FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Mark lifted his hand to his mouth to stifle a drowsy yawn, and shifted his position on the couch. It'd been much too long since he'd last had a long weekend off from school like this - not just Friday off, but Monday, too! - and already he'd gotten right to spending that time in the best way possible: by doing pretty much nothing. Since the time he'd woke awoken this morning to the wonderful lack of an alarm, he'd already ignored his three homework assignments, watched four episodes of a show he'd gotten into, got to a good checkpoint in his current favorite video game… and jacked off twice, too. That was just today, just Saturday.

And really, that much was to be expected, with Mom and Dad also being out this weekend. Honestly, that'd been the thing that he'd looked forward to the most… and it's not like anyone could blame him, he thought. He was a high school senior. That was just the way things were.

Now, though, he lounged along the fake leather couch down in the living room, clad in only the same pair of fairly-loose boxers he'd had on when he first got home from school Thursday afternoon. His parents had actually scheduled their flight around time allotted to pick him up and take him home, so as soon as he walked in the front door, they walked back out… and left him to sling his backpack off and unzip his pants, to get right to business.

Whatever, right? He chewed at one of his thumbnails and scratched a spot along his bare thigh with his other hand, eyes directed forward towards the TV across the room but not really seeing what flashed across the screen. The family's rather large doberman sprawled out on his side in the center of the carpet, head lowered across his paws and eyes closed. That was Sam, and sometimes he snored in his sleep despite his fairly young age; every time it happened it was just loud enough to cover the sound from the TV, and that in turn made Mark chuckle on the couch.

He had the news up on the screen, though he didn't really care about what caused the power outage in the next school district over. The reporter talking about it was a cheetess, umbrella clutched in the crook of her arm beside her chest which looked… about to burst free from the buttons of her blouse, probably intentionally so. Mark had always heard that's what they did with news anchors and reporters. Sure, she was pretty, but - not his type.

Of course Mom and Dad wanted him to find someone who was a human, like himself. That wasn't something they'd really ever brought up with him, or at least not explicitly; they had raised their eyebrows when in elementary school he told them he had a girlfriend, who was also a samoyed. And then he got a similar response when they found out he had a wolf boyfriend his sophomore year.

That relationship, Mark had really hoped would go somewhere. Somewhere farther than ambitious, adventurous hands (and paws) and deep, hungry kisses, but fate had said No, and Rick ended up breaking up with him the week before prom. And then two weeks after that, he spontaneously disappeared from school, to leave Mark to find out from some of his friends that, apparently, the wolf had gotten a girl pregnant, and as a result switched schools.

So. There was that. And that was whatever. Mark tore off that little shred of nail that'd been bothering him since this morning, and spat it out. Maybe that had been a good turn of events, really; sex ed last year had taught him that he had to be careful with who he chose as his first partner for a multitude of reasons, perhaps the least of which was the diseases. Had to be careful about that part anyway: there were just as many transmissible intraspecies diseases as there were interspecies.

And from this point of view, he could understand his parents' reasons behind wanting him to find another human: something that he'd thought to be true, but never really had any reason to believe until that class, was that if you banged someone who wasn't the same species, you ran dice roll of finding yourself turning into that species alongside them. Of course Ms. Parker had used different, more formal words when she'd first taught the class that, but that was the short truth of it.

Nobody really knew why it happened, and as the reports went - and, oh boy, were there lots of reports - the transition was usually excruciatingly painful. It was a class taught to every new round of junior-level students, and none of those students really believed it unless they'd either seen something like that happen beforehand, or until one of those events happened - and at least one always, always inevitably did - right in front of them.

A little smile suddenly crossed Mark's face, and he moved onto the kinda-too-long nail of his index finger. That one kid Simon Raster had been a human like himself throughout the first half of junior year, and then after winter break he suddenly showed up with the same short, thick muzzle, small D-shaped ears, paintbrush tail, and speckled coat as his spotted hyena girlfriend. The first day after the break ended, they'd walked side-by-side into class with his face, now a muzzle, and ears glowing such a bright red that it looked like he'd carried over an intense sunburn from when he was still a human, and her looking as though she'd conquered Rome single-handed.

Another yawn racked his body, and this time his hand settled down halfway across his belly, dangerously close to the waistband of his boxers. Sam had woken up from his early-afternoon nap, and after letting a wide yawn stretch his jaws, the big feral dog rose to all fours, shook his body out, stretched his legs… and settled right back down on the carpet, leaning over to lick at himself.

Watching that was definitely more interesting than the news, which had switched to some other story which, looking at the listed city names, wasn't even local news. Mark could clearly remember when his family had gotten Sam: he'd been in middle school back then, enough time ago so that he remembered all the important things that had happened in his life but few details. He did remember emphatically enforcing that their dog's tail had to remain intact, though, and now he was glad for that. It just would've felt wrong to take that from Sam, for no real reason.

And, then… Mark swallowed, eyes focused right in at the base of where the doberman licked himself. Smooth-skinned sheath, plump yet supple, pulled up beneath the dragging of that broad tongue and then flopped back into place, only to do so again and again… and then the also-intact, heavy sack sparsely coated with short, shiny fur and that hung beneath that sheath jiggled in the same movements, resting down across the dog's leg.

His hand twitched, and a finger brushed the rumpled fabric of the waistband of his boxers. He could also remember asking that Mom and Dad not take Sam in to fix him, but… back then, his reasoning had been along the same vein as for the tail. Admittedly since then, since Mark's brief thing with Rick, that wolf from sophomore year, the human had developed a bit of an… interest, so to say, in what his dog had hanging between his hind legs.

Couldn't lie to himself. That sheath, those balls, the little glistening point of pink flesh that every now and then slid out - that happened now, with Sam licking up along the end of his sheath - had entered Mark's thoughts during his 'personal time', and he'd done nothing to get rid of them. In fact, he'd done the clear opposite and had indulged them, had fantasized about it, about those parts of the feral.

For the longest time, though, those thoughts and desired had been fleeting, at most. Mark's hand drifted down towards the hole in the front of his boxers, and his fingers half-consciously tightened around his own shaft, stirring towards a chub beneath the thin fabric. Not only was it that he didn't really feel a true, irresistible urge, but there had also been the matter of opportunity: no way he could do anything like that, much less feel comfortable trying, with his mom and dad down the hall behind one, maybe two closed doors.

He had to admit, though: the thought of running his nose up along those balls - Sam had moved down to focus his licking there, the thin coating of saliva catching the light from above - and sheath, and tasting the thick cock that stirred inside, feeling it grow out into his mouth and along his tongue… he'd seen Sam fully hard before. Having an intact male dog could result in a few somewhat embarrassing problems during walks, if they happened to pass the neighbor otter down the street while she walked her feral female husky, also intact. He'd seen Sam fully hard, and though Mark hadn't had any experience in the subject as of yet, he felt certain that the doberman had a cock big enough to press into the back of his throat and leave his backside sore.

It'd just be for some experience. Right? When he was with his friends, Mark sure played along with their little sexual jokes and jibes at each other, but in reality, he hadn't done anything of that sort before. And that made him nervous. What if I embarrass myself, what if I'm not any good, what if I do something wrong, all of that. Yet here was Sam on the floor in front of him, full package and tail fully on display, broad tongue now washing over the soft, puckered skin of his tailhole.

Almost before he knew what he was doing, Mark had sat up, drifted to his feet, started over towards Sam. The doberman ceased his licking and looked up at the human… and promptly thumped that tapered tail against the floor, then with a little more energy when he received a few soft head-pats for it. Mark swallowed again and sat back down there, legs crossed, boxers maybe… maybe a little bit tighter than they were just a second ago. Down here, this close to the dog, he could smell the bittersweet, cloying odor of the feral's breath, and of the saliva that still shimmered faintly over that fur and skin.

It's not like… Mark glanced over one shoulder, over towards the kitchen even though he knew for a fact he was still home alone. It's not like anything bad could come of this, right? In that sex ed class, Ms. Parker had said nothing about if you lost your virginity to a feral… or at least if she had, it'd been during that one day Mark stayed home “sick" when in reality he'd just gotten into that big jug of vodka his parents kept in the pantry next to the fridge. Or maybe it had been during one of the many times where he just plain wasn't paying attention. But if something like that could happen, it wasn't anything he'd heard about before.

He swallowed again, one hand down between his own legs, the other already reaching forward. Really - just some touching, just some rubbing, maybe a lick… that couldn't possibly be enough to turn him. Vets touched feral dicks all the time, right? And the one that they brought Sam to had remained a mare for literally as long as he could remember.

Suddenly, soft hot skin, squishy and supple, shifted beneath the tips of his fingers, and his heart jumped up into his throat. He hadn't realized that while he'd gotten lost in his thoughts, his body still leaned forward, he'd still reached out… and now three fingers rested alongside Sam's sheath, the still-slightly-wet skin hanging limp from his lower belly, with a notable warm firmness within.

Well. Mark hadn't become a doberman just yet, and that touch had seemed to send a sweet shock through his body that resulted in himself throbbing in his own boxers. So he licked his lips, swallowed again, rubbed his fingers against that sheath… flicked his eyes up to the dog's muzzle as Sam watched him for a moment, then rolled over onto his back to help him with that ease of access.

Such an odd sensation, such an odd feeling, yet so enticing. Intense bodily heat all concentrated in that supple skin and the hard cock beneath it, the dog's wet pink tip gradually sliding out and coming to more, longer, thicker, beneath the human's coaxing. Mark had been playing with Sam since the first day they brought him home - the dog had no concerns with letting this particular human touch him. This spot was new, though, yet he showed no sign of discomfort… and in fact, Mark thought that he could almost feel the feral pressing up against his hand, grinding his slick sheath against his fingers to bring more of that cock out.

And then, that scent hit him. Or, really, it more… wafted up, curled around the human's nose, enveloped him in its warm, humid bittersweetness, just as he reached his other hand forward to wrap his fingers around the dog's growing cock, and to feel the slick, almost oily flesh that twitched and pulsed with Sam's heartbeat. It wasn't a particularly strong scent, or at least not to Mark's less-than-sensitive nose, but it… God, it made his mouth water. Which was weird considering it wasn't exactly a good smell. Like how particularly weak coffee can smell like earth, like dirt, yet still maintain its own sharp characteristic tang, this one reminded him of wet-dog-smell, but with something else beneath it. Something that caught in the back of his throat every time he breathed in, and that made him twitch, fully hard, in his own boxers.

Something that made him sprawl out, and start to move his face, his nose, his lips, down closer to the source of that scent, that twitching red-fleshed cock that had by now been fully coaxed out of the dog's sheath, two of Mark's fingers and his thumb still settled along the soft skin. Yet again he swallowed, mouth watering and tongue feeling as though it needed to touch that web-veined length, all pulsing and twitching and bouncing.

So… he did. Without another thought, without letting another worry through into his mind, Mark closed the distance between his mouth and the underside of his dog's shaft, and dragged his tongue up along that surface - and almost recoiled with the taste, pretty much exactly the same as the scent that now dominated his senses and filled his head, but concentrated, sharpened. And yet, it… it wasn't bad, honestly. If anything, it just made Mark even harder.

Still, though, this whole thing felt… odd. He couldn't help but feel guilty about this, about indulging himself between his pet dog's hind legs, but… well, Sam really didn't seem to mind, even when Mark's awkwardness and inexperience led him to end up brushing his nose against the dog's warm belly, or miss with one of his licks and end up dragging his tongue through his fur, or losing his grip on his slick length and letting it plop back against him.

Just as the aroma of the feral's musk had filled his nose and his head, now that taste did much the same thing, coating his tongue and the roof of his mouth, clinging to the back of his throat… and strengthening once he closed his lips around that soft, tapered tip, after spending an embarrassing few seconds trying to find the right angle to do it at.

Hot, wet flesh between his lips, mostly soft and kind of squishy-firm with an undeniable stiffness beneath… the first thing Mark did here was try to dive down as far as he could, to touch his lips against the bulge of Sam's knot and feel that tapered tip in the back of his throat - and this resulted in him having to draw back and cough and splutter at the end of a short gag, throat stinging a little with an unexpected jet of salty, watery pre. Sam humped idly at the air, head relaxed across the carpet and mouth hanging open, tail wagging slowly and cock now emptying out spurt after spurt of that slick liquid across his chest and belly.

Please, please don't get any on the carpet, Mark found himself thinking - and dove down to again close his lips around that tip, and let that pre fill his mouth. It was hard to swallow, hard to drink with its taste and the heat and the awareness that he probably shouldn't be doing this, but… he couldn't resist. Couldn't resist reaching down with his free hand, tugging his boxers down past his own sack, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking. Felt so good.

Such an odd angle like this, uncomfortable with his other elbow keeping himself propped up on the carpet, head jerking awkwardly forward every time he tried to dive down on Sam's length again. Mark closed his eyes, swallowed that sharp taste again, thought about what this would be like if this were Rick's thick, twitching shaft, if it were that wolf's heavy sack that hung down below. Mark reached up and gave that sack a light squeeze and rub, after working at himself for a time; those balls stirred beneath his touch, tightened a little bit and relaxed, the skin a little rougher than that of the doberman's sheath, the fur a little stiffer.

Or, hell, maybe… what if he had both Sam as well as Rick on him? Or someone else. Another dog. Something else with a slick, thick sheath like this, and cock that twitched on his tongue and filled his mouth with that same bitter-salty taste, vaguely coppery, not really pleasant but still enough to drag a bodily reaction out of him… Mark swallowed yet again and drew back off of Sam's length, taking a moment to watch the pulsing of that flesh and the little jiggles that echoed down through the doberman's balls, still resting warmly over his fingers.

If he had two dogs on him, two ferals, he could have one under his tail - metaphorically speaking, of course; that was a phrase Mark had picked up around school, technically not slang for the friends from whom he'd picked it up - and in his mouth. He could feel one set of balls slapping against his own from behind, and a second against his chin; he could feel their thrusting, their humping, their panting, their urgency and their need…

Really, he would have heard about it if the transformation could happen with a feral, right? And, besides, right now, he was - damn horny. More so than yesterday when he first decided to take advantage of being home alone. For a moment it felt as though his body moved on its own, though when the human realized what he was doing, he frankly did nothing to stop it: he moved over towards the center of the room, tugged his boxers further down his thighs… and got on all fours, baring his backside at the doberman.

And of course, Sam wasted no time in taking that offer. Mark heard the jingling of his collar, the slight panting, the wet sound of him licking his chops - and then lurched forward, a series of short, pleasurable sighs dripping out of his parted lips as that tongue that he'd just watched roll up over the dog's sheath and sack, now did the same to his pucker, again and again. To learn his taste and scent, probably, but… he liked to imagine it was to lube him up, to prepare him for what was to come - once Sam hopped up onto his back, and scraped the blunted claws of his forepaws down across Mark's side in attempting to wiggle himself into position.

That sudden weight of the doberman atop him, firm ribs against the middle of his back, muzzle settling into place near his shoulder, wet sticky slobber drooling out and running down his bare neck - and then, shortly after, the hot, saliva-slickened tip of the dog's cock, thrusting somewhat painfully forward against his backside, never quite at the right angle or in the right place. This was what gave Mark his first wave of hesitation and reluctance, but when he reached back for a helping hand, when he felt the slick surface of that shaft thrusting in between his fingers, and the spray of precum against him and rolling down the back of his sack, and the feeling of that tip when he guided it up against him… just as suddenly as it had appeared did that reluctance fade away, and in that moment, all the human wanted was to feel all of those five inches (or so; that's what it looked like in his hand, not counting the knot) buried inside of him.

Sam had slowed his fervent thrusting when Mark's fingers wrapped around him, allowing the human to guide him, but as soon as that tip started to press and sink into the human's tight rump… Mark gritted his teeth and had to dig the fingers of his other hand into the carpet to keep from gasping beneath that feeling. Sure, he'd gotten a finger or two into himself before, but never something like - like…

The dog didn't stop. He went fast and hard, thrusting in against the human's hand and deeper, deeper inside of him, maybe taking Mark's gasps and grunts and tight clenches as a sign to continue. Or maybe he didn't even notice; the doberman's forelegs squeezed around Mark's sides, and now Sam panted openly above his shoulder as he thrust into him, again and again. That discomfort blossomed into pain, reverberating and echoing with every pound into him, until he thought he might just flop face-down against the carpet in attempt to get him out of him… but then, slowly, that pain started to fade away, and brought out something reminiscent of pleasure that had been hiding and stirring beneath it.

Still he could taste that metallic tang in the back of his throat and on his own breath, coming back in full force every time he swallowed. A stronger, brighter heat pulsed against and inside him, each heavy forward thrust still painful, but quickly giving way to that deep, stirring pleasure; the human couldn't help but clench back around that cock each time Sam slammed forward into him, the dog's heavy sack swinging forward against Mark's, just as he'd imagined.

What he hadn't considered, though, was the - the way he wouldn't let up. Here he was, holding in place on all fours, and still the thrusting, the pounding, the lurching, the shivering and squeezing and throbbing, made Mark pant as though he were in the middle of running five miles. He reached down with one hand to resume where he'd left off on himself, other arm wobbling beneath their combined weight. Was that - his own pre, dripping down along the underside of his cock? Each stroke, in rhythm with the feral's breeding, felt like a burst of sharp, sweet electricity all centered in his lower abdomen, right around the same point where the tip of Sam's cock pressed into at the end of each thrust.

He could feel that knot start to bulge and swell out, and could feel the growing impatience and shaky need and desire in the dog's thrusts, and the way the doberman repeatedly kicked one of his hind legs from the pleasure, and scraped along Mark's upper thigh each time. Felt like it had been only moments ago he'd dropped from the couch to his knees to explore this interest, but already Mark was aware of the building pressure in his abdomen, the same sort of want and desire that no doubt fired Sam's increasingly-fevered thrusts.

Hand moving fast and hard, mouth hanging open, breath coming and going in short, hungry moans, he almost didn't notice when Sam abruptly slowed down, especially beneath the strong throes of his own peak. Tight clench, throb, spurt through his hand and across the carpet beneath him - then again, and again, and again, each one with a little less force behind it, until his load dribbled down across his fingers, and he could feel the same rolling down the back of his sack from Sam's length buried to the knot inside of him.

Beneath all of that tingling, echoing pleasure, beneath the stirring and swirling exhaustion and exertion - Mark let his head hang down limp while he tried to catch his breath, at the same time looking down beneath himself at his own twitching, drooling cock, and the two hind legs of the dog still hilted in him - there was… something else, some other kind of feeling. Something that he wasn't sure was supposed to be there, in his experience. It felt like… like a kind of deep, throbbing pain, an ache, strengthening with each pulse of his heart. Or was that Sam's heartbeat?

So the human licked his lips and swallowed - his throat was dry, he realized - and wriggeld in an attempt to urge the doberman off of his back. Sam made as if to dismount, but then even beneath his owner's squirming, he just ended up turning himself around so that his rump faced Mark's and his tail swayed against the human's lower back, just like in… just like in the videos online that he may or may not have watched a few times.

Sam hadn't - knotted him, had he? No, he'd be able to feel it, if that were the case. Still, though, no matter how Mark tried and tugged, he found that he just couldn't work himself off of the dog's still-twitching, still-pulsing cock, buried inside of him and feeling like it still poured out burst after burst of hot, liquidy cum. His heart pounded in his chest and his throat from the sex itself, but now that he was actually in this position, he wondered… maybe something had gone wrong, or-

All of a sudden, he raised his head again, and dug his fingers into the carpet. A thought came to him, one that he'd very clearly considered but had dismissed. Something was wrong here, and with him wondering what it was… well, he thought he was wrong about that, too.

B-bump, b-bump, b-bump went his heart, with that throbbing ache just slightly out of sync, but coming closer… until the two met for one beat, a second, a third. And then the sharpest pain Mark had ever felt rippled through him, faster and more forceful than the pleasure of his orgasm just a few seconds ago. His arms burned, his head felt like it was squeezing in to turn his brain to water, his insides felt as though they were boiling and spinning in a kitchen blender all at the same time.

No. No, no, no, he thought, already-frantic mind incapable of anything else. This can't be happening. They never said - I never heard that - wait, no-

When he'd been taught about the transformation, he imagined it would be a stepwise thing: first you get your tail, then your ears, then your muzzle. Then your fingernails stretch out into claws, one by one, and depending who it was you fucked, maybe your legs twist and bend and break and reform into their new shapes. He hadn't expected it to be everything, all at once, every inch of his body sizzling as if he took a bath in hot oil. Now there was pain mixing and bubbling with the panic, too, and yet there was nothing he could. Stuck here against his feral doberman while he changed, every part of him - and nothing he could do to stop it.

His vision blurred, his mouth tasted as if he'd swallowed a lot more than just the dog's coppery precum, his rump, his pucker still stretched against the end of the dog's bulged, pulsing knot… Mark's arms refused to hold him up like this, and he fell down against the floor with the rough curls of the carpet scraping across his chest as he was pulled, as his body squirmed and writhed and changed.

Mark could feel the pressure on his face, on his nose and lips and chin, of the muzzle as it tried to push its way out from somewhere within. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, and the pain of all the dentist visits he'd ever been through came back, magnified and sharpened with the morphing of his jaw, the movement of his teeth, the jarring clicking and cracking of the bones as they settled into their new places. Hopefully he wouldn't get blood on the carpet - he wasn't bleeding, was he? His arms and fingers and hands (paws?) tickled and tingled, and wouldn't obey his attempts to get them to move and lift himself up to look. He already had at least one bodily fluid soaking into this carpet; he didn't need another.

Behind him - and now kind of above him; for some reason it seemed as though Mark was shrinking, as if the transition were pulling him beneath the dog, so that now the doberman's slightly-less-heavy sack now dangled and jiggled in the air above the middle of his back with his victim's wriggling - Sam could definitely feel what was going on, but it didn't seem to affect him in the same way. In fact, in the little snatches of time between body-wrenching throbs of pain where Mark could actually see, to him it looked as though… as though the doberman enjoyed it. As though it felt good. One leg kind of kicking in the air, lower body half-lowered, eyes closed and jaw open with his broad, flat tongue lolling out, sticky saliva dripping down into a damp spot on the carpet.

Whatever was happening to him, it yanked Mark over onto his back, as though someone had seized his legs and spun him over as hard as they could. His elbows bumped against the carpet beneath him, and knocked the breath out of him - and when he opened his eyes again, now he could definitely tell that his size was changing, and he was growing smaller. Now instead of both of those balls looking as though he could cup them in one hand, he'd need both side-by-side to heft them… and still the pulling continued, the human's legs awkwardly held up and against Sam's hind legs, still stuck to him by his cock. As if that were the thing pulling him in, as if he were turning into…

Then - he couldn't move his legs. Or at least he could, but without any kind of dexterity, any kind of control. Like trying to move just one of his toes instead of three or four of them at the same time. As Sam's body pulled him closer, a rabbit on a snare, a fish caught in a net, Mark's legs first stretched out and up to make room for his body, still shrinking and sliding across the carpet, up and in towards that thick-skinned sheath… and then they came back in, shifting and changing size faster than the rest of him. And what he saw next, he thought had to - had to - be a nightmare, be a trick of his imagination.

It didn't take long before his legs lost all recognition as such, angling out from his body in a way that should've been unnatural, curling in against themselves so that the back of his ankles touched his inner thighs, and then - fusing together there, so he could not move them apart even if he were to try. Still they squished and scrunched and curled in on themselves, smaller and smaller, until his body had shrunk and followed that tugging enough so that he lay with only his shoulders supporting him on the carpet, each of Sam's hind legs on either side of his head, that and his chest and arms combined smaller than his clenched fist would have been before this mistake.

There was no way to tell where the doberman's cock ended and where his body began: the way it looked, the way it felt, was that the pink-veined flesh that disappeared into the dog's sheath, warm and slightly moist and sticky - it felt like that was Mark. At least all of the feeling in his legs had gone away with that change of theirs: they bent and flopped, bones turned to who knows what, and were soon pulled into that sheath as well, with the warm slickness of the skin squeezing and clenching around them.

Or, at least, he thought that he couldn't feel his legs. As he watched, the pain of the transformation still echoing and reverberating through his body and keeping him right at the edge of vomiting (could he even do something like that now?) and blacking out, he could see the things that used to be his legs shifting, morphing through the skin of Sam's sack, jiggling out through those meaty balls… and then fusing with them, with him.

One time when he was a freshman he'd stayed up for two nights in a row, not to study for class but rather to play a new video game that had just come out, instead. For those forty-eight (actually, it'd been closer to sixty-five or so; two nights, and another day) he remembered to eat twice, and had only drank enough water to fill two glasses. And what he felt right now as the transition and transformation shuddered to what he hoped was their finish, was exactly like the headache he'd gotten then, except throughout his entire body. Or, at least, what was left of it: he looked like a thick, scaleless snake, dangling out from the end of Sam's plump sheath, with the dog above now looking down at him with his head cocked, but altogether, not particularly worried.

One last shudder rippled through him, mostly uncomfortable but with a hint, a ghost of an enjoyable shiver beneath it - and the smooth, rounded bulge of Sam's urethra slid up along the front of Mark's new body, pushing his head up when its growth reached that part of him… and, briefly, the same salty, metallic taste of the dog's cum filled his mouth. He swallowed in an attempt to get rid of it, and ended up feeling as if he'd downed an entire mouthful and a half of the stuff.

So. There was that, too, then.

As it would turn out, Mark had a fair amount of time to think about what he'd done to land himself in this… situation. Seemed like for all uses, he simply was Sam's cock: after some time spent with the doberman dragging his tongue over his shiny new equipment and cleaning him off (much to Mark's annoyance), he started to feel that tugging, pulling sensation again - but this time it was just to draw him back into that sheath, skin seeming thicker, warmer, wetter as it squeezed around his entire body, kept his arms at his sides with only the bare point of his nose sticking out of the end when the dog sat down. At first he thought that having the bear the rich scent of dog cock for so long would give him a headache, but over the course of the day, it bothered him less and less.

Then, though, he started wondering - and worrying - about what would happen around the times where he was supposed to feed Sam, and let him outside. Hard to see what time it was outside with warm sticky folds of sheath skin squeezing around his face and - and his snout, but it certainly felt like enough time had passed; Sam spent most of his time either lying down asleep, barking at something through the door or back window, or lapping at himself, which on more than one occasion had drawn Mark out of the sheath that had become his home regardless of whether he wanted it or not. The worry and nervousness and panic about his situation may have dulled and weakened somewhat, but they never fully faded.

At least until what he thought was around eight in the evening when Sam, after scratching and whining at the back door, padded his way into the middle of the kitchen, sniffed at a very particular spot on the tiled floor, and hiked one leg into the air.

Mark couldn't believe that he'd thought the dog's cum had tasted bad. Hot, rich piss flowing out from what felt like somewhere inside of him, spraying its way out through his mouth in fast, pulsing bursts - intensely salty, bitter, coppery, making his nose curl like nothing else. Something about the act itself must have just felt good to the doberman, too, since before Mark had been able to figure out what was happening to him, he - the dog's cock - had slid forward out of his sheath and left him in the pool of sharp amber-yellow as the last few drops rolled their way out of his mouth, him gasping for breath and trying to hold himself up with his small arms in the hot puddle. He tried and tried again to wipe the taste off of his lips and out of his mouth, but his entire body, the whole length of Sam's cock, dripped with it and kept him slick and wet. Maybe that explained the wet dog smell that he'd gotten when he first got his nose up close with the doberman's sheath.

Mark had a lot of time to think, though. When the reek of piss and heavy cloying scent of the inside of the dog's sheath weren't clouding his mind, he tried and tried again to think about why this had happened, and what he could do to reverse it, but never once did he come to a solution that made sense. Another silver lining was that he didn't get hungry, or thirsty; he thought briefly about what would happen if he did try to eat something, but very quickly decided that was a road of theory he didn't really want to travel down.

Time seemed almost to slow down, too. Maybe that was a consequence of being a literal part of a dog. At some point in time, there was a knock at the front door - it was day again, maybe - and Sam bounded over, barking and wagging (and with plump sheath and heavy sack jiggling beneath him, again to Mark's annoyance), and then bounded up along the legs of whoever it was that had come in. That didn't make sense, though: Mom and Dad said they'd be away all weekend, and even if they did come home early, they'd come through the garage rather than the front door.

Then he heard their - her - voice, though, and all of a sudden Mark couldn't decide whether he wanted to shout and try to catch her attention, or instead crawl his way as deep into this sheath as he could to hide his shame. What would his girlfriend here say if she saw him like this? She'd know what he'd done, and she'd probably… well, what would she do? Sam followed her around the house while she called for Mark, and if he didn't already regret his horniness before, he certainly did now after hearing why she was here. Apparently she'd known that his parents were out this weekend - and she noticed the puddle of piss in the middle of the kitchen floor, but did nothing about it. Mark made sure he'd remember that.

She called his phone twice but didn't hear it vibrating on the carpet near the couch, and for about twenty minutes sat on the edge of Mark's bed, petting Sam's head while waiting for Mark to come back from “wherever you've gone". If she just… looked down, she'd see him there. But, then, what reason would his girlfriend have for intentionally looking down between the hind legs of this very much intact doberman?

At least she fed the dog before she left, and let him out back for a while. Mark certainly wasn't ready for this to become his life.

~ ~ ~

“Long weekend" - long indeed. She came over once more on Sunday and, upon still being unable to find Mark, called his parents and let them know the situation, all the while Sam sat at her feet with his tail wagging and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, one of her hands scritching behind his ears. Still she didn't notice.

Once she got off the phone, though, she knelt down to take Sam's muzzle in her hands, and leaned in close - and Mark almost, almost thought that would be when it happened, but again he was disappointed. Or maybe relieved; he still didn't really know.

“Well," she said to the dog, “whatever's going on here, they're coming back tonight so they can figure it all out." Then, she hugged him. Awkward all around.

Of course, it got only more so once Mark's parents did come back home. Luckily his girlfriend had left after they arrived, expressing her worries and her concerns; after that, for some reason, it took Mark's parents no time at all to find him. Maybe it was his half-assed calling for them, or maybe they had some other ideas and reasons in their heads for telling Sam to roll over onto his back.

Naturally Mark didn't have to tell them what he'd done, or how this had happened. That wasn't the worst part, though: the worst part was how he couldn't tell what they felt about the whole ordeal. Dad looked like he didn't believe it was him until he spoke, and Mom looked… a bit unsurprised, which might've been funny if it were in reference to anyone other than himself.

“We'll take… you…" Dad said, motioning to both Mark and Sam as a whole, “to the vet tomorrow afternoon. I take it that in your position, you haven't been able to let the dog out, huh?"

Another day. One more day. That just meant at most a few more occasions of having to endure the feral's hot piss rushing through him, and the resulting sharp taste that lingered and throbbed along his tongue and in his throat for what felt like hours afterward. Then during Sam's walk the following morning they passed by one of the neighbors, who just so happened to own a (rather beautiful) feral golden retriever girl. Because Dad got distracted talking to her owner, Mark learned very quickly that this retriever was intact as well, and also right in the middle of her heat.

Not like he could really hear anything, but it seemed like Dad took his sweet time in getting Sam off of her. That was a taste and scent that stayed with him for a while, too, even after the doberman's fervent licking at himself once they got back home.

Felt like nobody was in much of a rush, really. Mark had had about as much of this as he could stand - his throat kind of constantly burned from the acrid spice of the dog's damn piss, always right on schedule - and he wasn't sure his nose could remember how to smell things. Even the stark cleanliness of the vet's office did little to soothe him, especially with so many people around who might see what he'd gotten himself into. Not like he really had any control over Sam's body, but Mark tried to stay as hidden as he could for the duration of the visit, which meant wriggling his way deeper into the warm, humid flesh of that sheath, always twitching and squeezing around him, jiggling with the doberman's pace.

Still, though, at least two people would inevitably see his shame here. The vet's assistant did a fairly good job of keeping a straight face once Mom and Dad rolled Sam over onto his side and raised one of his legs, and then she bustled off writing something on her clipboard… but once the actual vet came in, he raised his eyebrows, looked at Mark's parents, looked back at the dog's - unconventional undercarriage, squinted, raised his eyebrows again. Then he had to excuse himself for a minute. At least he had the decency to not laugh in front of his patient.

None of it seemed real, to be honest. Mark felt the concern, the nervousness, the awkwardness of all of this. Mom kept on reaching out to him as if to pat his head and tell him it would be okay, but then stopped halfway there and settled her hand back in her lap once she remembered just what, exactly, she was reaching to touch, while Dad approached the whole thing the same way as he had when he'd discovered the bottle of lube in Mark's nightstand. It's there. We can both see it. I know about it, and you know about it. We're gonna do something about it, but we're not gonna talk about it.

At least, it didn't seem real until the vet came back and, in a marginally more serious tone, gave them the explanation: “Yes, the transformation can happen through intercourse with ferals. You should have been taught this in your sex ed class. As to why you look like that, why it wasn't a complete change - well, some pairs just aren't fully compatible."

“Will he ever turn back to normal?" Mom asked, that one unsure hand of hers resting along Sam's haunch. The doberman just lounged back and looked around the room, totally unconcerned.

“Yes. He should. Incompatible transformations are hardly ever permanent. When did this first happen?"

Nobody answered for a moment. Mark realized, with an anxious pound of his heart, that they were waiting on him. Looks like the vet himself had no problem with staring down the end of a feral dog's sheath.

“...Two days ago."

“Aah, yes, so that should be no problem, then. I'll need a sperm sample from the dog, and then can have the drug made up for you in… oh, about three days."

Sigh of relief. Thank God. So that meant that he wouldn't have to-

Mom half-raised her hand again. “Is there a - a slow-acting version of the drug?"

The vet frowned briefly. “Yes, we have a slow-release. That one will take… oh, a month, give or take, to fully catalyze the process, as opposed to the one week with the regular strength, and the four months to possibly never without."

“We'll take that one, then." She patted Sam's thigh; the dog thumped his tail against the table. “I think Mark here needs to learn that what he did was dangerous, and needs some punishment so he won't do it again.

“That sounds good." The vet stood up. “Would you like us to gather the sperm sample here, or…?"

“Oh, that won't be necessary." That was Dad. He leaned over to speak quietly to Mom, though Mark still caught a few bits of what he said: “...Jillian down the street, her dog… yeah, just this morning, when-... yeah, in heat! So I was thinking…"

It was going to be a long few weeks.