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It's amazing how much two years can change someone.

Only the most stable, well-bred, and resourceful marines were picked for the duty of colonization. It amounted to five years of watching automated 'bots terraform the new desert planet. Five years of watching as grass grew, trees sprouted, and an ecosystem was born. Things which had taken millennia on Earth, occurring in the span of 1,825 Earth days - give or take.

And while that was exciting to the eggheads (justifiably so considering the relatively tiny timescale these events happened on), the marines were bored. At first, the allure of being able to stick their chests out and say they were there for the cultivation of Verde, the first planet ever to be prepared by automatons under mild supervision, gave the marines a great feeling of pride. Along with the prestige was the ten years of pay they got for five years of being away from Earth and the space marine corps, and moreover was the not insignificant interest the money earned as it trickled into their accounts back home.

Five years was a wishful length of time to last in isolation. Communications came only with the solstices, when the star Verde orbited was in just such a position as to slingshot messages to and from the relay stations staggered in deep space. But anymore, the marines did not look forward to updates from home. Even the most well-meaning messages had a way of aggravating the stir-craziness which came with the lonely assignment. One of the marines had begun praying for deaths in his family, or preferably the complete social and economic collapse of Earth and her daughter worlds. That would be something to make the civilized world seem worse-off than Verde, with its endless expanses of salt flats, loose sand, ugly mesas and lifeless saltwater.

First to go as hope decayed was hygiene. Potable water was already a hot commodity on the planet. What could be pulled from the atmosphere was precious, drinkable H2O not to be wasted by splashing it on fetid asses and sweaty armpits.

Hair grew long; uniforms became tattered and infused with body odor. Inhibitions began to go next. Gay sex had been a joke back in basic, but it became a way of life for Verde's lone inhabitants. These marines who had women waiting at home had become the most depraved homosexuals in their quadrant of the galaxy, making due with spit for lube.

Last to go and the most gradual to die, like a worm-eaten tree slowly tipping over in soft earth, was the chain of command. Formalities had slowly drifted out of their language, and the captain no longer thought of himself as any better than his sergeant. In the lack of structure came anarchy: they did what they wanted, when they wanted. Instead of making bread, they used the small amount of wheat the cultivated land produced to ferment beer. Scraps of food became not compost but pruno, and they had become just as likely to piss on each other for kicks than to do it in the fluid reclaimer like they were supposed to.

That they had become little more than bandits in dogtags circling the drain until they wasted the last of their supplies seemed to be little concern to the trio. Two years on a soulless rock was all they could take. Two years of huddling like Bedouins away from sandstorms; two years of paranoid cowering from lightning storms of unthinkable power; two years with only two other faces for company. It was too much.

"Get up," Spitey demanded, kicking sand across the stallion's face. "Get the fuck up!"

Banters was unperturbed by the sand gritting in his teeth and dotting the long, greasy locks of his black hair, but the pruno hangover felt like orbital bombardment. He sat up, ignoring the scowling dragon. "Ker-eyst, why do I keep drinking that shit?"

"Dupes is missing," the tightly muscular dragon said, sounding more annoyed than concerned. "And it was his turn to be the woman. So it's your turn now. You're gonna be my mare."

Banters looked up at Spitey in disbelief. The sun was above them, and its whitish glare made the Clydesdale wince away in what he thought must look like deferral to the dragon. "Fuck right off with that. I was the woman last time. I'd fuck you right here and now if it didn't feel like I had a fucking spike in my brain!"

Spitey scoffed and hissed. His tail slashed at the dry air, slinging beads of sweat off into the sand. "Crap! All fucking crap!" he suddenly bellowed. He punted the ground, kicking up a fountain of sand. A moment later he sat heavily on one of the thermal sleeping bags, underneath the nomadic tarps they had erected. He grabbed his naked penis and began to fluff, then masturbate.

The stallion looked at Spitey. He remembered that it had been Spitey - still Captain Spitey then - who had first stopped wearing pants. His tank tops which had yellowed with sweat and filth stayed a staple of his attire, yet he let his groin breathe at all times. His choice in fashion caught on quickly with the others who found that the constant bareness made up for additional sand in their cheeks with far less jock itch.

"Hey," Banters said, still feeling mildly drunk, "where the hell is Dupes, anyway?"

"Fucked if I know," Spitey snapped in his high-strung way. His masturbation was almost hypnotic to Banters just in how visually interesting it looked. The dragon's yellow belly hide gave over seamlessly to soft, matching flesh for his penis. Every jerk and pull downward made the foreskin glide, moving it on a bed of sweat and smegma. The pink head of the glans peeked from within the dragon's fist again and again.

Banters was jealous of the dragon's penis despite its smallness next to his own equine cock, which was dully flaccid now, hanging in the sand like a dead plant. "Your prick is pretty nice," he said amicably.

Spitey glared heinously. "Had your chance!"

"I don't wanna be the woman," Banters said, grimacing. "You're too rough when I'm the woman. No wonder Dupes is gone."

"Shut up," the dragon snarled. "You bitch like a woman but won't fuck like one! Next time you're sleeping, I'll just-!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Banters said impatiently. "Look!"

Spitey followed the stallion's finger across the endless dunes of the uncultivated planet. Clouds of fine silica rose on the horizon, and both Banters and Spitey knew that meant a sandrider was coming their way.

The dragon, dick still hard in his hand, glanced at the two sandriders under the canopy. Two, like they'd always had. He begrudgingly unhanded his penis and stood up, brushing sand off his sweaty behind. "All right, who the fuck's coming?" he asked. Urgently then, with a hint of his old command, "Weapons! Positions!"

"On it," Banters said, already halfway into the munitions storage unit, which protected their weapons in a vacuum until they were needed. He checked the charge and then tossed the dragon a rifle. He took a classic shotgun for himself. Together, they waited behind the impenetrable bulk of the unit with their sights trained on the cloud.

The unfamiliar sandrider, in preparation for its stop, ceased the use of its hover jets and switched to the rugged slicks mostly concealed under its chassis. It rolled under the power of the booster on the back until the unseen driver cut that too and let the sandrider coast into the camp, its nose bumping harmlessly into one of the boulders which the canopies were strung from.

The sandrider was perhaps three yards away, and both marines-turned-bandits had their guns trained on the one-way glass of the cockpit.

"Ready to blow their fucking head off," Spitey said to nobody. His tail lashed in primal delight. Musky fluid dripped from his erect cock.

The engines powered down, their shrill turbo whine ramping down into a screech the marines could hear, and then into nothingness over a period of twenty seconds. In that time, the cockpit disengaged and hissed open. Banters but not Spitey relaxed when the rugged, familiar face of DuPage the German Shepherd appeared in the sunny haze.

DuPage said in his hearty voice, "No shooting! I found something special!"

Spitey's gun stayed trained on the dog. "'Bout to have a special new hole to fuck if you don't tell me where that fucking thing came from and where you been."

DuPage leapt out of the sandrider, boots thudding into the sand. His balls wagged between his legs, hanging low and heavy in the heat. "I saw a_glint._ Up that way." He pointed, and Banters followed his finger. Spitey did so with his eyes, but kept the gun trained on the dog. Banters hissed into his ear to stop, and Spitey took his sights off of DuPage with an irritated groan.

Unfazed, DuPage continued. "Do you see it? Well, maybe not with the sandstorms off that way now, but it's there. There's a prefab up there. Nice little building. Climate control and hydroponics. There's even beer! Real beer, not the shit we've been brewing."

The dragon and stallion exchanged looks. "So, what?" Spitey asked. "Empty? What the fuck?"

DuPage grinned hugely. He patted the hull of the sandrider and commanded suddenly, "Out! Now!"

A creature unimaginable as a marine made himself visible in the cockpit, then climbed out of the sandrider, moving clumsily in what was plain to the marines as fear. His body was slim and feminine, his hair long and even styled with a braid. The only clue hint of his military background were the silver dogtags around his neck. Even his clothes were civilian, made for loafing rather than working.

DuPage snagged the stranger's leg as he climbed down from the sandrider, causing him to tumble to the sand with a shriek of pain and shock. The trio of marines laughed, but Spitey in particular was nearly psychotic in his delight.

The boy struggled to get up. It seemed like a fist gripped his stomach and his legs felt icy and numb.

DuPage grew tired of this floundering and pulled him up by the collar of his shirt, ripping it in the process.

"Let go of me!" the pretty boy demanded in a voice not made for demands. His slim, black paws reached for DuPage's wrist.

DuPage replied to him with a backhand, dragging his knuckles across the boy's face. To his credit, the boy didn't go slack or begin to cry, yet the look on his face said waterworks were close at hand.

"Name and rank," Spitey asked, sneering.

"My name-," he said, his banded foxtail tucked nearly between his legs, "my name is Desmond Lankett."

"And your rank, you little polyp," DuPage asked, shaking him by the collar before clutching his scruff and a fistful of hair. He reeled back and thrust Desmond to the sand, where he landed inches from Spitey's boots. "Tell them what you were stationed here for!"

"You're gonna kill me," said Desmond weakly after sputtering sand off his lips. "You're gonna kill me right after I tell you."

Spitey considered it, then kicked Desmond's ribs vigorously, lifting him. The air whooped from Desmond's lungs and the fox fell the short distance Spitey had raised him, half his face crashing into the sand where he began to sob.

"Tell us what your rank and mission is, fox," Banters said irritably, rubbing his temple with one hand. He held the shotgun in the other by its grip, and its barrel rested on his shoulder. "Or we can just blow your brains out and nobody'll give a shit anyway."

"I'm a-," Desmond winced, curling inwards to answer the sharp pain of his bruised ribs, "I'm a researcher. Researcher Desmond Lankett. Assigned-," he wheezed for breath and sniffled in a way the marines found particularly contemptible, "assigned to Verde to study the..."

The dragon squatted near the raccoon-masked fox. His testicles nearly touched the sand. "Oh, this is getting interesting. Assigned to research what? Tell me. Tell m-e-ee," he tugged Desmond's braid and jostled his head with it, "or I'm gonna cut your gut open and pull your intestines out. While you're alive! And then I'll fuck you!"

"God, you're serious, aren't you?" Desmond asked, looking awkwardly at Spitey's balls and penis, which was still erect. "Please, just-, promise me, please, that you're not going to kill me. It's a mission! It's a job! I didn't volunteer for-!"

Spitey's scaly hand shot out like a scorpion's pincer, grabbing the delicate stalk of Desmond's neck just as he had held his erection earlier. He began to squeeze, wringing the foxcoon, and Desmond's pleading grasp upon his wrist did nothing to abate it. "What. Is. Your. Assignment. Tell us, Researcher Lankett," he said without the lunatic edge his words often carried. The cold vacuum his tone left was frightful even to his fellow bandits.

Spitey eased off of Desmond's throat, but his hand remained where it was, ready to wrench down again.

The foxcoon was now in tears bordering on hysterics. He bleated with frequent pauses to snort and sniff, "I was assigned to watch you! To see how long you'd last before you became disillusioned and gave up on the mission!"

The dragon squeezed again. Over the sound of Desmond's gagging and whelping, Spitey and Banters looked at DuPage sternly.

"S'true. All true. I read over all of the files at his little house. Verde's being prepped for colonization, all right, but we're not necessary for it. Just here as some experiment." His cold, blue eyes fell on Desmond. "And this little... he's the scientist taking notes on us while we go feral."

Spitey looked down at Desmond's choking face. He let go of the boy's neck only as an afterthought. "Well, well, we-e-ell," he murmured. "Seems like we've got a dilemma, Researcher Lankett. Or can I call you just Desmond?"

"Yes. Yes, you can call me-."

"Shut the fuck up! I don't like being spied on, you little fuck!" Spitey snarled, leaning low, his snout nearly touching Desmond's. His breathing was heavy and rough, his breath nauseating. His cock throbbed with mighty need. Icily he said, "Take off your clothes."

Desmond cowered away from Spitey only to bump into Banters' hoof. He saw the shotgun, which Banters lazily aimed down at him, and splayed back his ears. "What do you mean to do with me...?"

"Three guesses," Banters said. "Clothes come off now, or your head does."

"Yeah, think I've got a problem fucking your corpse, nerd?" Spitey tittered.

"I knew you were turning into savages, but-," Desmond bit his tongue and sat up. He peeled up his shirt and was thankful that the show of bare fur distracted from his words.

"Mmm. Scrawny, but closer to a woman than either of these two idiots," DuPage growled. He rubbed his sheath absently. "Pants, now. Get those fancy Earth jeans off."

"Please, god, help me," Desmond muttered as he got up to his feet. Banters kept his gun trained on the fox every step of the way, but he let the sight drop when Desmond opened up his fly. Down went his jeans, and down went his regulation gray boxers; some things didn't change.

Spitey took one look at the foxcoon's crotch and started to cackle in disbelief - and joy. He clapped his hands together once. "Pussy! Holy shit! We hit the fucking jackpot!"

The dragon lunged from his squat with remarkable speed, taking Desmond to the ground with a heavy thump. He thrust apart the shrieking fox's legs and rammed his hard-on into the plump, black vulva which had been so graciously provided.

Desmond yowled from the violation, a scream to split ears, but Spitey was unfazed. He raped Desmond without even a pause to appreciate the fact that he was getting some pussy for the first time in two years. His humps were quick and brutal, the rhythm to a self-centered fuck.

Desmond's cunt was nearly dry, and its vaginal walls seemed to reject the dragon, yet it was no deterrent to the savage marine. His penis dragged on Desmond's walls, but its own greasy lubrication in its foreskin let him take pleasure in the act.

Desmond's wails and cries died in the dry heat. Spitey clung to the fox as if to plant kisses on his neck, yet he only pressed himself tighter to the fox so he could more easily hold him down.

"Fuck his brains out," Banters said with a laugh, rubbing his own fat, flared penis until it grew stiff. "I call sloppy seconds!"

DuPage had his red rocket in his paw. He masturbated slowly but purposefully, paying special care to his enormous knot. "I'll wait. Might fuck his ass, just for auld lang syne."

"God, please!" Desmond shrieked, raking his claws down Spitey's back. His short, sharp claws could only scuff Spitey's leathery hide. "Stop! Stop!"

The tears streamed down Desmond's face like sweat streaked every inch of the thrusting dragon's body. Banters maintained his erection. DuPage masturbated eagerly. The 'bots in the fields worked dutifully, unable to be aware of the atrocity going down in the camp.

"Shit, shit, shit, yeah," Spitey hissed, his tail swaying, his anus winking. Its rim was thick and pink as the result of Clydesdale cock and German Shepherd knot when it was his turn to be the woman - but never again would that happen, not with this perfect pussy on hand. "Shit, I'm gonna nut. Gonna fucking bust one!" he snarled, his words blending into his bestial rumbles.

Spitey erupted into Desmond's dry cunt. Fat, pent-up ropes spurted deep into the fox who was getting far more data on his subjects than the mission called for. He stopped screaming, but a low disturbing wail issued forth. It was a sound of complete despair, the threshold of which the marines had long since passed.

"My turn now," Banters said, tossing the gun atop a crate. He stooped to grab Spitey's shoulder.

The dragon hissed and bit him on the hand, which Banters reacted to with only a grunt. "Not done yet!" said Spitey, who began slowly gyrating his hips. Sloppy runnels of his cum oozed from Desmond, running across the boy's supple anus, soaking into plush orange tail fluff. Spitey withdrew a few moments later and cackled in sated delight. "Forgot how good pussy is! Nice find, Dupes."

Banters dragged the creamed fox by the armpit, pulling him out of the baking sun to the cover of a canopy. For the sole purpose of instilling as much worry in the boy as possible, the Clydesdale stood over Desmond and allowed the unfathomable girth of his cock to loom in the fox's vision. A thick globule of precum rolled from its piss slit and dripped onto Desmond's face, narrowly missing his teary eye but coaxing it to flinch.

"For Christ's sake," Desmond whined. "That much is gonna kill me."

"No. Spitey will, with a knife, if you don't shut up and be a good cunt," said Banters coldly, the pruno hangover all but lost in this wondrous revelation. "Now, you can scream and kick and cry all you want. Matter of fact, here's to hoping you do," he joyfully said, grinning and kneeling. "Put on a good show for me, boy, and I'll tickle you wa-a-ay up inside."

DuPage and Spitey murmured near the third sandrider. The dog, with a smile, pulled a thick cigar from his breast pocket. "Found these in his habitat. There's lots of good stuff like this."

"No shit," said Spitey, dumbfounded. He bit the cigar's end and let the dog light him up. After a few puffs, he grinned and began to ask, "We gonna take over his place, or-?"

Desmond's shrieking took them both off guard. "Guess Banters' is going in hot," the dog said dryly.

Spitey was fast and rough like a feral, but Banters was worse by virtue of his size. The only thing that saved Desmond from the purest agony imaginable was the dragon's spunk still slicking his insides, which provided some lubrication.

Even with Spitey's repurposed semen in Desmond's body, the pain was unbearable, the stretch unimaginable. Desmond yowled and shrieked, clawing at the cracked, sandy ground and the supporting arms of the stallion. He dug weeping ruts into Banters' flesh unlike what he had been able to do to Spitey, but the horse never flinched.

Banters snorted each heavy breath like the magnificent stallion he was. His tail lashed above the hard, muscular ass which the other marines appreciated for its plump black pucker, something DuPage privately desired even though pussy was now readily available.

Desmond's cries never quite stopped, but they began to level off perhaps because the boy realized it was doing him no good. Still he cried, squirming and pleading in a broken voice for the stallion to just stop, to please let him use his paws or his mouth or even his asshole, anything but the brutal vaginal rape occurring, but Banters was steadfast in the half-wanted sex. His balls dragged in the hot sand, smooth flesh picking up grains like breading. The mighty flare of his cockhead scraped Desmond's vaginal passage, scooping out the dragon's semen with its bumpy ridges - and causing Desmond both violation and pain in the process.

Nearly as quickly as Spitey had been done, Banters shot his wad too. He grunted, brayed, shuddered, and then shot into the foxcoon. The mess was enormous, gushing from Desmond in spite of the flare and the simple, awesome girth of Banters' cock. Desmond squirmed and panted, wiping at his tears out of a misplaced feeling of indignity.

"Get off me," Desmond said lamely, looking up into the canopy through weary, wet eyes. "I can't take anymore. Please."

Spitey sauntered near, still puffing his cigar. He tapped the ashes off into the sand and slid in close to the fox, kicking some grains across his face. He said over the boy's sputtering and the satisfied horse's soft huffing, "Makin' friends, Lankett, you little spying fuck?"

"I'm not a spy," Desmond moaned. "It was a job. I was given orders!"

"Yeah, yeah, blah blah blah, doesn't much matter now," said Spitey, stepping over Desmond, his boots now on either side of the foxcoon's head. Desmond could look up and see the sweaty, tight hemispheres of Spitey's ass cheeks. A drop of sweat fell from his balls, landing on Desmond's fluffy neck. "Banters, you done or what?"

"Go fuck yourself," the stallion said, straightening up but not pulling back. His cock was half inside of the boy.

"Would if my dick were longer!" Spitey shot back. "Hey, Desmond. What's orange and black and smells like my sweaty asshole?" The answer came before Desmond could give it; Spitey squatted, his ass cheeks spreading slightly with his legs. Over the fox's desperate protesting, the dragon settled atop Desmond's head, his balls parting neatly over the boy's long snout. His anus winked between Desmond's eyes. Even like this, Desmond could smell the overpowering male musk Spitey had been fermenting since he gave up his baths.

Banters smelled something else and coughed. "Put out the fucking cancer stick," he said distastefully, pulling back, his flaccid cock slipping from Desmond's gouged box with embarrassing ease.

Spitey chuckled around the cigar. He wriggled his ass on Desmond's face, grinding the stink of musk and sweat deep into the prettyboy's fur. "Give you a choice right now, Lankett," he said with the cigar chomped firmly in his teeth. "Either you give my asshole a good, wet smooch like you're in love with it and you haven't seen it in ten years, or I'm gonna cut your throat open and fuck the hole it makes!"

There was no prompt here, no verbal choice to be made. Spitey braced a hand on the boy's chest and helped himself up barely an inch. He eased forward, dragging one boot, then the other. His asshole gleamed near Desmond's nose, assaulting the fox with the most potent musk his unwashed body had to offer.

Desmond kissed the dragon's asshole. He didn't hesitate, not when an ultimatum like that was thrown down, and certainly not when he knew from his own observations that Spitey was the most frightfully psychotic ex-marine he had ever laid eyes on. He smeared his lips on the pucker, smooching and sucking it, giving it the most loving kiss a person could give to an anus.

Spitey laughed, almost giggling. He tapped the ashes off into the sand. "Mmm... you're pretty smart when someone puts a gun to your head. Or a knife to your neck." Listening to the sound of the kiss, which he rightly guessed wouldn't end until he said it could, Spitey looked at Desmond's vulva before going cross-eyed to look longingly at the glowing cherry on his cigar. An evil thought spawned the darkest recesses of his mind cropped up, but he dismissed it. He did so not out of morality, which the last two years and the day's revelation had sapped him of, but pragmatism. There was no sense in burning the only pussy he had.

"When you're done," DuPage said, tossing his smoked-down cigar into the sand, "roll him over and hold up his tail. We are going to dilate that beautiful ass."

Spitey and Banters laughed, the dragon sounding almost like a hyena. "Dilate! Dilate him!" Spitey cackled, and mashed his ass down tighter. Desmond smothered briefly in the musk and stink of the dragon's perineum, nose trapped between his anus and balls.

For better or for worse, the hypothesis in Desmond's research was proven horribly true: two to three years in harsh isolation would away every layer of decency and morality in even the most upstanding and stable men, leaving animals behind.

It's amazing how much two years can change someone...