FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Rasthor couldn't be considered beautiful by any means nor interesting to those who knew him in Magant's fall. That was a reality, a truth, a statement everyone said when watching the old and slightly disfigured Satyr toiling in the fields and carefully earning his dime.

He wasn't the richest in the village either, as his life was one of a farmer working with his “beasts" and taming them. He wasn't the most talented either, as many would be a better fit for handling the precious creatures he had been breeding over the years.

But it was Rasthor's choice, all his.

Decades ago, Rasthor was known as the Nature's Blade. A pompous name for a pompous prick whose years beyond adulthood's edge could be counted on one hand. A pompous young lad who had wandered left and right with his fellow adventurers and fought many a danger. Dragons? Beaten and their hide taken. Liches? Their tombs turned into treasure troves. Cultist groups? Stomped on.

He wasn't a bad fighter nor a lousy druid, the strange union of both had given him the skills he needed in many situations. And he had been fairly lucky to survive through all this without losing his life to a Devil or something alike.

Yet, it was… What he had been before making his choice.

With his friends nearing their twilight years while he remained young through Nature's gift, Rasthor had sought to find a purpose in his life. Wandering had grown dull, the same as fighting. Fucking, drinking, and eating could only satisfy a soul craving for its place for so long. The universe was vast, and Rasthor had scoured it without ever finding a place to take a break.

That… That was until he found Magant's fall.

Magant was... someone Rasthor didn't know. Not that he couldn't read, but if someone was known for nothing but his fall, he was surely an idiot. It would be a waste of breath and ink to honor that guy. Such was the nature of this village: it was small, reduced, hidden in the mountains, and so far up that life barely clung onto the harsh stone.

Should one desire to find a warm meal after a long journey, a shop filled with riches before his departure, or a brothel bursting with many lovers, they would find none. Magant's Fall was as dull as the sterile rocks surrounding it.

So… Why did Rasthor go there?

His mind sometimes wandered and pondered on the question while he picked at the large scars across his face, broken nose, or at his displaced jaw that had ruined his otherwise average-looking face. Perhaps it was to hide himself or try to find a semblance of normalcy. He had wielded powers befitting gods, and resuscitated people!

If he so wanted, he could return to his former appearance with long, lush black hair, a goatee, and two handsome blue eyes. But… He didn't want to.

In a way, Rasthor desired nothing but to be… Forgotten for the hero he was.

Glory wasn't so nice. Never so nice.

Therefore, it was with a methodic and simplistic approach Rasthor enjoyed his life.

First, he woke up whenever the nearby rooster crowed. He would jump off the bed, minding his bad left leg, before oiling and shaving his hooves if necessary.

Then, he would rush to the tiny kitchen inside his tiny hut to prepare a porridge, which he would eat in the morning and at noon. He would dust off the counter, sniff his old clothes, and put on the cleaner ones before going outside.

If this were a weekday, he would go to the village's sole bakery and buy a brick of rancid bread since the baker wasn't bothered to learn his craft and some vegetables for the evening.

His steps would be careful, calculated to avoid any effort while he discussed of the usual weather, gray and rainy, with the old granny holding the fort for her family. Maybe, if he were feeling jovial, he would buy a plonk: something acrid brought from the tiny grapes growing on the side of the mountain.

With everything in the bag, he would return home.

Then, from the middle of the morning to noon, he would put everything aside, get out, and tend to his beasts to keep them fed. Then, his half-heated porridge would wait for him with a glass of lukewarm water before he trudged back to his beasts and their pens, ensuring their housing was clean of all potential danger.

That, it would continue up until late evening when he would start to prepare a stew with the ingredients he had bought. While it cooked, he would wait and have a smoke with one of the young guards, a promising lad, before it was ready.

The supper done, and the plates cleaned, he would go to bed and hide beneath his blanket in case the fire went out.

Such was… Rasthor's simple life.

Or what he dreamed of it if it weren't for the regular stops of adventurers. Nonsatisfied to be a relatively isolated spot in the bumhole of the universe, the village had many grounds claimed by wolves and predators. Therefore, veterans or pimple-faced lads would come round, hunt, and sell the hides. Sometimes, they knocked at his door for directions. And some… Some would ask if he needed help.

“I'm a farmer; I don't need more hands," he usually answered. However, a few would refuse the answer. Was it his one-eyed glare, his natural scowl, or his bad leg that made them yearn for his approval?

Well, they regularly ran here to bother him.

This time, the adventurer he faced was no different. A large human with a black helmet atop his head, claiming his name is “Steelhorn" in reference to his horns and his steel helmet. Despite the region's harsh temperature, he wore practically nothing, and his skin was as scarred as Rasthor's. It led the graying and balding Satyr to believe he stood in front of a masochist.

“I don't need to get paid. I only want to help you and be paid with a night under a roof, that's all, Sir," answered the gruff guy.

“Look at my place, and tell me you want to sleep there, lad!" answered Rasthor, embracing the place with an outstretched arm.

“It's fine, I am only looking for somewhere warm," said Steelhorn, nodding.

“Look at me; I'm a farmer; I have no need for strength," continued Rasthor.

“It's fine. Whatever you do, I'll do it, too!"

Continuing that route would have been dull, even for someone as used to dull things as Rasthor. Hence, he nodded and gave in.

He led the adventurer inside, allowed him to put his bag in the quaint little hut, and they left. For what? Well, Rasthor wasn't a usual farmer toiling the field. Sure, he had acres of land he could use to grow grass, but he wasn't sowing any seeds. Plants here hardly thrived, and the grass he found himself harvesting was well enough for his beasts.

Hence, with a growl, he offered the helmeted human another scythe, uncaring that the guy kept his helmet on. And they cut, the tools grazing and cutting while Rasthor formed a little moat he could easily handwheel away.

“You're not curious?" suddenly prompted the adventurer, his voice low as he wiped the sweat off his exposed chest despite the cold wind hitting it. He should have worn something better than a skirt, boots, and gauntlets… But that guy was a masochist.

“Curious about what?"

“About the helmet?"

“No," plainly answered Rasthor, grunting as he lifted another moat, the last one of that little field. The smell of fresh grass tingled their noses. It could be worse. Carefully, he pushed the cart further down and away from his house, towards a bigger structure further within the fields.

“What kind of beast do you handle?"

“Not your business," grunted Rasthor as he pushed. “Go back inside. I don't need your help for now."

“But… It's hardly half of morning, sure you need me for more."

“Is there any word I can say to make you back down?" asked the Satyr, looking above his shoulder towards the man who shook his head, crossing his arms.

“Fine. But you keep your hands to yourself."

This… This was a security. Not for Steelhorn, nor Rasthor. In fact, none of the two would be in danger if everything went well. It all hinged on that Adventurer not crapping in the pouch, but the lad had no weapons at the moment. And what Rasthor bred wasn't bothered by unharmed combat.

Dictated by Rasthor's slow steps, the two entered the dimly lit barn and were welcomed by a minty smell completed by sloshing sounds coming left and right. But nothing surprising for the old Satyr as he pushed the wheelbarrow and… Stopped, turning to observe the stunned adventurer.

“So many," the man mumbled beneath his helmet.

“Stop lollygagging and help me," barked Rasthor.

It was often how the adventurers reacted when they entered said barn. Whenever a civilian entered the place, they expected normal farm pets. When it was an adventurer or a druid, they expected some grandiose or interesting beasts.

But far from it, the Satyr was breeding slime, a rare variety named blue slime, to be exact.

They were just as big as their green cousins with their seemingly absent organs and brains. But they were not stupid, far from it, as they were pretty docile in Rasthor's presence. In return, small blue tendrils extended from their cubic bodies in Steelhorn's direction, reaching out until the human had to duck, sprint, and twist to avoid them.

“They'll get used to you," mumbled the Satyr as he picked up the fork, used it to scoop some grass, and threw it in one of the Slime's directions. Right away, the grass started to bubble and then disintegrated within the creature's body.

“You are breeding slime?" Steelhorn asked, his voice surprised as he picked up another fork gifted by the Satyr and started scooping some grass, imitating the Satyr in “feeding" the ooze.

“That one is full, now," commented Rasthor after another pick-up, his head twisting to the blue slime on the opposite side.

That barn was closer to a stable, with a pen for each ooze. Each had their little corner, with as little light as possible, access to clean water, and solid walls to keep them protected.

“Do you know how most healing potions are made?" Rasthor suddenly asked, throwing more grass at the second slime, which started to make bubbles and shiver.

“… With slime?"

“Haha, no. Not all of them," laughed Rasthor, pushing the wheelbarrow while Steelhorn worked to throw the slimes their fodder. “The rarest sure, but not the one you'd find in a random shop. You need some quality slime you can only find in dungeons for the most efficient. Or… From a few breeders," commented the Satyr, snickering and rubbing his nose.

“So... you're brewing potions?" Steelhorn asked, huffing as another moat was thrown at a slime.

“Not at all. I'm selling them to the nearby town. It's honest work," said Rasthor, setting the wheelbarrow aside to check the slime furthest from the entrance.

The Satyr didn't care if the human followed him. His eyes were on the pen. Almost the first pen he had prepared for this Slime, for the progenitor of all the other slimes. Compared to them, that one was also the biggest and had almost entirely overtaken its pen. However, what struck Rasthor were the regular shivers from the creature. It wasn't the tense shivers from feeding or fear, but something else. Something he had to check as he extended a hand, pushing against the gelatinous slime a-

“It's dangerous!" shouted Steelhorn from behind, stopping the Druid and making him frown.

“I know what I'm doing, lad!" Rasthor shouted back, pressing his hand further. He almost wished he would find some resistance, but no, the creature opened and allowed him in.

Slimes were… peculiar. If you were to end inside one, you would be digested alive. But there was only one situation when you'd only feel anything but a prickling against your skin.

“Shit," grunted Rasthor as he pulled his hand back and shook it, sending droplets everywhere.

“Is there a problem with that one?" asked Steelhorn, only a meter away.

“That's not your business, shoo!" Rasthor said, turning and growling as he pushed Steelhorn away from the pen. “That one is ready to lay eggs, but my usual helper for this isn't in town. If he's back too late, they'll go bad."

That was indeed bad. Rasthor was not one to waste a life. Even if people tended to despise Slimes and consider them lesser creatures, the Satyr estimated them for their main quality: their simplicity. They weren't challenging to work with, once you knew them.

But losing their eggs was…

“What's this? It can do it itself?" asked the adventurer, pushing back against Rasthor so he could see the shivering creature. And the Satyr pushed further.

“You fool, don't approach it. To lay its eggs, it needs a host. Wait."

The Satyr stopped and stepped back, watching Steelhorn's body for once. Wide shoulders, broad chest, strong back, belly, size. He had everything like his Helper had… Plus, it could be less costly.

“Say. You want to pay for your home. Here's the way," he chuckled.

Rasthor kept chuckling as he watched the Adventurer remove his skirt to strip. Sure, Steelhorn relented at first at the idea… To become the host of a bunch of slime eggs seemed like a terrible idea, and even Rasthor had to admit it. But that guy wasn't so smart nor too challenging to convince. Plus, it wasn't like he was losing anything in the trade.

So… Rasthor chuckled, watching that hairy backside, with plump and muscular buttcheeks be exposed. He saw the lines formed by the coiling muscles under the skin as well as the tension whenever the human moved. Those thighs were shapely. His ass wasn't sagging. It could fit.

“Okay... Since you've never done it before, I'll guide you with my voice," Rasthor commented as he approached, patting the human's back.

“When a Slime needs to lay eggs, they'll find the largest host around, you. They'll explore your holes and use the one that's the easiest to use. So… You mustn't clench your backside and keep your mouth shut! And beware if they want to access more than one hole," said Rasthor, pushing and guiding the Adventurer onward. The barn was relatively cold but not as cold as the outside, and… Well, the temperature was perfect for the Slime. Even one that was about to lay its eggs.

“What happens if it goes in more than one hole?" asked Steelhorn, his helmet turned at the enormous slime and the tendrils extending from the mass. Blue, small, and in such an ample amount, they were like an armada of small fingers poking and touching Steelhorn's hairy body.

“Shut your mouth. If you do it well, it won't be an issue!" grumbled the Satyr as he stepped back, avoiding the tendrils reaching toward him. If he allowed them, the Slime might take him as another hole.

“Okay… So stay still, don't clench your butt, and let it do its magic! It won't hurt!"

Well… He lied a bit since the prickling sensation could be considered as hurting. But it didn't matter for the old Satyr as he observed the tendrils envelop Steelhorn. They went over his exposed neck, over his helmet, inside it, over his arms, legs. Slimes weren't stupid, but without eyes, they lived through palping and touching their environment.

The tendrils explored the human's body, pressed and even squished those muscles, passing and… Finally descending to reach Steelhorn's plump ass. The tendrils pushed against it, massaged it, and even started to press between those cheeks.

“I- It's cold," mumbled the human.

“Shut up, don't speak!" barked the Satyr as he watched the tendrils merge and aggregate between the human's thighs. The slime had picked a hole, and it was clearly Steelhorn's ass as the tentacle pressed against the orifice.

Blue, wide, almost as big as an arm, the Slime wielded that tentacle like a fine weapon while said “arm" bulged from translucent blueish shapes. Rasthor knew those were its eggs. More than that, they looked healthy and quite big, ensuring the next generation would grow fast and strong.

He was rather proud of that beast. He was confident in its intelligence, he would have merely left to let it do its magic… If he wasn't with a newcomer within the domain.

Steelhorn was still standing up and firm, though, despite the tendrils pushing against his ass, and… Rasthor heard a gasp when the Slime's arm wiggled within the human. Blue ooze was sprayed all over those hairy cheeks, covering the hair with that blue color. But more than that, Rasthor was finally starting to see Steelhorn's asshole. With the Slime going inside and prying the cheeks apart, he saw through the slime and saw that swollen rim forced open. More than that, he saw how the hole attempted to squeeze and clench, to cut off the intruder from moving further, in vain.

Once the slime was in, it was impossible to resist, and the pinprick sensation would quickly turn into-

“Hhhh… So good," moaned Steelhorn, his knees quivering and his hands reaching for his belly, hidden from Rasthor's view.

“Shut up. And let it do its magic," barked again Rasthor.

At that stage, the Slime's oily surface was akin to an aphrodisiac and numbing agent. It eased the muscles, soothed the pain, and ensured the host's compliance. Such effects were visible as the clamping hole suddenly released its grip. The orifice then gaped enough for Rasthor to fit his whole arm inside.

He watched, he whistled… And massaged his bulge while the eggs within the arm moved.

They were round, heavy, large. Sure as the Hells, they could bloat someone with their sheer size. It wouldn't be a surprise if Steelhorn ended with a large gut due to the blue orbs swelling his belly, though he would have to lay them out after one day or two.

For a moment, Rasthor kept watching and rubbing his genitals as the first egg pushed against the orifice. He heard the Adventurer heave and groan, his breath short while the gelatinous shape was pushed onward and-

“Hhh!" gasped Steelhorn, surely surprised by the sensation once the egg had been rammed inside. Rasthor's always described the sensation as cold mint hard-pressed in his ass… Hence, it didn't surprise him when the man shivered.

“All good?" asked Rasthor, removing his hand instead to pat the human's backside. He rubbed the hairy skin for a moment, tentatively listening to the quiver and tremors shaking the human while the creature kept hammering that ass with its arm and… Forced it to open further, so another egg would push in.

“Hhh… Co- Cold," mumbled Steelhorn, his raspy voice worsened. Still, he was taking it better than expected, and though he wasn't leaning against any walls or structure, the large human remained still… Despite having someone as big as a mace lodged up his ass.

“It will be over in a jiffy, stay still and stay relaxed," encouraged Rasthor as he looked back and saw another egg pushing through… Three eggs were already pretty good for a Slime, though that one seemed to have one more in stock: four new slimes, four new sources of jelly for his trade.

“Good."

Rasthor's thoughts were pulled away as he heard Steelhorn's moans and his ass jolting. But not… Not like he was about to give up.

“What's up, lad?" asked the Satyr, keeping his hand nearby but not daring to stop the man… Especially when he was starting to shake that ass and impale himself on a tendril. He watched it, admired it… And heard another growl emanating from Steelhorn.

“' Lo- Love it. O- On front!"

The Satyr raised an eyebrow, watching with a curious eye the presence of the fourth egg starting to push from within the arm and… Press against the hole, sliding inside with more strength but without needing it.

Rasthor watched it and nodded, then his hooves stomped to approach and go around the human, only to see what had been happening.

Steelhorn wasn't humping the tendril up his ass like the Satyr had expected. He wasn't going to massage his ass and have a “loving" moment with his prostate. No… Instead, the guy was humping and trying to dislodge and move the tentacle that was upfront. The tentacle that had not engulfed his shaft… But penetrated it.

“Ohhh…. It's… So good," moaned Steelhorn with a distant voice, his entire body quivering, and so jolted his cock, jerking up only to be retained by the blue tendril going inside.

“Snap out of it, Lad!"

Despite his angry tone, Rasthor had an amazed smile spread across his face as he observed Steelhorn genitals. Big, almost as big as his, with a thick base completed by a bulbous red tip, the man sported what could be compared to a mace. One that had been penetrated, its pisshole so gaped it was absurd… And whose underside bulged from the tendril inside. Until said tendril disappeared within the base, below the bushy pubes.

However, it didn't end there, as the tendrils reappeared inside the low-hanging, leathery, dark-skinned, and musky scrotum. They formed like small veins beneath the skin, with an intense blue glow that made them visible as they grew and outstretched, surrounding the chicken egg-sized testes and embracing them… Already, more than two-thirds had been covered, and it wasn't about to stop until Rasthor had a word in.

Which he tried, raising a hand to pull on the tendril.

“Snap out of it, Lad!"

“No!"

Steelhorn's cry took the Satyr off-guard as he stepped back, watching the human buck and hump while more of the tendril went inside his urethra… There was no oozing precum, nothing, no fluid slipping out of the gaped pisshole.

“It's… Ahh… I- I'm cumming!" he moaned, another shiver shaking his entire body, although he didn't falter… And Rasthor observed. He watched the pulse within the scrotum, the bulge beneath the skin, and how the tendrils were almost covering it all.

“Lad! They're eating!" shouted Rasthor.

But it fell on deaf ears as the Human finally gave in and threw his head back, howling while his hips pushed forward and forward. Each time he pulled away, each time he almost dragged the tendril along with it. And whenever he pushed, they rushed inside… Even now, Rasthor could watch how the lad's groin bulged from the tendrils inside his prostate. And he noted how pleasing it seemed to be.

It was… Wrong. Still, he heaved as he undid his belt and the front of his trousers.

Satyrs were hung… And while Rasthor wasn't as big as the others, he had a thick flared tip that almost bounced outward as he had been erect all that time. Not only that but beads of jizz had coalesced at the tip of his urethra, and he… Watched.

He watched how a part of the tendrils seemed to move away from Steelhorn. In fact, only remained the arm up his ass and the tendril in his prostate.

The rest rushed to Rasthor.

They rushed to explore his dirty clothes and rugged face, probed around his median ring and the pubes hidden by his pants… But then, the tendrils moved up and around the base. The sensation was cold, chill even. Mint couldn't entirely describe it, but it was close enough for the old Druid as he held his breath and… Moaned.

He couldn't retain it when the tendrils pushed within his pisshole and outstretched it. It would have hurt by all accounts, but no. The contact was soft, ecstatic, tempting, and… Completely otherworldly. Warm and cold mixed together while the probing tentacle progressed inward.

Pain had receded, replaced by utter pleasure as the tendril coiled, turned, and twisted. No sphincter, muscle, or organ could hold it as it progressed.

No different than Steelhorn, Rasthor heaved and shivered, but he had to lean against one wood post when his legs were about to give out. It was… Stupid of him to have tried it, but he had to try as the tendrils prodded forward and faster. His perception of time even twisted as he felt the slow progress from the slime within. Those sensations rammed against his mind at an absurd pace.

He barely held tight, barely clenched his jaws as he felt the tendrils twist within his scrotum. They seemed to squeeze through something, through a passage that was way too tight for them. But instead of giving Rasthor the worst pain of his life… He came.

He cried, with his vision almost blind as the tendrils managed to descend further. He burst into tears when they managed to reach his gonads. He howled when they started to spread inward and around.

He couldn't care less about Steelhorn's distant cries, too. Nor could he care about his neighbors, who could have heard him a few acres away.

Nor about the slimes hiding in their corners.

He shouted his pleasure and discontent as he felt what was the eeriest and most pleasing sensation in his life. And it continued. It wasn't like one orgasm hitting him but manifold, constant, ceaseless. They were waves hitting him across the face while his entire world was washed away, remaining only the sensations of his body. The grain of the wood, the fabric against his skin, the soft caresses against his cocktip, the bulge within his dick and prostate, and the tingling prickling in his testicles. One that grew in intensity and potency by the second, accentuated by his pumping heart.

He-

He bit his tongue, feeling the hot blood rush in his mouth, but it wasn't enough.

It was only a droplet of pain amidst an ocean of pleasure he was drowning in. His palpitations accentuated while the tendrils dug and planted deeper within him. He couldn't have known his body so intimately, but somehow, the Slime's presence made him aware of everything that composed his being.

And… What it was taking from him. Yet, it was devoid of pain or torment.

It was… Consumption, yes. But enough to make him admire the moment while he felt his organs slowly disappear under the tendril's caresses, each chunk making his mind go blank…

Sure, that was what Steelhorn had been feeling.

What he was bound to feel as only a third had been taken… Yet.

---

“Why did I let you help me, lad?" groaned Rasthor as he welcomed the cold cloth from Steelhorn. He pressed it against his groin. He pressed it, trying to dull the phantom pain and the heat that permeated from his scrotum as he watched Steelhorn sit and imitate him with a growl.

“I… Don't know," Steelhorn mumbled. He reclined and moaned as the cold water eased his pain.

This was potentially the stupidest action Rasthor had taken in his life. After they had been washed away from their orgasms, the two men found themselves lying on the barn floor with the progenitor slime holed up in its pen.

They bore no burn, no marks of having been hit by any acid… Their bodies had been exempted… Except for what had been taken and given.

At that moment, Rasthor could still see the blue tinge from the Slime's eggs beneath the human's distorted belly. He could also notice that human's red cock, half-ard, whenever that hand moved… And that empty scrotum, looking like a deflated sack.

Not that Rasthor was any different, as he felt the empty skin beneath his palm and how he could pinch and pull it without thinking. But he tried not to… He didn't want to exacerbate what he felt at the moment.

Yet, he pinched it and scratched his scrotum, rubbing the skin together as he sighed, feeling a small reprieve until he stopped before Steelhorn's eyes.

“What?" asked the Farmer.

“It hurts," the human mumbled, removing the cloth to dip it in the icy bucket before pressing it back with a hiss.

“Yes. Regeneration isn't pleasing," grumbled Rasthor as he extended his cloth to get it dipped… He sighed, both from pleasure and pain, as the cold water eased the pain. “It will take us... days to have them back. That was stupid of you not to tell me it was going for your urethra," grumbled the Satyr.

“You told me to shut up... and it felt good," grumbled the Human, pressing and rubbing.

Just remembering the sensation made a part of Rasthor's mind desire it. It had been something so different from anything he had experienced. Therefore, he nodded.

“They'll be as good as new?" suddenly asked Steelhorn, his helmet facing down between his legs and belly. A belly he started to stroke with his free hand… But his eyes were beyond.

“Yes, even better than before. I'm not a druid for nothing. Once I've checked them, you can leave," grumbled Rasthor as he reclined… Only to frown when he heard that question.

“Do you think the slimes would want them?"

The Satyr frowned… Raised an eyebrow. Grumbled. Frowned again. And then a smile appeared on his face as he felt some precum drip from his outstretched and swollen urethra.

“Do you want a permanent job on my farm, then?"

A question to which Steelhorn answered with a nod.

“You're ready to endure it? Regularly?"

Steelhorn nodded.

“To be a good eunuch feeding my hungry Slimes when they're laying their eggs?"

Again, the human nodded.

The Satyr observed, then grinned, massaging his belly.

“Well, consider you engaged. I'll make your stay worthwhile, slut."