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Delia Amelia awoke with blood on her paws.

The reverse-dalmatian gasped, whimpers precluding screams as she fumbled for the lamp, stamping every surface with bright red pawprints until she tugged the chain.

Awareness came to her like ice cubes drifting through a bathtub into a blind man's paws.

It was eleven in the morning, she had overslept her alarms, and she had begun her period.

Delia wiped her black-and-red paw on her thigh, then removed her panties altogether and scrubbed with the remaining clean fabric.

She picked up her bottle of sleeping pills: "Wherewithal Wolf mind-mending slumber pills for the harried female mind."

"Pieces of junk!" she snarled, throwing the bottle against the wall. When she torqued her arm, two mighty pains stabbed her and she squawked.

One pain was from her dominant arm, which felt as if she'd been throwing baseballs all night. This was normal, as Delia slept on her right side, as she always did, with both paws tucked into the warm recess of her thighs.

The latter pain was from her lower back and thighs, as if she'd been hiking or roller-skating all night.

Delia shrugged: she always watched TV at funny angles.

Delia showered and breakfasted the way she always did, clean of mind and healthy of body, the daughter of a farmer who kept herself healthy and clear-headed through her job at a children's variety tv show and then into accounting, because she adored stability.

Not putting anything on aside from a fresh pair of panties and a pad, Delia held a toothbrush in her dominant hand and her phone in the other, thumbing through social speech-bukkake platform Twaddler and rolling her eyes at every third post.

Her tricep was killing her.

Twaddler demonstrated the human spirit in full kaleidoscopic clarity, good and bad: a gleaming rainbow with barnacles and bedsores on its back.

For every perky post praising the nice day, a tasty meal, or the inviolable sanctity of the creative yearning mind, there were about twenty whingy posts, A-N-G-E-R-Y posts, pretentious elitist posts, and sneering mean-spirited posts that, in light of disagreement, called for violence against their opponents either sexual, mortal, or both.

"Bullying is a two-way street," the reverse-dalmatian said around a foam of toothpaste, "for as much as it injures the victim, it more brazenly demonstrates the aggressor's ineptitude because he must attack his lesser. A vampire."

She spat and continued her morning--now noon--review.

A loud, sad, obnoxious farty brown note blared from her phone, causing her to nearly drop it.

"God damn it, these clowns," she growled, then almost scrolled by them, wondering why in God's name she followed rabble-rousing comedy tabloid conspiracy site "The Pooty Trombone."

"Fart Jokes and Facts, Starting at the Buttcrack of Dawn!"

Jesus Christ, butt jokes were not funny, and butts were only for sitting and spanking.

Delia's ex-husband had propositioned anal, once. The conversation went:

"Absolutely not, Andi. Poop comes from there."

"And blood comes from the other one, Delia!"

"Not all the time!"

"Neither with your other orifice! You see my argument, and as your dearly beloved 'til death do us part, better or worse, dirty or clean, I demand to raid your arsehole!"

They tried, and Delia failed: all over her buttcheeks and his balls and dick.

"Goodness," he'd said, trying to break the tension, "as far as our account in hygiene is concerned, looks like we're in arrears! Our inner censors may bowel-derize this one before it goes down in the anals of history. No wonder that arsin' is a felony. You and I have a fecal attraction, love."

Delia slapped him once with her paw and again with a court summons.

They divorced. Andi now worked as a shock-rocker because body fluids, cephalopod appendages, and messy medical procedures were 3dgy.

Delia still missed him dearly, sometimes watching his music videos and wept.

He was another bleeding wound that wouldn't close.

Pooty Trombone's title for this video, which they got from another website, was "Return of the Black Dahlia Murders?" and was accompanied by a stampede of emojis from "thinking" to "crying and laughing," "scared gasp," and "knife."

The video itself was titled "ROFL check out this K E R A Z E E amina-tronic!!! *dabs*."

Animatronics? Delia wondered. Chunky Cheese went out of business ten years ago. Videogame series Fortnight at Ferdinand's concluded five years ago.

The image quality was a war crime of cinematography: somehow, someone had gotten a digital camera from Delia's childhood and managed to smear the lens with personal lubricant.

In the video gesticulated what seemed to be an animatronic canid, large ears like a fennec, and it moved with such a vigorous jerkiness that had to be grinding all its internal servo motors: were it a fuman being, an actual fennec fox, Delia would assume him/her in the throes of an epileptic seizure.

"Oi! Allo!" went the voice on the video, the canid's jaw snapping open and closed like a bad puppet and making a horrible cracking noise, "Moi noime is Shite-Cunt Ear-Canal becauz oi cunt_be _arsed to lissen to enny varce of raisin!"

His accent was careening like a drunk on rollerskates.

The voice was high like a teenage male tap-dancing on the threshold of puberty.

"Rawther, aye would lake to stoit--"

"Oh Jesus Christ!" Delia shouted, then took to the comments to find a transcript:

--would like to state my affections for eating ass. Not only pounds and pounds of it, but yards and yards, slurping it up like strings of sausages! What is the point of eating a cake if you merely lick off the frosting? You must chew deep, gulp it down, and--"

_"_Oi like arseholes, oi like arseropes,

oi like arseloads of the arsestuff;

arsequeen give me an arseduchy of arsedom--" it singsonged.

­and I will not let the censorious public restrict me from my inalienable, alimentary rights!"

It had to be a puppet with the way its head was flopping all over the place.

Delia found herself mimicking its movements with her free hand, recalling her days from Yay We're All Kids Hooray!

Delia rolled her eyes and put her phone down, grabbed a pair of gardening gloves, and went into her backyard for two minutes before she realized she was topless, running back inside before any of the neighbors saw her.

***

Buxom and bouncy college-age cabbit Busty Victemia gasped as her boyfriend pulled his nine-inch cock from her mouth and sprayed her face down with hot ropes of cum.

"Oh Chadchad," she gasped, gulping down a pair of saliva-wet sergal testicles as the male smacked his organ a few times on the short bridge of her cat-rabbit snout. "I mean, it doesn't count if you pull out, right?" she asked while his sperm-hives rested against her tonsils.

"Baby," the muscular sergal with brake-pad pectorals purred, "I'm a good Christian boy and I'll never raid your pussy before marriage."

His balls pressed against her epiglottis and she choked. "GLARF!" she coughed, backing out of the oral relationship to merely squeeze his robust donger and waggle its remaining droplets over her frosted face, "But I want you so bad and these spunkbaths are making my face stick; people are asking me if I had Botox!"

As Busty whimpered and shook her head, ropes, cables, and pulleys of semen drizzled down her breasts like warm, melty buttercream.

Chadchad the muscular sergal looked away, his handsome wedge-shaped jaw flexing as his enormous fangs bit his sensual, stiff upperlip. "I can't profane the Buttscoot name, mullady," he said, stroking her jizzled locks, "And so if this the advent of our bukkake, I must bid you adieu."

"Wait!" Busty gasped, mashing her heavy breasts against his leg as she grasped his tree-trunk thigh, "I must have you somehow, I must!"

As the sensuous cabbit protested, a finger glanced upon a warm, wrinkled aperture deep in the crevasse of his buttocks.

"Anal, my love," she gasped again, stroking his dumper like the head of a baby dove, "I offer you my off-passage so that, in imitation! We may presage our immortal passions."

Chadchad raised his noble jaw to the heavens, surveying the rolling abdomens and thunderous buttocks of Busty's boytoy posters, and said a prayer.

"As in the imperfect image of we against our Creator, so we proceed in tonight's consummation: our impoverished parody of true paradisiacal reverie."

"Oh Chadchad, I love you!" Busty proclaimed.

The cabbit bounced to her footpaws, spunk-anointed breasts bounding and her virgin sex rejoicing in the cloister of wholly saturated pink panties.

"I love you too, babe," the mighty sergal purred, his colossal chest her rock to lean upon, "now let me put it in your butt."

"I will!" she cried, then threw herself over on the bed, shimmying her panties down from her tailhole and no further, for they were saving the pussy for marriage.

And who knew? The sight or smell of her pussy could be like the Arc of the Covenant and melt Chadchad's handsome countenance away from his cheddar-chiseled snout.

Busty wondered what the sensation of anal sex would be like, if it would be like making her toilet in reverse, or in being in close proximity to her baby-proclaimer, be a daring close substitute!

The cabbit heard a thump and a gurgle from behind her.

"Chad?" she asked, keeping both hands clasped tight on her buttocks, holding open the door.

The sergal's massive form was obscured in the blacklight of her college dorm room; something dark colored the inside of his thighs and made them shiny. In addition to his broad otterlike tail, a thick sinewy rope seemed to drape down and coil on the floor from behind his testicles.

"What's going on? Is that a leash or something? Was that in Thong of Tholomon or thomething?"

Her head felt a little funny and the air in the room smelled sweet.

"I, um," his voice went, seemingly a few octaves higher. Chadchad's colby-jacked head seemed to move in strange jerks. "It is indeed a harness I have put upon myself so that, even if the Devil should urge me to enjoy your saintly labia, I shall be held fast!"

"Those look like intestines! And I'm in fuman biology 1.01, so I'd probably know!"

The sergal slumped and then fell to the ground with a calamitous crash. Busty's hands cramped as they continued to spread her buttcheeks, and the back half of her mind concentrated on how, exactly, she'd unsphinct her sphincter.

There were a few grunts, and the image of a second form--an angel!--and then the sergal stood upright.

"Fack oi am so hefty," he groaned, then cleared his throat. "Alas! It is a test of the Devil or the woiges of Jaysus. In my enthusiasm for communing with your bowels, I seem to have released my own."

"I ..."

"Perfectly healthy!" it stammered. "I'm in Scalien Bio 1.012, where we sometimes eject our cloacka in moments of exoitmint!"

"Okay sure," she stammered, then turned her head around. "We'll see the nurse in the morning."

Chadchad draped over her and then shivered, then fell with the full force of his grand weight atop her. Busty grunted and protested, but then the sergal nuzzled her in heavy thumps of his snout against the side of her head. He said "I love you so much, my dearest," but seemed like he was talking far south of his mouth.

"Here comes the tip," he whispered.

The cabbit felt something cold and pointy prod her anus.

"I'm ready, my love, just shove it in me," she returned. "As hard as you can."

His cock thrust in the first inch and Busty felt a sharp, stining pain. She gasped, clawing at the bedsheets, but Chadchad's tongue flopped out and lavished the side of her face. "It only hurts the first time," he whispered, "and only for a few minutes."

Chadchad thrust deeper and Busty yelped as the top and bottom of her ring tore.

Then, suddenly, her ring was much looser, and she groaned in pleasure as the blood of their consummation trickled and then gushed down their legs.

***

Delia awoke with her paws covered in blood.

She threw her sleeping pills and pad at the wall, swearing on a smaller dose of the former and a bigger dose of the latter.

Boy, did her menstrual cycle drive her crazy.

She showered and breakfasted as normal, and then saw she had received an email from her ex-husband: Hey, sorry I tried to shove it in your butt five years ago.

It was the branch that broke the levee--um, heh, literally when we um, anyway--of a relationship which was already burdened with the floodwaters of mistrust.

Here's a recent live performance if you haven't been keeping up with me. People really dig the Suppet (Satan Puppet) angle and I only have your work on Yay We're All Kids Hooray! to thank for it. No, I'm not actually penetrated.

Tried it once; oof ouch owie my rectal rectitude.

Delia smiled and opened the video: Andi was suspended on a control arm disguised to look like a giant veiny arm that squished inward between his buttocks like hair within a scrunchie, lending to the illusion that the limb indeed went right up his balloon animal.

The singer screeched through the mic to his crowd, who roared with adulation. As the camera panned close to Andi's face, Delia saw fake fingers planted in the back of the maned wolf's mouth as if the butt-arm went all the way through him.

Delia chuckled. "He's so crazy," she said, then took a seat in a living room chair and hopped back on Twaddler.

Another video from Pooty Trombone was posted, this time titled "Are you Serial?! Ppl disemboweled by 'premarital sex' (new killer rumor: Butt-Stabbing Babadook)"

The video, again posted from a different website, completely anonymous, showed a couple of keenly lifelike "animatronics" (puppets) leaning upon each other. The figures were a remarkably realistic cabbit and sergal.

The video quality was much better, and again was the dumbass from before affecting bad voices and accents, this time of a dumb male and a screechy female.

Both, to their scandal, were completely nude, and the male had a precariously large erection that, sadly, looked as if the prop had lost a bit of air.

"Oh Robertha," said the male sergal as an obvious puppeteer's arm rod guided his arm, "if all the world is a stage, then I want to be the rotten tomato that splatters across your bosom during your failed soliloquy."

The male puppet completed the motion by dragging and flopping his limp hand over her breasts. The motion was so violent and awkward, it looked like he was trying to extinguish an invisible fire.

Delia felt a familiar, invigorating warmth between her legs.

_What? Why? You're just crazed and horny,_she thought as she reached into her panties and squeezed her labia.

"Oh Robertissimo," said the female cabbit, her hand flying to his face so quickly that her paw struck his chin and bent the fingers backwards.

A bright pink tongue, so shiny it looked moist, fell out of the sergal's mouth.

"Robertissimo, I would mark the passage of time by the movement of your erection's shadow across your immortal thighs," she said.

At this, Robertha dropped her hand into the sergal's lap, striking the puppet's penis so abruptly that the prop came off, bouncing in rubbery, meaty splats off-camera.

Robertha and Robertissimo both looked at the screen with gaped puppet eyes and wide-open mouths, then squished their foam-braced muzzles like fists.

Delia laughed out loud, kicking her footpaws, then gasped as she climaxed, leaving a butterfly stain of ejaculate on the chair.

There wasn't any blood, fortunately.

Strangely.

Shivering and shamed, Delia wordlessly retreated to the shower.

***

Postgraduate bearded dragon Christian Virtuesson bent double over the hotel bed and groaned as he climaxed into his very first rectum, but the semen he pumped into the sexy chihuahua felt like hot lead or acid pouring out his urethra.

"Oh God, oh God!" Christian gasped, flopping over his same-sex partner. The dull mumble of a Therrie Convention in full swing crooned outside their hotel room.

"That was ... pretty good," said his partner, fibbing into the pillow he was biting. "Technique needs help, but Robin Hood wasn't splitting arrow-butts on his first archery. We can try again later tonight."

"I don't feel good," Christian said, then the bearded dragon pulled out of the chihuahua and ran to the bathroom. The sound of a shower came on and the chihuahua chased him in to find that Christian was scrubbing his cock and lizard slit, even though the chihuahua had _guaranteed_that his rectum was cleaner than a hospital glove.

"What, why?" asked Twinkie Gateway, posing all sexy-like in the doorway.

The lizard gasped when he saw Twinkie's cock and turned his back to him.

"This was a mistake; I'm a good Christian!" said Christian.

The chihuahua rolled his big, buggy dog-eyes. "I'm not going to get into any religious debates," he said. "Did it feel good?"

"No."

"What, why? I'm amazing!" complained Twinkie. "And you, well, obviously liked most of it."

"My body betrayed me," said Christian, "Isn't there supposed to be an afterglow?"

"I'm sorry. How do I make you feel better?"

"I don't know," Christian shivered, his bottom lip puffing out. The young postgraduate began to sniffle, then wept. "We're just part of the same Doctorate Track, classmates, and I find you so obnoxious when your pants are on. We're not in love, and you're a guy on top of that!"

Twinkie growled and lunged to object, then stopped himself. "Way to slap a guy for good service. The ones that should be grateful are oftentimes the biggest jerks," Twinkie mumbled to himself.

Twinkie's ears burned red. He'd never gotten this reaction. He was the grand Gapeway Arch to the West, to San Francisco, leading the confused and horny to the delightful, musky peace between two males!

Foam flew over the shower curtain and splatted against the hotel mirror.

Christian was going to scrub his scales off at this rate!

"Dude, I--" Twinkie started, fearing it was going to be a long convention. "Maybe you're a bottom?"

The shower curtain parted. The bearded dragon licked his eyeball. "What?" he asked.

"Maybe you're like me. Sure, we're males, but there's a whole 'nother breed out there! As subby males or power-bottoms, we do a double-service: one, we elevate these Alpha Males to their testosterone-soaked brilliance, and two, we benefit from their musky, fecund excellence riding their spunky tidal waves!" "I'm not a sodomer," Christian pouted.

Twinkie grabbed the tiny hotel shampoo bottle and sprayed white stuff all over the dragon's face. "You're a wet blanket is what you are. Will you just try? You already sinned against your God or whatever; not like this will give you more Hell."

Christian contemplated his situation, fumbling and failing to stuff his persistent erection back into his genital slit. "I, um, if you'll show me, I'll give it a spin."

The chihuahua yipped and clapped, bouncing on his footpaws. "You'll sit-and-spin, more like it! I'm going to call a friend--"

"Not you?"

"Eww, no, other butts are gross. No offense I'm going to call a friend to help you, then me, then me again because you'll be sitting on an ice pack!"

Christian sighed and leaned against the shower wall, but his cock was ever-so curious at the notion. The bearded dragon took to preparing himself while Twinkie babbled on his phone.

Not ten minutes later, a swaggering hulk of horsemeat named Fontaine Spuge DeLuge entered their hotel room wearing nothing more than a tiny shirt that exposed his rolling midriff and an overburdened zippered thong that readily revealed the stalk of his member.

The huge fleshy tube looked like a shaven neck.

Christian had dressed himself in his therrie costume: an aardvark tail, mask, and paws over a schoolboy uniform.

The sexy aardvark writhed in the middle of the room.

"That big?!" Christian hissed to Twinkie, who was laying on the bed and already was back in his clown-pony costume. Above his fake pony-tail and real chihuahua tail, Twinkie massaged his crinkled, creampie tailhole with a pink unicorn horn dildo.

Twinkie shrugged at Christian and then shoved the toy inside him.

"So you're Christian," the horse boomed, setting his paws on his meaty hips. His therrie costume was no more than a pair of tiny cat ears behind his horse ears. He had a cat's tail stapled to his horse tail. "I'll go slow, don't you worry. And well," he said, unzipping his thong to unspool a two-foot fleshy firehose, "if this don't fit, hard or soft, I can always use my tongue."

To make his point, Fontaine's tongue slithered out of his plump, wet horselips and went into his flared nostril where it slurped around until the horse sneezed.

When he sneezed, Fontaine's cock snapped like an epileptic python.

Christian crossed his legs, but he could not conceal the prominent tent in his schoolboy shorts.

"Aww, shit," the aardvark-lizard said, "Let's go ahead and give this a whirl."

Christian got on his hands and knees on the empty hotel twin bed and let Fontaine get to work. He turned his head sideways, and there was Twinkie licking his lips as he fucked himself with the unicorn horn.

The bearded dragon's cum and lube slicked the pink dildo.

Fontaine, for a generously-dicked, pendulously-betesticled horse, was generously gentle: first, the horse unbuttoned the dragon's short boyshorts and slid them down to his knees, then helped the shorts off of him entirely. leaving him in only his tight white underwear.

Fontaine removed those as well.

The bearded dragon shivered as the cool hotel room air graced his naked scaly buttocks, then moaned as Fontaine effortlessly transitioned to warm nuzzles and licks up the inside of his thighs.

Christian looked to his friend who was now furiously sucking on the unicorn horn while his other hand pumped his knotted chihuahua cock, then madly blushed as he compared the thunderous man-cannon tapping the soles of his footpaws versus the little pee-shooters he and Twinkie sported.

There was the blip-blip of the room's electronic lock, and Twinkie spat out the dildo as he struggled to pull his clown-pony circus pants up over his erection.

"Damn it, Brandler! He said he was going to be at the electro-bluegrass rave all night," Twinkie grumbled as he opened the door.

A thump and a crash sounded from the entryway, then the lights went out.

Fontaine was feathering his lips on Christian's tight crinkled ring, then turned to the entryway.

"Twinkie, you all right, buddy?" he asked.

"Brandler, you there?" asked Christian.

The two partners in pre-fuck heard a wet, pooty squirt like someone had stepped on a ketchup bottle. Then came a rapid cascade of "thuddles" like someone was pouring out a bag of hot-dogs.

Christian reached for the endtable lamp.

"Oi! Keep that auwff!" Twinkie said in a dumb voice.

"Is that what a clown-pony sounds like?" asked Fontaine. "You're kinda killing our buzz."

"Broggalo is wot chau're referring to, gubbinah!" said Twinkie, "But this clony is jass getting' intah charactah, so yew tew keep on shaggin' in tha noime auf the Queen!"

Fontaine rolled his eyes. "Sounds like someone needs a smack from the wrong side of my dick," he said, then moved back to Christian where he resumed nuzzling under his tail. Tiny, prodding licks of his tongue turned into full-on slathering drags against the orifice, each wet slide of the muscle easing Christian's tailhole more and more open and pliant.

The bearded dragon groaned as precum dribbled between his legs onto the bed. His inner testicles glowed against his lizard belly.

Christian moaned as Fontaine's tongue entered him, swirling about the hot, pliant chamber before sliding in so drastically deep: the bearded dragon hissed and clawed the bedsheets as he felt the horse's tongue roll across his prostate.

"Oh shit, oh fuck; Fontaine, thank you," he gasped at the horse he'd only met. "God, Twinkie, I think you're right," he added, then squinted as the clown-pony continued to lurk in the dark doorway.

Christian saw a second set of shoulders.

Fontaine mounted up on the bed and pressed the wide flared head of his equine cock against Christian's ass, but in failing to get anything but the tip of his urethra in, dismounted and continued tongue-fucking him.

"Twinkie, who's the..." Christian said, wincing as the top of his head banged against the headboard. Fontaine was now slurping, lipping, and sucking at his asshole. "Holy shit, keep going ... Brandler, is that you?" he called out.

The shoulders shrugged.

"God fucking damn it, you con virgin," Christian hissed, "If you're going to be a creep, you can fucking gorge yourself! This is what happens at therrie cons and it's perfectly wonderful and good and I won't have you whining about the therrie fandom being impure and perverted!"

Christian groaned as Fontaine pulled his tongue out and extracted from the bearded dragon an indecorous anal queef. "Unnnnghghhh," he groaned, then continued. "In fact, you can eat this ass after Fontaine's filled my crinkled cream donut hole!

"And why are you standing there, Twinkie?! Gonna creep on me, too?" he asked, then saw, alongside the chihuahua's tail and the fake pony-tail, a wet, bulbous rope spooling out the back of Twinkie's circus pants, down between his legs, and onto the floor in a coil.

"What the--anal beads, are you serious?!" Christian asked as Fontaine tried mounting him again, this time squeezing half the flare into his rectum. "Ooof, damn ... why aren't you sharing? Remember the cartoon movie of the two dogs eating the same strand of spaghetti? We could do that with our boi-pussies!"

"Eh? Oi that's roit," Twinkie flopped. He was exaggerating his clown-pony character; clacking his teeth together with every syllable. "Soon as our magnificent stallion's done cyoarin' you out, he can ploy jump-rope with our butt-string!"

Fontaine nickered as he spit on his cock again. "You're almost there, Christian, just take some deep breaths now."

"That looksh like inteshtinsh, Chwinkie," Christian slurred as he spread his buttocks, trying to relax. His head felt funny and the room smelled a bit too sweet.

"Er, um, they are, unfortunately! In my exoitmint for yuore rectal ploonging, Oi'm afroid I let moi own go! Don'tcha werry me duckies; they cawl et pink-socking! Happens to awl homosexuals an' aynal day-veeants!"

"Dumb prank, Twinkie; way to waste your con-food," Fontaine said, secretly glad he'd lost a little bit of his stiffness. He turned back to Christian, licked the lizard's muzzle, then pushed the head in.

"Oh, this is so good," Christian whispered, feeling the thick, heavy cock spread his insides.

The bearded dragon nuzzled the pillow, working his hips to allow the horse into him inch by inch. His own cock pooled pre-cum onto the bed as Fontaine's cock spread his rectum.

Another loud, long, rattling pooty sound echoed from the bathroom.

"Aaaaoww, shoite! As if moi arse'd not all-reddy shoited out aowll of me intes-toines!"

Fontaine kissed Christian on the lips. "I'll be right back. Gonna show Twinkie and Brandler the wrong side of my dick."

The horse clopped away to the bathroom, whereupon Christian heard a "What the fuck?! Oh my God you murd-WHARGARBLEACHCHH!"

Thud.

Christian got up on his hands and knees but could not let his tail fall. He was so close to taking a full horse-cock and his ass already felt divine.

"Fontaine?" he called out. "Are you okay, did you slip?"

"Uhhhggg why am I such a heavy turd," Fontaine groaned. His voice seemed off.

The bathroom light came on and out leaned the silhouetted head of Fontaine, this time wearing Twinkie's clown-pony mask.

"I look pretty dumb, yeah?" Fontaine asked. His arm flopped to his face, smacking his jaw. "Sorry Twunkle Spinklight had to be your first."

The horse's jaw moved in awkward open-shut, open-shut movements, clacking his teeth. "Fontaine, it's not funny," Christian said, then looked between the horse's legs.

Out from behind the horse's long cock, in front of his real tail, spooled out a long, wet rope connected to a strange wet bag the size of a purse.

"Don't look!" Fontaine shouted, "that's a surprise!"

Christian buried his head in the pillow. "I'm getting weirded out, Fontaine. Tell me those are your anal beads."

"Yup, just my anal beads!" the horse said, teeth cracking. "No better bowel fit than an actual bowel shape!"

"Just put it in me and we'll get back to the con."

The horse clopped over to him, every step a loud exaggerated thud exaggerating his masculine dominance. When he got behind the bearded dragon, he said, "I'm gonna ride you like a little bitch," and then draped wet, warm rope around the dragon's face.

"Bite the reins, slut."

Christian did so, finding the taste appallingly bitter and the texture slimy. When he whined and turned his head, more of Fontaine's rope lashed out and slapped him across the face.

It didn't smell good at all. It was almost earthy, almost like a sewer.

The glance he got of the horse must have been a mirage--Fontaine had the exact opposite physique of the small shoulders and hourglass shape of the figure behind him.

Christian whimpered and faced forward, humiliated that Fontaine's strange anal beads were now in his mouth. The bitter, slimy taste must have been from Fontaine's insides: wasn't this germy or something?

The lizard felt a tiny prick to his backside, a sort of coldness that must have been a claw Fontaine tightened on the reins, forcing Christian's mouth open, then shoved his finger in.

The pain was sharp, cutting, intense--Christian blamed himself for how tight and inexperienced his anus was, but as Fontaine sawed his cold, sharp hand in and out of his ass, Christian suddenly became loose and wet.

Then a new sensation: Warm, wonderful liquid poured from Christian's loosened ass, down the back of his thighs and onto the bed.

Fontaine had to be spraying him down with cum!

The bearded dragon, feeling euphorically light of head as Fontaine fucked him, grabbed his cock and furiously pawed himself off onto the sheets.

At the point of climax, Christian bit down on the wet rope so hard he broke its surface and foul, acrid-tasting contents spewed from the tube.

Spitting and coughing, dizzy, knees trembling in a lake of hot sticky liquid too dark to be cum, he looked back at Fontaine.

"Neigh, bitch!" whinnied a svelte silhouette holding a coil of intestines that went straight to Christian's mouth. His partner pulled out, revealing a bloody cock the shape of a kitchen knife.

Christian screamed as his own bowels tumbled out of him, crashing into the headboard as the horse-woman with the dildo bayonet reeled him in by his own intestines.

***

Delia awoke with a blood-filled diaper. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and apparently her uterus was building entire fetuses before dumping them, unfertilized.

There were a few chunks in there and a strange ring--it looked like a broken condom or an anus, but the latter was much too big for an infant.

Thank God I'm not trying to conceive; my eggs are rotten.

Delia stripped off and wadded up the garment meant for _other_ejections, grumbling as she used her duvet to wipe off her hands, thighs, and groin of the sticky, metallic substance.

She then took a shower and breakfasted like she always did.

When the reverse-dalmatian got out, she read the back of her sleeping pills: "for the harried female, self-proclaimed or biological, during times of turmoil, self-proclaimed or biological."

Pills are fine. I'm throwing my body off.

Back to the normal dose.

Delia went for another pad, tampon, pillow, garbage bag--and idly massaged her abdomen as she searched.

Zero cramps.

In fact, she'd not had any cramps this week, save for the ones in her arms, thighs, and buttocks, almost as if she'd been softball on roller-skates all night.

Ah, getting older. Never know what's going to cramp up next!

_ Golly-gee, me and my boring, normie life._

Delia eschewed her biological conundrums and went back on her phone.

There was another email from Andi; that was precious, and also a note from PayMate saying that an AndeeDeerest had sent her an embarrassingly large sum of money. Hey doll, missing you still.

Going crazy without you; sorry you were never crazy for me.

Sometimes I miss you so much I feel like I could knife a baby in the ass, you know? Not really, duh, but anyhoo: my newest tour's just kicking off, and I guess "Satan Baby Tentacle Abortion" is the new 3dgin3ss, so I'm embarrassing myself with irresponsible horror simulacrum. You suggested that three years ago, 'member? And here I was just not wanting to look like a kink fetishist, but we all know who's shoving arms up asses and ripping out gut coils, now don't we? <3

Love lots, totally respect your normie life.

Manifesting the theme in vivid grotesqueness was him live onstage in gothic-themed, cartoon-exaggerated infant gear. To everyone's horrified pleasure, in the middle of the show the maned wolf was strung up by a battalion of concertina wire tentacles and then--using the diaper as a magician's storage chest--had fake bowels ripped out from his navel and rear end, then cast into the audience.

Delia again felt an intense, familiar warmth.

Completely naked this time, she took to stroking her labia, teasing her clitoris, and fingering her canal as she switched over to Twaddler, seeing if her arousal could bear the rigors of the petty cringe-sobbing masses.

Pooty Trombone had another video up, this time renaming the mystery criminal to the "Ass-Lacerating Lass Assassin."

The video showed three individuals; a chihuahua, a horse, and a bearded dragon; all male; in t-shirts from a recent "Therrie Con" (whatever that was) talking, again, in the same dumb teenager's voice.

"Gudday, mayte! Eaustralian Jayke heyah wivvah bonzah offah feh yew! D'yah need ceash neaow?"

Fucking title loans?

Delia muted the video, watching disinterestedly as the three puppets--incredibly heavy, by the inertia in their heads and necks--held a conversation between each other about cash advances.

Her first order of business was tracking the puppeteer's hands. There had to be two of them, she thought as the heads jerked toward each other, arms waggling, fingers flopping.

She caught a set of fingers in the horse's mouth! There was one hand.

These were full-scale; Jesus Christ.

The puppets seemed incredibly lifelike--as if the creator had spent too much time on their style and not enough on making them manipulable.

Something white flew across the screen, so she paused, rewound, and unmuted.

Funny! In talking in classic puppet gabbiness, the chihuahua puppet had lost a tooth. It broke clean off with a resounding sticky crack.

Again, their mouths were impressively shiny, seemingly moist, and their eyes, fixed forward, were of an excellent quality.

As Delia delved into this puzzle, her free paw continued to delve into herself, stimulating her passage, stroking her outer lips, teasing her sensitive clit.

The bizarreness of the situation only elevated her, and when the chihuahua's jaw turned a bit pink around his missing tooth, the dalmatian climaxed into her hand.

Delia's fingers came back with femmy ejaculate webbing--and no blood.

Ashamed, Delia retreated to the shower, but merely washed her hand and wiped her groin.

Instead, she decided on a little yardwork, so the reverse-d quickly dressed and dragged her new tools from the garage into the backyard.

Settling down before her flower bed, Delia briefly regarded the old shed out back: the chains across the door were rusted, as was the lock holding them in place.

Thing hadn't been opened since Andi left.

"I should probably demolish that," she said as she stabbed into the garden, digging around a flower.

***

Pewteroy Snufflefilms (real name Orrie Leung Johnson) the Siamese cat clip-clopped in his hoof-shaped dress shoes as he entered the executive wing boardroom of the Huewett Hotel with other similarly dressed gentlemen sporting top hats, coats, and a few monocles. The minority of females in attendance wore slim evening dresses from the nineteen twenties with beautiful pearl necklaces and hoof-shaped stilettos.

On top of their excellent eveningwear, all wore fake pony-tails, fake wings, fake horns, and clown makeup over their faces.

An actual unicorn and two pegasi, male, male, and female, wore everything that did not naturally come to them.

"Welcome, my clonies and pegging-sisters, to the Annual Meeting of the Broggaluminati Collectorate!" guffawed Pewteroy, raising a champagne glass. "Shall we lobby authoritarian or libertarian this time?"

"Sire, if we give power to everyclony, it'll get a bit pers-nicker-ety to get it back!" protested the unicorn. He sat back at his silk-covered table while a black female Weimaraner waitress in a remarkably realistic horse mask and roller-skates passed out refreshments.

Nobody seemed to notice the scandal of this shorthaired dog wearing nothing but an apron and bonnet, her buttocks readily visible and her vulva peeking on the occasion she leaned over.

The groin of the unicorn's dress slacks bulged, revealing that his evening wear had little bitty snaps on either side of the fly for quick removal.

"Mmhmm, right you are!" said a female snow leopard in a flapper skirt. As she leaned to get her drink, her legs spread and flashed her completely naked crotch. "But what shall we call it this time; is Unifriendship still in vogue?"

"On its way out, unfortunately!" Pewteroy said as a male otter clony sat down directly next to him. Without further ado, the otter pulled the Siamese cat's trousers open and began stroking the cat's spiny cock, easing it out of its sheath. Pewteroy's balls hung over the luxurious silk-cushioned seat, large for his species. "For the dominant classes are terribly vilified; nobody wants to be friends with corporate fatcats such as Cleanbreeze Sulfuria here!"

The unicorn nickered as the snow leopard snuck around behind him, dropped a panel in the back of his chair, then the back of his trousers, and began stroking his puffy horse-anus with her fake hooves. "Indeed! Only for the sake of my ten-thousand missionaries to the volcanic pygmies down in Totokanda have I salvaged my reputation as a billionaire!"

The waitress seemed to pick up her speed, yipping demurely as a guest smacked her on her bare ass. Drinks were handed out to every table, and refills came at the snap of fingers.

"Yes, Cleanbreeze," purred Pewteroy as the otter went down on him, suckling his cock and fondling his large balls, "the same country you devour for its limitless supply of siliconium!"

"Ahaha, as if those savages knew the first thing of the metal," guffawed the unicorn as the snow leopard slipped her bare foot up his rear, "Oo-hoo-hoof, my dear, that is magnificent!"

"I say," said a dragon clony at another table, his fifteen-inch cock lain across the table as clonies of both sexes massaged it with grey poupon and caviar, "Must the orgy start this early? I thought we would have determined the next pop sensation and president by now!"

"We could be rather hasty," said a male okapi rapidly fanning himself as a female Pegasus clony urinated into his jacket's breast pocket, "but I think his champuh-Chambana--sham-paggin has taken good hold of us! Let us enjoy the merriment tonight and reconvene tomorrow!"

The whole room, of which there were about thirty members, divulged into a Dionysian exhibition of fake and real horse whinnies, of exquisitely-dressed males, females, and a few variations thereof sucking and fucking each other through the lifting of skirts, the dropping of dress tops, and the opening of strategically-placed panels on trousers and shirts. Nipples, cocks, pussies, tailholes all were exposed and tongued at, groped at, tiptoed at, and of course the latter two were penetrated by phalluses, fake phalluses, horns with rubber safety caps, and a sturdy kitchen knife.

The waitress came from behind Cleanbreeze and nuzzled him with her fake horsehead as she applied the cool flat of an unfamiliar toy against his puffy pucker. Cleanbreeze made out with the fake horsehead, lipping at its stiff, shiny lips, its rubbery, fragrant tongue, not stopping one wit when the mask's occupant ducked out of the article and leveled a cold prick around the outside.

His body was all a-buzz as the female mongoose bounced on his enormous cock, her own rear-end exposed to the world.

Cleanbreeze felt a strange warmth flood his chair and gasped, standing up rapidly and taking the chair with him.

"Oof, Cleanbreeze, what is your malady?" the mongoose gasped as he awkwardly flung her off.

The unicorn waddled around, cock drooping out before him, his chair soaked with blood as it followed him.

"Aha, you silly oaf!" chortled Pewteroy, draping a warm, wet, red rope about his shoulders like a feather boa as the otter received his load in the face. "You have your bowels tied to that chair!"

"I say, isszthat n'mormal?" asked the poupon-caviar dragon as his own dripping rectum was brought before him and slipped over his massive cock by his female attendees.

The shapely waitress skated over and slammed the urinating female Pegasus over a table, then in full view of the orgy repeatedly thrust the knife into her undercarriage, streaks of blood flying in ribbon arcs as she extracted the mare's entire reproductive system, shoved it over her head as a sort of pussy hat, then went about braiding three trains of intestines between the okapi, this female, and the cum-faced otter who had quite a trial in tripping over his own bowels coming over.

On this braided carpet of bloody viscera, the waitress shoved Pewteroy and the dragon fucking his own anus to walk across it.

Taking an extra set of bowels from one of the females having smeared caviar and poupon over the dragon's dick, the waitress poked a few holes down her digestive tube and played a wedding march through the guts.

_ Lips upon that rosy ring,_

_ Sending guests a-tumbling,_

_ Asses-to-asses,_

_ They all fall down!_

***

Delia awoke with cucumbers over her eyes, a half-drunk tomato cocktail in her paw, and more softball aches in a bathtub full of blood.

Her other paw emerged from the surface of the tub with her phone.

My phone's not waterproof, but blood is thicker than water...

_ _ The reverse-dalmatian opened her mouth to lick it clean, but thought better and wiped it on the shower curtain.

Delia yelped in horror.

Battery at 8%!

Delia stumbled from the tub then shook herself off like a feral dog, spraying the bathroom down with a red spritzy mist. Leaving dark crimson footprints throughout her house, she ran to her bedroom and plugged it into the charger.

Then, breathing a sigh of sweet relief, stinking of wet pennies, Delia opened another email from her ex-husband.

My Godly, Christian ex-wife, please pray for me as you walk in the Blood of the Lamb. My tour has been foreshortened because of a rash of copycat murders.

Curse those bastards, just because a baby cannot chew a steak!

This country will collapse into a nanny state, and maybe literally if we cannot be held responsible to contain our own bowels!

Anyhoo, feeling bleh, but still miss you bb.

Totally respect your normie life, feel free to send me hippie lyrics for my paradigm shift.

Delia flipped over to Twaddler.

"Black Dahlia/Ass-Lacerating Lass Assassin/Bum-Plundering Baba Yaga Cums Again! :3 OwO uwu;;; *dabs* 100."

"Seems like everything needs to be written on the side of a cock to get attention," Delia grumbled.

The video showed an ensemble cast of thirty puppets in three rows singing in overlaid voices of the same not-Brit, not-Irish, not-Aussie lunatic.

Delia recoiled and lay back on her bed with a wet splat.

"Oh fuck, these are corpses, aren't they?" she said to herself.

"Happiness and unity, we are one big faaaaaaamily

in the sunshiiiiiiine of joy

where we join each other's songs of wonder

and our days of hope will never eeeeeeeeend!"

"Maybe I should send that to Andi," she mumbled, "it's sugary enough."

Delia was surprised by her muted reaction to thirty corpses flailing about on three rigs with their limbs flying and dislocating, heads flopping and snapping ligaments, clapping jaws knocking all their teeth out ...

Delia rattled off a public Twaddle message.

&PronouncedAndershaw, someone's already claimed your Edge Lord status on hippie hug songs. Maybe start an album on fiscal responsibility?

Love you and your puppet abortion butthole.

Not five seconds later, her phone lurched into overdrive, vibrating and beeping with Twaddler notifications left and right.

"From one butthole to another!" with crying emoji.

"Andi was in on it the whole time! Conspiracy???" with gasping emoji.

"Um, can you love a website? Because I do" with kissy, heart emoji.

What's going on?

Delia backed out to the home Twaddler page.

It was Pooty Trombone that sent him that message.

She was Pooty Trombone.

Delia's heart slammed in her chest as she took inventory of her surroundings.

Her house: covered in blood.

Her paws: bloody every morning. Her arms and her body: constantly aching from mystery exertions.

"Oh God, oh God!" wept Delia, running to the kitchen. She ran to the knife block and upended it, then jumped on the counter as the blades scattered across the floor, each and every one nicked, dulled, damaged, or bent.

"Shit, no, this is impossible," she said, then ran out of her house, dark with drying blood, completely naked, to her tool shed.

The chain was rusty as was the lock, but the underside--the keyhole--was clean. "No, shit, no," she whimpered, paws shaking like an alcoholic's.

Automatically, Delia upended a nearby rock, grabbed a shiny, clean key, and opened the shed.

It was dark, impossible to see, but the horrid stench emanating from it was unmistakable: rot, dung, death.

Delia stepped in and a loud, low, sloppy farty noise issued from under her footpaws.

The reverse-dalmatian picked it up: it was a disembodied stomach with one end sealed and "Poots and Poots and Poots :3" scrawled across the surface in vicious scarred calligraphy.

She turned on the light and shrieked again: written in three-dimensional cursive, in intestines, was the text:

"Butt jokes are not funny."

Delia ran back inside, her heart thundering, her vision hazing as she rested on the precipice of consciousness.

She was the Black Dahlia. She was the Ass-Lacerating Lass Assassin!

Delia ran to her bedroom, the duvet like a post-modern canvas, and grabbed her sleeping pills. "Wherewithal Wolf mind-mending ... blah blah ... May cause ceweal murrdurr or awoonacy! :3"

"Cool," she said, massaging her forehead, "my freedom's just a lawsuit away, no big deal ..."

She shook her head.

None of this was just.

One, two, three, thirty ... thirty-six deaths had been at her paws.

What restitutions could she make?

Sobbing, Delia went to her writing desk, took out a fountain pen and paper, and begin scrawling her suicide note.

"Of all families affected by my atrocious actions," she began, then noticed the ink was deep red and stank of pennies.

"God damn it!" she screamed, throwing the pen and embedding it into the wall.

Sirens were fast approaching her house: in fact, she could hear the police pounding at the door.

Summoning up the last of her courage or cowardice, Delia dumped the rest of her sleeping pills into her hand, grabbed her bloody mary cocktail, and opened her mouth wide.

She shoved the pills down her throat, pushing her hand into her maw so she could make sure every damned one made it down into her gullet.

A second set of fingers stroked her own.