FSE

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formerly SoFurry search engine

_Come off, come off! _

You struggle fruitlessly with the mask. It feels like it has changed from a metal headpiece, into one of slippery porcelain, or polished wood. It's hard to tell through your fingers, which have bloated up to be rough, calloused, and mostly inflexible from each other. The best you can do is to stretch your digits wide, and try to awkwardly curl them into the edges about your neck.

But the thing has melded so tightly to your face, it's nearly seamless. Every second wearing the thing, you feel a little dumber, a little smarter, and a little different. Strange impulses fill your head--the ones from before--telling you to ride the change out, telling you to see what happens next. You yell into your own head, trying to drown out the weird, moving, rustling ideas, that nip and play with your brain.

She comes, and rests here hands on you in inspection, standing you up and running her fingers over your mask. Your dick hangs partially erect and pointing away, as if trying to stretch out and escape from the white hairs that have begun collecting at your crotch. It bumps her leg, and she takes notice, closing her legs around it momentarily.

"I've seen heroes before, you know. You don't want to be one, trust me. They always suffer, in order to hurt others, for the sake of just a few."

"What did you do to me? Get away!" you growl, in a voice that hardly seems yours. It's more raspy, like a snarling animal--but also nasal, as if your sinuses are constricting. You can't be sure, but you think it's gotten maybe half an octave higher, as well. Not enough to make you sound like a gelding, but maybe brainier, more intelligent. And yet, you feel stupider than ever, filled with testosterone and frustration--and that stench is driving you insane, as she pulls close. Her entire body is emitting a scent that smells halfway between cloves, and a belch lit on fire, and it all seems to filter into your mask, and pour down your nostrils.

"I'm just giving you a little insight. You know, you slaughter us, and wear our pelts, and drive us out of our own homes. Isn't it time we gave back? I could kill you--"

She grabs you by your dick, and strokes...

"--but this seems like a more fitting fate."

You swagger about, in a swirl of bad smells that are like ether, as she holds your weight, and tugs at your loins. Tired as you are, you begin to concede to this strange domination, and strange new ideas begin to ferret through your head, as disembodied, wild voices make themselves heard.

_Change, stink, and shed your form! _they begin to chant. As you sway back and forth, it becomes a more and more tantalizing suggestion, as you feel your neck pop forwards, stretching, broadening, thickening, as your throat opens wide. You take a deep breathe in the foul vapors, and feel your spine curve, becoming harder to stand on. Every creak, every shift of gristle and bone, sounds to you like your willpower rotting--your soul corroding like your armor, into animal scat. Perversely, you do nothing, but feel out the changes, as your lady friend continues to stroke.

Your hair begins to fall loose, from your strange new neck. Soon the gypsy is stroking, combing your scalp, to let human hair fall free, leaving your skull naked, bald, masked. She tickles your ears, and you feel an immense pressure fill, build, burst--as your earlobes attach and dwindle to nothing, and your ears stretch violently, broader and wider, steaming with hot air that your body must put out. You twitch them, and she strokes them with her delicate fingers, letting you feel how they've grown out into points--massive bells of skin, that catch every sound, and cool your sweltering form.

Soon, fur begins to creep its way up your backside, where once had been bare human skin. You even feel soft tufts of inhuman fur fill your changed ears. She puts her lips close, just above your cheekbone, and kisses the space between your mask and your face, whispering; "I've have a friend who wants to meet you. I think you two will make excellent partners, as soon are you're ready for her."

The suggestion excites you, as something fibrous and warm seems to web over your mind--a fox's mind and soul, if a soul can be thought of physically. Though elsewhere in your head, that is filling with wild eager voices, there is still a single faint, nagging one, kicking and screaming for you to listen to it, instead. It tugs at your now-clever brain, telling you to stop listening to the gypsy vixen, telling you to look at the sort of monster you're becoming, and to resist.

You make your best effort to look down and see above the nose of your mask. You can just barely glimpse that your guide is working some kind of change through your loins, now. But contrary to the harsh, nagging voice, this feels wonderful, and you want to see what she'll do to make your body better. You still feel incomplete, needing--wanting what's happening to you. As she strokes, you feel something warm gliding up, around your penis, and you decide, you 'want' it there. So you tense your shaft, evoking as much control as you can to hold it in close to your stomach, and as you do, you feel the skin working its way over your tool, tight, warm, and reeking with stinking fur. You feel it get stuck for a second, on the ring of your circumcised glans, and for a brief moment, there's a sharp pain, before the gypsy massages that away, and your mushroomed head contracts beneath a warm sheathe to change. She gently angles your head and pelvis just so, to appreciate the white-tipped black cocoon of fur, that has trapped your member, leaving you with the fuzzy genitalia of a canine.

And while this sends up an uproar from your small, nagging voice, you realize--this is the pleasure of the change--seeing just how foreign you can go. You unleash a whine, begging that the impudent, rebellious voice go away, as all around it, the chorus of other, wiser voices interject and overlap, guiding your transformation.

Come on, be a bad, bad fox. Bad isn't so bad. What are they angry at you for--that you hunt their hens? That you crave bugs, and mice? Maybe that you want to spray all over their land, and reclaim it for yourself? Do those things. Relax. You need all that. Don't let them stop you being full. Don't let them stop you sating your needs. Bad is good. Good is just illusion. Change with us. Run with us, new friend.

"Well, you've come along fast." the gypsy coos, stroking your nipples. She pinches and tugs them, til they darken from pink to black, and an additional set drop out of the furry skin just beneath, followed by another, and yet another pair, til you have eight in total. She strokes your chest, and it swells, cracks, rounds, and devours your shoulder-blades.

"Want your body to be completely consumed, now?" she asks, holding you erect on two feet, in this wholly more quadrupedal-shape.

You can barely nod your strangely positioned head, but do as best as you can. Behind you, your pair of tails sweeps back and forth, twitching at the ends in your best approximation of wagging they can, as you feel another hot, sharp crunch in your spine, and a third nub begins to press forth over your backside, heralding another tail. The pain ebbs after a few seconds, leaving you with a third naked limb, that quickly begins to fur over. By your best judgment, you are looking more and more like the eight-tailed creature that had sprinted forth to strike your breastplate with feculence, merely minutes ago. What registers in your mind is not horror though--but a vapid, almost infernal giddiness at just how far you've strayed in such a short period.

"Alright then," she whispers encouragingly. "I'll help, but you have to do something in return."

She grabs your legs by the hips, and tugs apart. Immediately, you feel a sharp, lancing pain of acetic acid, which is washed over by a foreign, soothing sensation. You feel several sharp crunches of bone, and are certain that you'd never otherwise have survived the sheer amount of pain, were it not for what magic your guide, and your strange illness have provided. Nevertheless, your pelvis unhinges, and you tumble backward onto the ground. You fear for a moment that you will crash heavily down upon your beautiful tails, and that you'll crack them, or your hips, upon the firm earth--but you are, surprisingly, lighter than before, and land relatively unscuffed on your growing, hairy backside.

Your legs dangle in the air, awkwardly, and a fantastic energy surges through them, as she holds them aloft. You feel your feet dividing, stretching at the ankles, while elsewhere, your legs compact into fur-covered haunches. You get to watch as your own toes puff into compact, clawed digits, while your big toes shrink up your back legs, and sprout dewclaws. All the while, you feel more feral--compact and ready to roll over--to walk on your four feet. Your tails hang loose, coated in the same strange texture of long, human hairs, with animal color and pattern, that your heathen guide possesses.

"Now, I've given you a nice animal frame, from your neck on down. You don't have to wear it all the time, but before I give you your human shape back, you have to do something for me."

You feel an excitement for what she's about to propose--knowing it'll be something utterly foul--something a wild animal would love, but that your former self will absolutely hate. And that drives you on, having nearly completely lost yourself now, to the changing tide of your warped mind.

"Breathe in the smell around you, and listen to what it tells you. Obey your own new body, and I will let you walk as a man again. Then, we can take back our world that your old kind have monopolized."

You roll to your side, curling up, and sniff the ground, through your accursed mask. Though with a precursory lick of your lips, you can tell your nose and face are a still a human's beneath the disguise, you determine that you no longer want it to be that way. Inhaling the foul fumes of scat only twists your mind further--and you are soon determining the message the gypsy has left for you, through developing new olfactory facilities in your skull. There is a female fox--a vixen that is not your current guide--who has supplied the droppings and the ill will for humanity, to allow your captor to twist your armor.

While it strikes you as odd, that the gypsy has placed her curse in such a second-hand matter, to substitute your clothing with another creature's spoor, and not her own--a whiff or two of the vixen's poop makes her reasoning, and your duty, clear.

"Fuck her senseless, and make her kits." the Gypsy instructs. "Though you may have to summon her, first."

At this comment, your former self is so incensed with fury, that you find your body inexplicably standing erect, and, pulling you awkwardly onto two legs. You had not known you were still capable of holding two minds on the matter, having so rapidly descended into eager animal impulses. But this last imperative manages to separate out the man from the animal, pulling it from the torrent of vulpine voices, that had previously held it under.

Your body, impeded as it is, tries to walk as a human's, and your paws hang forward, trying to bend, to twist, and to reach your mask. The Gypsy stands above you, bemused, and now taller than you through virtue of her longer legs and lack of haunches. There is barely any human left.

"Well, you can kill two birds with one stone, at least" she muses. "Go on. You know what to do, to send your old self reeling. Then, serenade your mate, and breed amongst your kind. We have a world of humans to... educate, after all."

You heed her instructions, but are uncertain. No longer do you have any buttocks, to sit upon--these have been replaced by a prominent croup, that gives your rear a thoroughly canine silhouette, from which your three tails dangle and swish. What once were knees and thighs, have reshaped to haunches that can barely hold your body on two legs. You are confused, and fearful for a second, as the noisy, defiant voice, continues to try and instruct your body, to remove the mask, to shake off the illness--to find a way to run this creature through, and avert your curse, using your shoulder-less forelegs.

All of it is purely ridiculous drivel, at this point. You know that. And yet, the voice weighs on you with the guilt of giving up a human soul, guilt for harboring a sinful temptation that is in fact, your new nature--to molest and turn other humans to your new species.

You want to silence that voice, once and for all. And after a second, and a rumble in your intestines, you slyly smile. You know exactly how to rid yourself of the pest. And you know it knows, as it struggles, and strains, to hold your body still, and tight, as it tries to squeeze muscles you no longer possess, together, to deny you the act.

It screams at you to stop, as you loosen your dick from its sheathe, and squat, dropping to your four feet. It tugs and pulls and wrestles, as you lift your tails, and feel the cool air pop your sphincter open. It kicks and screams, as you relax, loll your lengthening tongue, and feel your skull pressing to fill your mask, even as your anus puckers open in kind, pressing forth with warm poop.

It begs, and dies, as you piss and shit, feeling your skull broaden and fur over, feeling your lips mutate and stretch to cover your toothy maw. And best of all, that nagging voice is finally expelled, amidst your dung and musk, which it melts down to join, like all fallen prey must--amidst the other coiled piles upon the floor.

Your mask falls loose, and clatteres to the ground, as you yowl, and cry out for your breeding partner. As your mind regresses to let you be the stud you've wanted to be since puberty, you bend, and lick yourself clean. Her scent is already on you, and only scant traces of her feces still cling in your fur--good enough. Your now massive tongue has the real estate it needs to clean that away, and though bitter, it is removed in a few passes of the new-found muscle. You sniff what odor remains on your pelt, remembering what she smells like. Not content merely to wait, you start looking for things to urinate on, spraying roots, rocks, crevices and corners with your own scent.

She arrives, and you each rub flanks, and investigate one another. Unlike you, she is but a mere a serf, a proletariat, one-tailed red fox, through and through. You know it matters little, in your ranks--save the magic and tricks that you can exercise over others. You smell her strength, and maturity, and know she has earned this rut, and chosen you, to fulfill it. She arcs her tail back high, raising her posterior, from which quivers a massive, stinking cunt, coated in black and white hairs.

The foulness overtakes your mind in full. You are there, raising your forepaws over her side to mount, pulling in, squeezing, thrusting, humping, as you voluntarily slide your penis--now a red and pointed fox tool--from its sheathe between your legs. You rock mindlessly--obeying--obeying--obeying the fox, until you feel you can't think of any alternative. Soon, the choice is denied to you altogether, as you slide slickly in the vixen's pucker, and are enveloped in puffy, slippery folds, that massage and grip your dick til it's rock hard. The ultimate change comes when your penis bloats up at its base inside, knotting the two of you tight. If there was a man left, it is now a black, stinking, sleek fox, with three white tail tips, swishing the dirt like brooms as you hump, hump, and hump your sherbert-shaded partner.

A soft shift in your skin leaves your tails and face stinking--another, and your paws are letting off the same bitter belch scent, as the other two foxes. Whiskers grow from your brows, and prod forth from the sides of your new snout. All you can think of, is the urge to piss everywhere, after you've done your dirty deed. Very little work is needed for the fur to creep entirely over every bare spot left on your flattening skull, and before long, you're just a fox fucking another fox.

Your lady friend's insides tighten and suck and squish your dick in all the right ways, and soon, your fuzzy, white-furred balls tighten up against your doggy undercarriage. As you buck your fox legs more and more, forcing yourself into her bestial sex, you and her reach higher and higher plains of pleasure--and at last, you concede your dignity and humanity, into an exploding gusher of tod semen.

When you awaken from your post-coital recuperation, you're lying butt-to-butt with your new friend, still tied tight and dribbling animal spunk into her. Above, the gypsy stands--or so you assume, from her tails. She is no longer the taunting, sumptuously bronze-skinned temptress you remember, but a sleek black-furred beauty--one that stands on feet an approximation between paws and human soles, and who bares a fox's snout and pointed ears, emerging from a just-barely human head.

She bends down to pet you both, and licks briefly at your nose. You nip her affectionately on the neck, as she gently massages the link between the two of you, until you're able to ease out, dripping only the faintest bit of yellow spunk, as you slide from your new mate's cupcake.

As you roll over, and curl your tails in to try to sleep, she strokes your back, and sings for a bit, in your own alien language of chirrups and short growls. Then she is up, and beckoning you, pulling you by one foreleg, pulling you tall--drawing you almost immediately from an animal body, to a stance and shape not unlike her own, leaving a soft and disgustingly amazing sound, of shifted tissue, and perverse transformation. You let off a little fart, in sudden shock, as you stand suddenly as her equal. At your feet, your impregnated vixen lies, curled in a ball a quarter your own size.

"Come now. There's plenty of crotches and butts to be sniffed, and plenty more opportunities to mate. I'll reintroduce you to your lover, in time, but for now, there are other humans who need our touch, and who should know our love, as well as our wrath."

This pleases you, and so you walk on with her, united at last with her in vulpine corruption, wondering who should share this fate with you first.