Missing Person
"Have you seen this person?"
It's a question I've heard many, many times over the course of my... career. Some might say it's because I work a little sloppy, though it's not a criticism most get to make more than once.
When it's the police asking the question, of course, I cooperate, I'm honest about the last time I saw the victim while they were still alive, and occasionally I'll blame anti-scalyism as the reason why I'm always pointed to as a suspect. (There's a particular type of person who will be entirely nonplussed by the phrase "This is because I'm a stegosaurus, isn't it?") But for the most part I play the part of the model citizen.
The cops are on the job, after all, and they notice if one of their own disappears. Learned that the hard way.
But when it's just some guy passing out fliers...
I invite them in for a drink.
Today, it was a raccoon at the door who looked like he'd come down from the local university--he might've looked a bit young for the part, but he had a short beard as scraggly as his headfur and wore a gray sweatshirt with a few Greek letters blazoned across the front.
"It's my roommate," he said, holding up a picture of the androgynous-looking satyr who'd had the poor judgment to try cutting across my lawn while I was out sunning late last week; he was currently a rumpled jockstrap in my dirty laundry pile.
"I'm afraid I can't recall seeing him," I said. "You look like you've been wearing yourself out looking for him, though. If you'd like to come in and take a load off, I can offer you a drink?"
The raccoon hesitated.
"Fresh squeezed lemonade..." I offered.
"I really ought to keep looking for Tony," he said. "We're all worried."
I didn't push further; that would be unseemly. But leaving the offer open was fair game. "Don't let me keep you, then. But if you don't find him today, feel free to come by before you head home and enjoy some rest." I gave him a wink, in case the prospect of more than just a rest might entice him.
"Thank you, sir," he said, and headed off to the next house.
The sun was setting when the raccoon came around again, framed in the peach sky of the dying day. (His dying day, a snide corner of my mind suggested.)
"Is that offer still on, sir? Lemonade and a... rest?"
I let him in and let him get comfortable in the living room--which was safe enough and not likely to prompt inappropriate questions--while I went into the kitchen.
I pulled out the pitcher of lemonade I'd "prepared" earlier and a pair of tall glasses, bringing them back and laying them out on the table. Drinks poured in secret can incite suspicion, and some days you want your mark to be entirely unwitting till he's passed the point of no return.
My new friend poured himself out a drink, and I did likewise.
"What was your name again, young man?" There's this little thrill you get sometimes when subtly referring to someone in the past tense to their face.
His ears reddened. "My friends call me Taco..."
"Oh?" I took a drink, and he followed suit. "I'm sure there was an interesting story behind that." Through extremely careful experimentation I had found that I was immune to the effects of my own tailspike venom. Poor Taco, however, only had a few moments before he was mine.
A slight coughing fit took hold before the raccoon could launch into the story of his moniker. It took him a minute or two for it to clear up while I patted his back, admiring his body as I felt it come under my control. Unlike his missing friend, Taco was broad-shouldered and sturdily-built, sporting a bit of the Freshman 15 around the belly.
I offered him a tour of the house--now that it was too late for him, I could afford to let him see the things that I wouldn't normally let others see.
Such as, for example, the bedroom.
"Wow," he said.
Some people who come across my toy collection get the idea that I might be a hoarder. This isn't actually true; while the dildos certainly take up a lot of space, I don't think any of them are more than a couple of years old or anything.
Some get worn out and thrown away. Some end up too small to continue satisfying and get given away or sold. Some even manage to escape the transformation after a while--fortunately the process leaves them too weak to run away. Those get a second change. Something disposable. Something that can be destroyed. Or recycled. Or digested.
The raccoon was tracing my back plates with his paw, a surprisingly tender gesture in the face of a wall of brutally thick toys. "Um..."
"Don't worry," I said. "I have a lot of practice."
"I'm sure you do," he said, paw sliding down to stroke over my rump. "But... well..."
"Not into assplay?"
"I won't say that, just..." He took my hand and led me over to my bed, where I took a seat beside him. "I just think we don't have to dial our kink up to 11 every time, yeah?"
Hah. "I think you should always play like it's your last time. You never know when it might be." And sometimes you do.
"Fair enough. I've just had some bad experiences, I guess. Is it okay if I go slow, at least?" His paw reached for the zipper of my pants, carefully opening them up as he leaned in against me.
"Suit yourself."
Taco took my dick into his mouth, and man that fellah knew how to blow a guy. A lot of people are just okay at oral, but when they're exceptional you can feel it right away.
I knew exactly what I was going to do with him.
Now, when you're a big guy with rows of plates down your back, a blowjob can actually be a bit of an uncomfortable proposition--you can't just lie back and enjoy it, and lying sideways or sitting upright have their own logistical problems between yourself and the other guy, so you've always got to put some work into it. I tried to get comfortable.
"Here," Taco said. "Let me..."
He motioned for me to get up, and sprawled out on his back with his head at the edge of the bed. I stood over him, let him stroke my dick back to full hardness, and slammed the full length and girth of it down his throat.
He could take it.
I stayed hilted there for a few, wondering if he'd notice.
He probably wouldn't notice the slightly artificial feel of the inside of his throat; that's a bit subtle of a feeling to recognize without experience.
He might notice, though, that he wasn't needing to breathe.
I slid my cock back and forth a couple of inches at a time, feeling the warmth of that well-practiced throat give way to the mixed textures of a living sex toy.
As you might've guessed from my collection, I'm almost entirely a bottom, but that doesn't mean I won't just rub one out every now and then. And when you've got hands that are a bit on the scaly side, you come to appreciate a good masturbator toy.
Taco was starting to react, flailing as he tried to get free from me, but his limbs no longer had the solidity to lift his own weight.
I pulled out, to see what he had to say. His voice was gone already, but the whisper was clear.
"Help."
"No," I said, and slammed my dick home again.
I held the raccoon down by his belly as I thrust into him; his torso would be the only part of him to survive the process. His limbs and tail continued to wither, leaving flat the sleeves and pant legs of the clothing he'd never bothered to remove.
His throat got progressively more snug around my shaft as the fluids of his throat dried up, leaving only my precum to provide slickness.
Obviously this wouldn't do.
I pulled what was left of Taco out of his shirt, checking on his progress as I reached for the lube.
He was still recognizable as the college boy who'd knocked on my door this morning, at least in the face; his parents wouldn't need the backstory to burst out sobbing if they could see him now.
But that state of affairs was quickly changing.
The raccoon's head was retreating into the body of the fleshlight he was becoming; in a few moments there would be little left but some discoloration reminiscent of the raccoon's mask and a wonderfully realistic fuckable mouth.
I slathered lube all along the opening, letting it be his last sight as his eyes disappeared.
Almost done, kid.
The barrel of my new toy was still a bit too thick to hold comfortably, so I laid it back down on the bed to resume humping it as it changed.
Its mouth was really good.
The lips of the toy worked over my cock expertly as I got close to filling it. Damn I could do with more toys like this.
Maybe someday.
I ground deep into the toy as I flooded it with my seed, thick cum filling out the narrowing tube.
I pulled the remains of Taco off my dick and flopped forward onto the bed to inspect my new acquisition.
At this point there was nothing left of the raccoon to be seen among the features of the fleshlight; I don't believe in leaving traces. The toy was a solid gray-blue in color, just enough thicker than my cock to be good and tight, and its hole was adorned with an exaggerated pair of humanlike lips.
I brought my beak up to it and gave it a good deep lick, slurping out my cum till I had my fill.
If I remember right, that toy actually didn't last all that long. It was only a couple of weeks before regular pounding split the toy's mouth open wider; while it was still usable as it was, it was only about a month later that I accidentally split the tube underfoot.
I knew another victim would come along eventually.
But nobody came knocking on doors after Taco.