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He runs, and he runs, and he hopes he runs fast enough.

It's the middle of the night in the city, but street lights, lamps and open windows illuminate the way as he runs over one of the apartment block roofs, leaping from the edge and onto the very next one. Marcus feels that his pupils are wide as he runs, feels the slight ache in his bare paws from suddenly slapping down onto one roof and then another, but shoes would only slow him down.

They're chasing him, and he has to keep running.

Part of him, a filthy, filthy part of him, wants to stop and let them catch him. That part of him makes his cock bob heavily between his bare legs, makes his nipples hard and sensitive to the cool, night air: when he runs from them, he is not permitted his clothes.

The goal is simple: if he runs fast enough, then Marcus will not be bred this month. He will be allowed freedom as the others in the compound totter around with their heavy, swollen bellies and their leaking backsides, and he can read and play and eat as much as he pleases.

He has gone many months as the winner, unbred and enjoying every luxury the facility offers him, and he will go one month more.

Marcus leaps from an apartment block down a dozen feet, landing on all four paws on a much lower roof. He begins to run again, throwing himself from the edge and grasping tightly at the edge of the next building with clever paws: he wriggles as he drags himself up, and then he begins to run onwards, but is stopped short.

His feet catch on the floor of the roof, and he stops short, staring down at his own paws, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. The edges of the roof are covered in thick, green vines intertwined with each other and with the accoutrements of a city roof - the fire escape, the AC vent, and so on.

And here, in the middle of the roof's floor, is a heavy, sticky carpet of sap, stopping him from running. Marcus can just barely pull his paws up to move onwards, but the more he feels the nectar in between the pads of his toes, the more he wants to just stop and let them have him. His skin is tingling and hot, his fur standing all on end, and he whimpers.

It isn't fair. They've never set traps before.

He half-heartedly tries to force himself from the middle of the roof and to the edge, but his cock is hard now, hard and leaking at the tip, and he can feel his ass clenching in readiness, in hope. Marcus whines at the unfairness of it, and he looks over his shoulder: he can see one of them, creeping slowly over the edge of the roof and coming towards him, descending upon him.

Marcus drops to his knees and his forearms, ignoring the way the golden sap seeps into his thick, striped fur, letting his tail rise up. One of them comes right to him, and he feels it, feels the tiny, leafy little pads ready to press stickily against his tailhole. These are some of the oddest participants in the services of the Maetis Breeding Facility: Marcus doesn't even know what they're called, or if they're even from Earth.

All he knows is that they fill him with a sweet, yearning desperation to be fucked full, to be bred, and that they've cheated and laid a trap for him.

The pads are each the width of one of his toes, a quarter of an inch thick and made of a supple, green skin like a rainforest leaf, and there are a dozen of them in each cluster. One such cluster is slowly creeping up the fur of his thighs, the little pads leaving nectar-wet patches in his fur, and when the first presses against him, he whimpers.

Several of the stalks move forward, pushing Marcus' buttocks apart with a surprising strength, and he goes completely still on the ground, as stiff as a board. One of those wonderful little buds presses against his anus, and he feels it open, feels it spray something that tingles over the rim, something that tingles and makes him clench, makes him desperate. A bud presses forwards, presses inside him, and he groans quietly to himself as it slides right in, followed by another, and another. When six of the fluidly moving stalks have pressed their wet, wonderful pads inside him, they begin to move in synchronized swirls; they press against his inner walls and stretch him wider, spraying that fabulous nectar inside him and making him slick.

It smells like the sweetest, most flowery honey there ever has been.

Why has he fled for so long, and let himself laze in the facility without allowing himself this wonderful, wonderful sensation?

The tiger groans, biting at his own lips and pressing his cheek into his forearm as he presses his backside further and up into the air. All of his fur feels sticky and static with electricity, his ass open but not open enough. One of the bigger clusters is coming, now, one of the huge ones, and he closes his eyes tightly.

The smallest clusters, for preparation and teasing, are the size of a tumbleweed, moving their little stalks and shifting of their own accord, but the breeding clusters are bigger than Marcus himself, their buds easily each the size of one of his paws. The breeding cluster comes towards him, and Marcus inhales as he feels the little cluster rush away, down his thigh.

He could hardly have both inside him at once, after all.

A bud the size of his fist presses against his tailhole, but he's so slick, so open, so relaxed, that it slides into him as easily as anything. He grits his teeth to keep from begging as the stalk rotates slightly, burying itself within him, and he does his best to keep breathing, to be ready for when it-

"Ah!" he yips as the bud opens. This is not the slick nectar intended to relax and excite him, but this is the heavier, thicker stuff. The fluid clings inside him as more and more of it comes down the stalk and buries itself within him; Marcus feels like he's being filled by some plant-like hose, and he closes his eyes tightly as more and more of that wonderful, sweet sap is stickily hosed inside him.

It's oh-so-heavy, and he relaxes, pressing himself into those wonderful stalks as it fills him full. He's so full his belly actually swells a little with it, feels his bowels spread beautifully wide, beautifully ready!

And he _is_ready.

When that fabulous first bud draws slowly back, leaving Marcus spread with his pregnant-looking belly hanging heavily beneath him, the rest begin to come. Each bud presses inside him and opens like a flower in spring, but it doesn't just leave a pretty scent: each drops a wonderfully heavy sphere, a pod, with a new cluster inside it. Or, at least, Marcus things so.

By the time the things are ready to come out of him, he's in no state to pay attention to what precisely he's birthing. Marcus whimpers and whines, squirming on the ground and pressing his tailhole into the attention. Pod after pod is gently placed inside him, until he can feel them shifting together and against his inner walls inside him. His cock is so hard and so wet that it's leaking like the buds leak their nectar, and one of the small clusters takes pity on him, wrapping itself around his cock and playing with him as he's bred oh-so-full.

Seven pods, thirteen, nineteen, twenty! There's so many inside him, and when he comes, his white semen spattering on the nectar-sticky ground beneath him, he's lost count of how many pods he carries. The clusters begin to slither away, sliding down the sides of the building and heading back to the facility - it's Marcus' responsibility to make his own way back, somehow, after being fucked silly and bred so full he can barely think.

Marcus extricates himself from the stickiness of the ground as the sun begins to rise, and he keens lowly at the heaviness of his big, round belly. He's so heavy, and there's no way he can be graceful like this, weighted down by the wondrous things inside him.

Marcus strokes his belly, feels the slight, rounded lumps of the pods inside him, and he huffs as he makes his way stickily and reluctantly to the fire escape.

Next month, he promises himself, he will not let them catch him, will not let himself relent and be fucked, be filled, be perfected.

Next month.