nickname, though. So just occasionally, mostly with a few beers in him, he could be heard to mutter:

"...But you fuck one bear..."