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The Rat and the Paw

Trist was grieving, and yet she was ecstatic. It was a difficult combination of emotions to feel at the same time. She was also mourning someone that she didn’t know at all, which made it even stranger. Well, Trist didn’t know her personally, but at the same time, she had read what had to be every single thought of hers that had ever been put on paper, so in a way she did know her.

The feelings were rather confusing, but feelings often were. She was mourning the fact that her favorite author of all time had just died. However, said author's estate was selling off all her belongings today, and Trist was going to be at that massive sale. The dead otter had been quite the collector of various esoterica, and on top of that, her unfinished manuscripts were on sale too.

In a way, Trist felt a little guilty about how excited she was. Specifically, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was swooping in like a vulture to scavenge something of value from a person of such legendary status and importance to her.

But if she didn’t, someone else would do it anyway, someone who didn’t appreciate all of the otter’s works anywhere near as much as she did. Looking at it that way, she was more of a historian, ensuring that everything would be properly taken care of. Well, everything that she could afford, at least, which wasn’t even close to all of it, but a few artifacts would be well preserved in her own home.

Trist herself was a writer. Nowhere near as good as the otter had been, but she had a vain hope that something in the otter’s estate would properly inspire her, to let her stories come alive the same way the otter’s had, to grant her even a fraction of whatever had once inspired the otter.

She stepped out of her car in front of the estate. It wasn’t anything magnificent, simply one house among many, but this was still where her favorite author had lived, worked, and died, and that made it important.

Trist was thankfully here early, even if it had cost her a few hours of sleep to make the drive before all the other “vultures” would arrive. The otter hadn’t been terribly famous, but she certainly still had a dedicated base of readers, so there would be some competition. But not yet.

She rang the doorbell and a greying hyena greeted her. The otter’s editor! It had to be. He had the kind of sad look in his eyes that only a close friend of hers would have at this event.

“…Whiplash?” Trist asked.

“Yep, that’s me,” the hyena answered with a tired smile. “Just helping all her relatives with this part.”

Nobody really appreciated a writer’s editor the way they appreciated the writer herself, but Trist did, knowing that this relatively anonymous hyena had been quite important in polishing the otter’s stories. Still, she didn’t point it out; it felt a little gauche, something that a stranger would only say if they wanted to manipulate you, even if she herself would’ve fully meant it.

“You’re a fan of hers?” he asked.

“Big fan. Probably the biggest!” the rat exclaimed, the excitement overcoming her natural shyness.

“At least her stuff will find a good home with you, then,” Whiplash smiled. “Just, um, I’m going to recommend you… consider what you buy carefully. Some of it’s…”

He trailed off just before he mentioned curses. They had long since made sure that none of the actual cursed manuscripts were left here. But the otter had a lot of things, and there was a distinct chance that some of them remained a little haunted by her fierce creativity. But he wasn’t sure, and there was an equal possibility that everything was totally fine.

“Well, you know, just choose carefully,” he suggested. “Want to go inside?”

“Yep!” Trist giggled. “Oh gosh, so I can just buy anything I want to?”

“More or less,” the hyena shrugged.

They walked inside. The otter’s home was modest, but very decorated. Her shelves were lined with heavy books, ranging from international best-sellers to titles Trist had never even heard of, and she spent a good few minutes just looking at them, the books spaced out with various things that the otter had collected during her life.

One thing in particular caught her attention, though. A preserved hand from something, perhaps an ape or a chimpanzee, was wedged between two of the books. The thumb and index finger were curled, the remaining three straight.

“The otter said she got that from some fakir or something. God only knows how old it is, I think smuggling parts of endangered animals wouldn’t fly these days,” the hyena commented, looking at it. “She also said that it grants wishes. I wouldn’t bet on that, though.”

Yet the grotesque little artifact was hard to look away from. Something about it demanded her attention.

“How much is it?” she asked.

“Free. Like I said, pretty sure it’s not legal to sell these,” Whiplash laughed. “Just be careful if it actually does grant wishes. You never really know with the otter. Or knew, I guess.”

His expression turned glum as he was, once again, reminded that his nearly life-long friend was dead, and he said no more.

After a few more moments wandering around, Trist had picked out some keepsakes. A few of the books the otter herself had owned and a couple of early drafts of some of her stories. And weighing heavily in her bag, the mummified monkey-hand, of course. She wasn’t sure why she wanted it so badly, and she had already put it back on the shelf several times, only to pick it back up again without thinking.

Fine, she thought. Maybe it really will grant wishes. Or I’ll throw it in the fireplace or something.

When she got home after another very long drive, the hand was the first thing she pulled from her bag despite aiming for the drafts.

Let’s just get this silliness over with.

She grasped the hand tightly and wished that her stories would come alive just like otter’s had. She let out a gasp, recoiling as the hand seemed to twitch, and she threw it aside on reflex. It rolled under the bed.

Nah. No. You just scared yourself for no reason, silly, she told herself.

Okay, then. Back to writing. Immediately. Right away. Writing her lusty stories was how Trist calmed herself down. She sat down by her desk, wiggling the mouse to wake the monitor, and while she had initially been dreading seeing the blank page still open in her word processor, it didn’t seem so daunting now. Time to write.

“Indeed, let’s write,” came a voice from behind her, and Trist leapt out of her chair with a scream, nearly knocking over her computer and ending up with her back to the wall.

There, floating right behind where she had been sitting, was a shadowy shape, difficult to focus her eyes on, glimmering like a migraine aura just out of focus.

“W-what-what- holy crap, what-” the rat stuttered, fumbling for anything to defend herself with. But the shadow-thing didn’t move, instead impatient tapping what was either a hard tentacle or a multi-joined chitinous leg on the floor.

“You wished for your stories to come alive the way that the otter’s – that mine – did,” the figure spoke, and suddenly Trist realized that it was, beyond the superfluous number of limbs, shaped roughly like an otter. Maybe.

“The only way that’ll happen is if you have a Muse. And now, it turns out, I am yours,” it continued. “Your favorite author, I believe.”

“…you? How- what?” Trist asked, flabbergasted. She had absolutely no idea what was happening except that something that couldn’t exist was apparently going to be her Muse. And that something claimed to be her favorite, dead author.

The shadow flickered, and somehow, Trist felt like it was rolling its eyes at her.

“Sit back in your chair and we’ll write,” it replied, simply. “This is what you wished for.”

“F-fine, I guess. Are you really her?” she asked.

The shadow tapped her chair with one of its many limbs. “If you want me to be.”

There had always been rumors that the otter had some kind of supernatural “muse” guiding her writing, or at least her inspiration, and so Trist wasn’t entirely blindsided, yet she was still trembling as she sat back down, facing her computer. She placed her hands on the keyboard, and then suddenly felt a headache coming on, her fingers feeling a little sore.

She turned back towards the shadow. “I’m not sure if I’m really in the mood to do this,” she sighed.

“You’d give up after finishing a draft?” the Muse asked, the shadow’s tentacle reaching to caress her cheek.

“What do you m-” Trist asked, only to snap back to the monitor and discover that she had just written twenty pages. And it was the best story she’d ever written. A little rough around the edges, but it was about a rat-girl’s slow descent into hedonism, driven wild and left ravenously needy by her lust.

“Oh,” she whispered. Had she really written all of that? It came back to her like little glimpses of light in a dark room. She had written all of it, and the realization made her feel strangely warm and flushed, with pride and perhaps with arousal.

“Now it’s just a matter of making it better,” the Muse told her. “It’s a good story, but it has no hook and no fire. Not enough kink for what you’re writing. And that’s what I’m here for. Once a writer, now your personal editor.”

She spoke those last two words in a tone so particularly menacing and strange that it sent a shiver down Trist’s spine.

“For example. Right now, the story is plain. What if the protagonist had much bigger breasts?”

Trist tapped at her keyboard. She still wasn’t feeling entirely safe with this unnatural being clinging to her like a shadow. The idea seemed good. It seemed exciting, like the kind of spice a story would need. Not too significant of a departure from her ideas.

“I’m not really sure what having huge boobs would feel like?” she asked, as she adjusted some adjectives in the story based on the Muse’s guidance.

“Why wouldn’t you be? When was the last time you measured your own chest?” the Muse murmured. “Unless men have stopped loving enormous tits since my time… I think you’d know their reactions.”

“I’m not very…” Trist huffed, and then she cupped her chest to prove it, only to be reminded that she was rather stacked, with eye-catching and bouncy breasts big enough to catch the eyes of both men and women. “Huh.”

“Exactly, we’re writing this story with you as the protagonist, aren’t we? As close as possible, at any rate,” the Muse replied. “And we’re not going to stop there. We’ll work in those marketable kinks…”

For a moment, Trist felt strange, as if her internal version of reality was a little mismatched to external reality, but then the universe settled and felt normal again.

She felt terribly tired, though. Her headache had grown worse, too, which made sense; when Trist looked at the time, she realized that almost eight hours had passed in the blink of an eye while writing. Maybe this, she thought, was how the otter had felt.

“Correct,” the Muse whispered. “You should rest. There is much work to be done, after all.”

Trist stood up again. Her legs felt a little strange and wobbly, as if she hadn’t used them for a while. Worse yet, she was only now noticing that she was rather aroused, which made sense given that she had just written the hottest, lewdest story ever.

“I, meanwhile, will go through your story so we can upload it for your fans tomorrow.”

Trist replied with a stunned okay and then went to do her nightly routine. The Muse seemed attached to her shadow, which made the rat wonder how exactly she would work on a story without her, but she was too tired to care. Relentless raw inspiration was draining, it turned out, and she was out like a light.

And then she was up again, only still asleep, and without a shadow to follow her, as if light passed straight through her suddenly curvaceous body. It wasn’t just breasts that her editor had added, oh no; her ass was twice as plump, too, perfectly accenting her wiry rat-tail, and the Muse wasn’t going to stop there. After all, there were stories to tell, even if she wasn’t the one who came up with the ideas anymore.

She stood up stiffly, and with Trist still asleep inside herself, walked back over to the computer and got to work.

Ah, the rat’s prose was as shy as her personality. Even with her inspiration, Trist kept dodging the more visceral details that a story had to have to really appeal to the readers and leave them drooling for more. A few edits here and there would easily fix things. The Muse, working with Trist’s peacefully snoring body, wrote the protagonist to be a little more reluctant, only to become that much sluttier. Trist had figured that a simple hook-up was slutty, and so The Muse added a few more partners for her. Nothing too kinky, just enough to drive home the protagonist’s descent.

And a few other touches, of course.

Trist woke up, feeling energized. She brushed her teeth, had her coffee, and then sat down for another productive day of writing, only to realize that her inbox was flooded with notifications. Favorite after favorite, each of them loving her newest upload that she couldn’t even remember posting. Her heart swelled with excitement at seeing the sheer outpouring of support.

“Loved the story, she turned out to be such a good slut,” read one.

“Hot! I must’ve cum like five times already!” was another comment.

She had already gotten more favorites than she had ever even seen the otter get, and a lot of them were very explicit. And some, surprisingly intimate too.

“God, I got so wet reading this, I want to be a slut like her.”

“If you’re anything like that in real life we have to meet up, Writing_Rat! Call me!”

That last one had a phone number attached. It looked like it was another woman, and suddenly that pride in her heart was all nervous fluttering. Her fans liked her stories so much that they wanted to fuck her? Even the women?

She was half tempted to accept that last offer. In fact, just thinking about it left her rather flustered in more ways than one. A little damp, a little tempted to grind against her seat. But she couldn’t just do that, right? It wasn’t something that writers did.

“Doesn’t that feel great?” the Muse whispered in her ear. “All that adoration, all based on just your work. They love them so much that they want to fuck you.”

Trist couldn’t deny that it did, and it was what she fantasized about the entire following night, with her writing duties done. Tomorrow, it’d be time for a whole new story, one that she knew she’d effortlessly be able to write with the help of her new, strange companion.

Unfortunately, after many hours spent the following morning – most in a kind of detached trance where Trist didn’t even think about what she was writing, simply letting the words flow, the next story had the same problem as the first. No matter how inspired Trist felt, she kept writing what was a barely-explicit romance despite wanting to write outright smut the way the otter had, and that simply wouldn’t do.

“This one needs a little more spice. It needs better characterization. More unique characterization. Right now, it’s too similar to your previous story. What if, in this one, the protagonist had a cock?” the Muse asked, leaning in and guiding Trist’s hands as her fingers danced across the keyboard. “That’s a new perspective.”

“What’s wrong with my original idea?” Trist complained. She was slowly getting used to her ethereal editor, daring to at least challenge her.

“It’s plain. Have you never had an honest editor before? If you want your stories to come alive you have to add spice,” the Muse intoned. “You need to channel lust, carnal situations so intense that they give your readers new fetishes.”

Trist blinked. She hadn’t really thought of it that way, despite being a ravenous reader herself. “And the protagonist having a cock would be enough?”

“No, but it’s a start,” the Muse replied. “Something to catch people’s eyes.”

“Um, I’m not sure if I’m very good at writing that,” Trist sighed, squirming as she tried to imagine it. “I mean, I don’t know what having a cock feels like.”

“But of course you do,” the Muse grinned. “How else would your skirt be tenting like that?”

The shadow took the rat’s hand and guided it to her crotch, and Trist let out a surprised gasp as she felt her cock sticking straight up, stiff with arousal from writing a story about her own experiences with… no, that couldn’t be right, could it? This time, reality didn’t realign.

“Have I… have I always had that?” she asked. “I haven’t, have I?”

“You’ve always wanted one. That’s why you wrote yourself like that for the story. And now, you get to try it out with all those toys you bought, just like in your story.”

“What t-” Trist asked, only for her eyes to land on the collection of fucksleeves – each shaped like the pussy of a different species – on her desk. “-toys?”

“Just as you wrote,” the Muse replied. “Now you might as well enjoy them.”

The rat shuddered at the thought. Her cock felt like a perfectly natural extension of herself, but she had no idea how to use it, nor was she sure if she wanted to.

The Muse hovered over, using the rat’s own hands to do a few more edits. “Is that why you wrote yourself desperately masturbating while trying to find a woman or two to fuck?”

“Stop,” Trist hissed. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

The Muse smiled at her, and its smile looked like a gap so dark it’d stand out even in a pitch-black room. “I’m making your story better, as you wanted.”

Trist shivered a little. She pulled her skirt up and her panties down, and sure enough, her cock sprung out. She felt a pang of desire seeing it throbbing so eagerly, a little dribble of precum already running down the meaty side of it. It would probably feel really good to slide it inside one of her toys, just as she had planned, but she felt so terribly self-conscious about it.

Then again, she could hardly keep writing if she was this horny, could she? Her balls ached like they always did when she needed to empty them. As if she’d always had them. Trist knew that it wasn’t the case, but did it really matter?

Trist was ashamed that it had taken her so long, but now, she finally understood what the Muse did. She had wished for her stories to come alive, using those exact words, and so they came alive in the most literal sense. She should’ve been horrified, but then… it was incredibly hot. There didn’t even seem to be a price attached. Whatever she wrote and the Muse polished up became reality. None of this meant anything, it was just her story coming alive, so why shouldn’t she enjoy it?

Slowly, she reached for her toys. She didn’t really know how to use them, but then again, how hard could it be? There was a soft hole shaped like a canine vulva, and her cock twitched at the sight of it. It hardly took a genius to figure out what came next.

She smeared some lube on the entrance. Had she always been so drawn to pussy? Trist suddenly couldn’t remember, but she didn’t think so. Surely, she hadn’t been a lesbian. Not before she had a cock designed and yearning to sink into a woman, at least. But it didn’t matter, she had to take the edge off; writing had left her so damned horny that her cock kept throbbing on its own and her heavy balls ached almost painfully at the sight of the toy.

Oh, whatever, it doesn’t mean anything, she thought, and pressed the toy’s canine entrance against the tip of her leaking shaft. Her hips bucked instinctively, and Trist gasped as her cock sank in. Her whole world immediately narrowed down to just that delicious sensation of tightness around her, and her body knew what to do. In no time at all, the rat was fucking the toy, both using it to stroke herself and thrusting into it, nearly drooling at how good the ribbed insides felt sliding over her shaft and glans, caressing her to the point that her beautiful cock was jerking wildly inside it.

It wouldn’t take long at all. And if a real pussy felt this good, she understood exactly why men were so quick to want to fuck. Oh, god. Might be in trouble.

“She kept stroking herself for a good while,” the Muse narrated, reading from the story still on the screen, now with a devilish tone to her voice. “But as she neared that delicious point of no return, she suddenly realized that she wanted to get dirty, wanted to coat herself with her first proper load of cum…”

“That’s… that’s not what I-” Trist whimpered, but she was getting awfully close, an unmistakable pressure building in her loins and demanding to be relieved. She was getting closer with each thrust of her hips, nearly at the point where she’d fill the toy with her cum – just thinking about her cum was strange – but just at the point of no return she realized she wanted to see her new cock spurt for the very first time and pulled the toy off, staring at that undeniably masculine appendage as she switched to clumsily rubbing herself with a hand instead of the toy.

One moment she was almost there, and the next, she was over the edge. Her cock throbbed heavily in her hand as the pleasure spiked to a head-swimming high, and Trist moaned as the first pearly ribbon of rat-cum erupted from the tip, splattering over her belly and breasts both. Messy, and yet so very sexy, and she couldn’t stop now, stroking her bouncing cock as gush after gush of thick, plentiful cum coated her body in splatters of lust and pleasure.

She was left panting, her grey fur streaked with messy white.

“That feels better, doesn’t it? The story’s almost perfect, too,” the Muse told her. “The protagonist gives in and strokes her new cock to orgasm, soaking herself in her very own cum… and then she realizes that each time she does so, her cock grows, and eventually the toys won’t be enough.”

And sure enough, when Trist looked down again, her cock was bigger. She hadn’t even gone soft despite pumping out what felt like a gallon of cum all over herself. In that post-orgasmic moment of clarity, she watched herself slowly swell and grow. The sight left her almost breathlessly horny and strangely proud – in the most perverse of ways – knowing that if she kept doing this, she’d be too big to even try to hide that bulge under her skirt, especially when fully hard.

The Muse continued. “I wonder how her fans will react to it.”

“D-didn’t I already write that? She finds her true love and, um, that’s how it ends,” Trist suggested, trying to keep her hands off her cock lest it grow even more.

“But that’s boring. Remember, I’m an honest editor,” the Muse purred. “You’re writing smut, not romance, and so the story needs to be lewder. It needs more kink, more… debauchery.”

“I’m not… totally sure, I mean, won’t that change… reality?” Trist asked.

“Does the story change reality, or does reality change the story? Who can say, perhaps you always had a legion of fans that you can’t help but fuck,” the Muse ‘grinned’. Trist wasn’t sure how she knew that, but the Muse was definitely grinning.

And once again, that shadowy Muse borrowed her hands for the editing process, to make the story all that much hotter, adding the kind of kinks that she knew would sell, the kind that people followed Trist for, the kind that left them dripping.

Trist wanted to interrupt it, but there was no denying that the story was really coming together, and it was difficult to really argue against the creation of true art. Because that’s what it was, she told herself, not just smut.

In the next moment, the Muse was gone, and then there was a knock on her door, nearly making the rat jump out of her skin again.

Oh, because in the story, she had invited a couple of fans over. And in real life… she had also done that, evidently. She still had cum on her tits, which was embarrassing, but that was why she had invited her fans over, after all. Huh. She felt very strange walking to the door half naked and coated like that, but it was the image she had been fostering with her stories, after all.

Where was the shyness that she should’ve been feeling? Gone with the edits, she presumed. But it didn’t feel bad in the slightest, just unfamiliar.

And then she opened the door without any further hesitation, she was greeted by two women. Trist felt like she would’ve invited at least one man, but at the same time, they were smoking hot. One mouse in a skintight body-con dress that perfectly hugged her generous curves, and a more lean, muscular cheetah dressed more casually who nonetheless oozed femininity.

“Wow, Trist,” the mouse squeaked. “I knew you were lewd, but that lewd?”

Her expression was one of unbridled admiration, for both Trist’s appearance and her stories. She had, the rat seemed to remember, been a fan from the very beginning. Which of course meant a very recent fan unless her Muse edited reality to match her story, but it felt like they’d been acquainted with each other for a very long time.

“Hope you’ve got plenty left for us,” the cheetah purred. “Or at least a new story to read while we lick you clean.”

Trist blushed at that. Clearly, she had picked the right fans to have visit her. Yet, she couldn’t shake the thought that they weren’t real people. Well, they were, but at the same time, they were characters, warped by the Muse to fit into her story.

But that didn’t change the fact that her cock was firming up again at the sight of the two women, and she wasn’t wearing pants.

The cheetah continued teasing. She stepped forward and leaned in close to Trist, tracing a single finger down her cum-streaked belly and down past her bobbing shaft, briefly cupping her balls with the gentlest of touches. “How about it, you beautiful writer? Think you’ve got enough cum in those balls of yours to leave us both as messy as all the sluts in your stories?”

Of course she did. She did in the story.

There was that needy feeling again. The kind that only came with having a cock, especially one as big as her own, engorged with blood and leaving her mind accordingly hazy. The need to slide it into something. Soon enough, the three women were all naked, Trist’s two guests splayed out on her bed and letting her feast her eyes on their bodies.

Trist couldn’t believe how turned on she was getting just by looking at them, and that arousal spiked to heady heights as she sat between them, letting them both admire her in turn. The mouse moved first, wrapping her lips around one of Trist’s nipples and sucking on it, sending shivers of excitement through her body. The cheetah, in turn, was greedier, and quickly had her fingers wrapped around the rat’s cock.

It already felt better than the toy ever could have. And Trist decided to simply enjoy herself, her hand diving between the cheetah’s legs in turn and properly feeling up her damp, feminine mound. Once upon a time, it would’ve felt very strange for the rat, but after all those edits she suddenly found the feeling of it so incredibly desirable and almost unfamiliar despite herself having had one only yesterday.

She had to taste it. Slipping free of the mouse’s hands, she scooted over between the cheetah’s legs and dove in, pressing her muzzle against that slick wetness and breathing in her scent. Not to be outdone, the mouse followed her in turn, sliding herself beneath Trist and nuzzling at her massive cock. Before Trist could even stick her tongue out, the mouse wrapped her lips around her dripping member.

Trist moaned out, nearly collapsing at how good the cheetah’s tongue felt lapping over her glans and how exquisite her warm, plump lips were pursed around his throbbing shaft. She could only just barely muster enough self-control to start eating out the cheetah, but once she did – once her tongue first tasted her feline juices – she did so hungrily. She tasted heavenly, her flavor immediately making her cock jump in the mouse’s mouth again, a warm squirt of precum rewarding that lover in turn.

Trist swiped her tongue over the nameless cheetah’s clit, making her quiver with pleasure. At the same time, she thrust deeper into the mouse’s mouth, and she obliged, relaxing her throat until the rat’s oversized shaft sunk deep enough to where it should’ve made her gag and yet didn’t. Maybe because she was so into it. But then, so was Trist.

Each time she thrust her tongue deeper into the delicious feline pussy pressed and twitching against her lips, though, Trist found herself wanting more. Every fiber in her body was telling her to not just cum into a mouth, and she was powerless to resist those urges. After a few more moments of fucking the mouse’s throat and swallowing down the cheetah’s juices, it was too much. Her head was spinning. She needed relief.

She pulled her cock out of the mouse’s muzzle and climbed on to top of the muscular cheetah. Only briefly did their eyes meet, with the rat far too consumed by lust to hold back even a split second. She needed to feel a real, warm pussy around her cock. Not just a toy or mouth. With a glassy-eyed look of lust – and with the mouse helpfully aligning her heavy cock with the cheetah’s cunt – she thrust into her.

The toy had felt good. The cheetah’s warm body clenching around her cock was divine, and Trist was instantly hooked, gasping for breath as she began to rut into the other woman wildly without as much as pausing to let her adjust. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to need any time – cats tended to like their lovers rough – and simply moaned, wrapping her legs around Trist’s haunches.

The mouse, meanwhile, moved to nosing at her balls instead. Her fingers squeezed them softly, the other hand planted firmly against the cheetah where her pussy was spread wide by Trist’s cock.

“Mmh, ready to be filled with cum? I think she’s a little too excited to last long,” she murmured to the cheetah, who she apparently knew.

As much as Trist wished she could’ve said otherwise, she already knew she wouldn’t, not with how the cheetah’s cunt was rippling around her shaft, tugging on her glans, effectively trying to milk her dry, and she was powerless to resist the charms of the very first pussy she had ever stuck her cock into.

“Y-yeah!” the cheetah growled. “Fucking do it, fill me to the brim! God, I wanna feel just like your characters!”

She actually wanted it, and wanted it badly. That immediately sent Trist over the edge. With one final quick thrust she pushed as deep into the cheetah’s body as she could and then erupted. Cumming had felt good, but cumming inside someone receptive was so much better that Trist was drooling, each spasm of her massive cock like pure ambrosia injected into her very veins. Really, just the idea of planting her seed inside someone was enough to make her cum what felt like gallons, her entire body trembling with each weak little thrust as she emptied her balls.

Yet as she started to come down from that immediate high, doubt began to creep in. She had, as if in autopilot, just cum inside a woman. She had to be on the pill or in a safe part of her cycle to let it happen, though, surely.

“You’re on the pill, right?” she asked, her voice ragged.

“Don’t worry about that,” the mouse squeaked. “I need to get fucked by my favorite author too!”

Suddenly concerned, Trist turned towards her, only to see her on all fours with her tail raised and her own pussy seductively bared, visibly wet. Trist’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. She had just cum and yet her cock twitched again in anticipation, unable to even consider not immediately pouncing on top of the other woman and fucking her senseless.

“Are you on the pill?” she asked, trembling as she slowly pulled out of the cheetah, who was moaning happily. Trist had no idea if she had even cum or not, but her attention had been entirely diverted, and she hadn’t even gone soft.

Rather than replying, the mouse simply snuck a hand between her legs, two fingers forming a “V”-shape around her folds and then splaying herself wide. At that sight, Trist’s mind went completely blank, as if short-circuited. She clambered over to the mouse and grabbed her hips, utterly entranced by the sight.

It was just fanservice, wasn’t it? Part of being a famous smut-writer.

So rather than thinking about what she was doing, she nudged her cock against the petite yet curvy grey mouse’s cunt and thrust in, the lubrication of her cum and the cheetah’s juices making the tight fit quite manageable. She was big enough that her cock made the mouse’s belly bulge, but she seemed to love it, immediately reduced to happy squeaking as Trist spread her little body wide.

And then she was fucking her second woman ever, rougher this time not wasting another moment as she hammered into her sopping wet cunt. It felt exhilarating, affirming even, knowing that she’d be pumping her cum were it belonged – into the clutching pussy of her second stranger of the night – in just a few minutes while the mouse sang out with pleasure. Any further thought or consideration than that might as well not have existed at all for how little it mattered in the heat of the moment.

The mouse came almost immediately, having been rubbing herself in anticipation, another new and exquisite sensation for Trist. She could only gasp as her already tight body clenched even harder and in quick rhythm around her cock, making her head swim with pleasure with each needy squeeze.

Her mind felt blissfully empty, bar for the vague understanding that she didn’t even know their names, and they only wanted to fuck her because of the stories she wrote. It was the most delightful feeling of just pure sex instead of something complicated like romance, all three of them reduced from thinking beings to mere objects for each other’s pleasure. She could feel the orgasmic pressure building in her loins again and she didn’t hold back. Why would she?

Instead, operating on pure, raw instincts, Trist hilted inside the mouse – as deep as she could, anyway, given her small body – and dug her fingers into her waist, reflexively holding her in place as she reached her peak again in such a short timeframe. It felt even better this time, the rat left gasping for air as she came again, each spurt of cum pumped into the mouse’s body leaving her seeing stars. She gave the mouse every drop of her seed that she had, and the mouse in turn never stopped begging for more with breathy little moans and whimpers and the guiding, coaxing clenches of her silken sex.

They went on like that all night. Trist took turns between the two until none of them had anything more to give, and eventually they cuddled up in a sweaty, musky, and messy pile in bed, the outside world having long since stopped mattering. At least until the next morning.

Groggily, Trist peeled herself out of bed, out from between her two lovers, stumbling out into the kitchen to wait for her morning coffee once again, her enormous cock bouncing with each step as she walked. Morning wood, of course. Good thing, then, that she had two people here to take care of it with. Maybe a third would be nice, Trist thought. It wasn’t as if she had any shortage of horny fans, all of them wanting to take a ride on her magnificent cock, listening to her talk dirty to them.

But that thought brought with it an unexpected moment of clarity, and it felt terrible. She'd been acting entirely differently since she made that wish. The old Trist was far too shy and modest to ever behave like this. It was like she was a different person.

What had her life become? Trist stared at herself in the mirror, her thick cock still dripping with cum that she had just pumped into a woman – two women – who she barely even knew, guided by a wholly unfamiliar set of instincts. That, and she had barely gotten any real work done… well, she had, but it was all thanks to that strange creature that the mummified ape-hand had conjured to help her.

Did the wishes all come at a price for claiming talent that was not hers to wield? Was it the universe punishing her for trying to change fate, or for taking a shortcut to skill that would typically take several decades to master?

She couldn’t deny that felt very satisfied, and looking at the mess she had made of the smaller mouse – her legs were still splayed wide open, Trist’s cum dribbling from her thoroughly fucked pussy – made her head buzz with a horny pride. The cheetah had been even more thoroughly fucked to the point that her pussy was still ever so slightly gaping. If it had been a one-off occurrence, then maybe it’d be an acceptable lapse in judgment, but the constant debauchery and her changed, all-but-impossible anatomy demanding that she continue to indulge had become her whole life.

That wasn’t what she wanted, was it? Was she even herself anymore? Was not being herself the price extracted for her stories “coming alive”? Was she becoming like the otter, or was she becoming the otter, her editor’s personality slowly overcoming her own_?_

Was the creature even her? The otter had always seemed kind to her fans, and this “Muse” was… editing reality to… no, Trist refused to think about it.

For the first time since all this began, the rat dropped to her knees and crawled under the bed to find the monkey’s paw. She had to wish it all away before she did something she really regretted, like getting a woman pregnant.

She didn’t even know if the mouse was on the pill or not. The cheetah definitely wasn’t. Nor did Trist have any idea what their names were. Or where they had come from. Trist’s eyes went wide as she realized that she didn’t even remember how they met. It was if they’d just appeared, like all of her previous lovers, like the needy cock between her legs, after…

…after the Muse had edited her story to make it kinkier. Yes, this wasn’t her. She had to stop before everything spiraled entirely out of control.

She held the hand firmly. This was her chance to wish it all away and go back to normal. And in that moment, the Muse appeared again, extending out from her shadow and into a three-dimensional figure once more.

“Think very carefully about your next words,” she rumbled like an approaching storm.

“Y-you’re trying to write me into something I’m not, and everyone else too!” Trist whimpered, her fingers tightening around the paw’s wrist, just where it had been lopped off of its original owner.

“Perhaps,” she replied. “But this is nonetheless a friendly warning. Think about your next wish and phrase it carefully.”

“I wish we could just go back to how things were,” Trist blurted out, rather than following her Muse’s advice. The paw twitched. A finger curled.

The next moment, she was just arriving home after a very long drive from the otter’s estate. As Trist pulled up in her driveway, she couldn’t stop thinking about that strange, preserved hand that she had been gifted. Sure, she had a few drafts too – examples to learn just how the otter’s workflow had been – but the damned paw was what occupied most of her thoughts. By now it felt familiar even though it couldn’t be.

That evening, she sat down to write, staring at the blank page in her word processor. There it was, as imposing as ever, like a black monolith, a monument to her inability to write as well as the otter once had. Her ideas had always seemed to come alive so easily.

There was that paw she had gotten. The hyena had suggested it could possibly make wishes come true. It had to just be a silly rumor. When she looked at it, though, she felt a strange sense of desire to try it anyway.

Going back to how things were, of course, meant that Trist didn’t remember anything; after all, that time was before she had made her first wish. The fact that paw itself hadn’t reset didn’t strike her as anything odd; she hadn’t gotten a good look at it before, so hadn’t it always just had the ring finger pointing up, with the others curled?

Yet, there was a faint feeling of anxiety. Like an echo of a distant siren. Some lingering alternate-timeline version of herself warning her that it was a bad idea. And so, Trist set the paw back on the shelf and turned back to writing.

The words were hard to get out. It felt more like she was mining for them than sipping from a well of inspiration the way she was sure real authors did. And all that time, as evening turned to night, that damned hand was there, a single raised finger beckoning her to try it out.

Ah, well. Fine. It was probably just how unnerving the hand itself felt that was throwing her off, Trist reasoned, and so she grasped it tightly by the wrist.

“I wish my stories would come alive just as the otter’s did,” she spoke.

And then she screamed when an unseen presence tapped her on the shoulder, flying out of her chair and backing herself into a corner, face to face once again with her ethereal muse. The paw fell out of her grasp and skittered away on all five fingers, slinking into her ventilation ducts with its nails tapping eerily against the metal as it made its exit to find a new home.

“And here we are again,” the ghostly Muse murmured. “Now, then, let us write…”

“W-what do you mean again?” Trist stuttered, her eyes wide as she tried and failed to focus them on the strange apparition.

“Your last wish was the same as your first wish. Now sit down,” the Muse demanded. “Let’s make those stories of yours really come alive, starting from scratch.”

Trist, though she didn’t understand – she hadn’t made any wishes yet, and the thing was supposed to grant three! – couldn’t help but feel like something was terribly wrong.

But she wanted to write, so write she would. Only this time, there would be no way out.