FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Xander, a fawn-furred, lop-eared rabbit who was a little short, slightly pudgy, aloof, and otherwise a fairly normal anthro person thirty-six hours ago, awakens around four in the morning. He's lying on the hardwood floor of his apartment. His body aches from the position, but that doesn't trouble the fifteen-inch erection sprouting from his groin. He wonders if that's going to be a daily thing, now. At his diminished height, it bumps into his lips and chin as he sits up. He runs both hands around the calf-thick cock and uses his left thumb to trace the massive dorsal vein. He huffs out a gasp. Pleasure tingles from the touch outward until he shivers.

It's still so warm. He presses first his nose against the swollen, rubbery head, then his tongue. He drags his tongue around the flaring rim to the front, at which point he shudders with sensation. A bead of precum thick as a grape rises readily from his slit and he laps it into his maw, only to have to clean his lips repeatedly with his tongue to catch all the webbing of the viscous stuff. He repeats the treatment on the other side, to the reward of another salty, almost sweet sip of himself.

His paws trail gradually down his length and he backs up his head to observe it in the dim light from far-off street lamps. Despite the massively expanded size, it feels just as densely innervated. He can feel each prod of his fingertips down every inch as they flank the bulging cockbelly, which he experimentally flexes. It feels muscular, now. It shouldn't be surprising to him, but his consciousness has been on a roller coaster for the past thirty-odd hours. He yawns his maw wide over the thick head and closes his lips around it. His body shudders. Precum drips into his mouth. He lets some of it pass his lips down to his fingers while he hums around his cockhead. He spreads it over the breadth of his member, shivering each time his fingers tug along his sensitive flesh. With a low growl, he eases stretches his jaw wider, wider still, and dips his head until he can feel his drooling tip in the back of his throat. He rolls onto his back and turns so he can brace himself against one wall with his feet and the floor and begins immediately, sensually, pumping his hips in time with his head to fellate himself.

It's so easy. He remembers when he was a teenager and tried this. Impossible, with his size and... size. He remembers his abs and back and hips aching from holding the position. Now, his physique yearns for this strain. He gulps down precum as quick as he produces it. His fingers drift down to his nuts, each the size of a mango where they rest up against his waist, and he cups each one in a hand. And it's only then, when he feels curls up against them the tiny, doll-sized figures of his previous day's prey, that he really remembers.

He pauses, though his lips are loathe to let go the cockhead stuffing them. His fingers press in against one on the left side to trace the outline and defining features of a tiny, young wolf, who just yesterday morning had been a six-foot-even, 175-lb delivery guy. His right paw fondles the twin forms of two jaguars, who until last night had been six-foot-three, 200-odd lb runners - neighbors of his. As his hands reacquaint themselves with those shapes, more precum flows down from his tip. He feels an odd, clay-like give when he squeezes, first in gentle, exploratory pressure, and then, abruptly, with a flash of libidinal hunger, more firmly. A leg sinks into his testis here and is absorbed. An arm there. Tails, one by one, merge with the organs. Xander's body trembles. His mind feels strained. "Mine," he hears himself mumble around his shaft as he plunges the wolf's head fully into the pliable flesh of his left nut and the person vanishes into him. He humps into his maw with luxurious slowness. "Mine..." he repeats as he mirrors the motion using a thumb on Bullet's head and a forefinger on Ray's. A low moan, a primal sensation, a full-body, percussive, baritone roar seethes out of him - a punctuation mark to the forms' disappearance. It's accompanied by a gradual flexion of his groin that makes his cock stiffen as though it were leashed by a cock ring. It feels like, as erect as it already is, it's becoming more so as an inch of growth crams itself into his maw.

It's too much. He cums hard, directly down his throat. A cup in one blast, a pint, another. He gags and pulls off his lips, but keeps pumping both paws up and down his shaft as jizz streaks and flows and bursts over his neck and face to pour across the hardwood floor behind him and drench his limp ears. He kicks a crack in the door with the force of his pleasure while his body, for the seventh time in a day and a half, converts what some part of it deems imperfect into jizz and pleasure and ejaculates it across his apartment in a storm of bliss.

He gasps on the floor as it finishes, and estimates he's another three inches shorter again - but tighter all across his body. He's not sure what he's done. He does remember, though, that there should be a fourth. He casts about his body's senses for it. There was a fox. A young voyeur who had enjoyed Xander's pre-meal threesome with the brothers, whom Xander had commanded to step into his maw and vanish down his gullet as a post-coital meal.

He'd desperately needed the calories. He'd burnt tens of thousands in encompassing and acquiring the big cats. He'd known he was on the verge of collapse, and he'd eaten the nearest source of nutrition: an unlucky person.

He shakes for another reason, but as he considers it, his arousal doesn't subside. It's part and parcel of his acquisitions. He first uses touch over his belly and chest, then deep tactile awareness in his abdominals and back, and finally the new sense his transformation two nights ago bestowed on him: some combination of sensing flesh and spirit. For the three in his genitals, he can sense faint residues. They glide around his body seeking an anchor. Each finds one on a different patch of skin. Where they land, his fur raises like goosebumps as white instead of brown, blue-silver in the moonlight and street lamps, and replaces the fawn coating in minimalistic shapes of a wolf and two jaguars, like tattoos. The fox, though... he can't find it.

"I killed someone," he breathes. It had felt good. It had felt right. He had asserted to the fox where his place was in the chain of predator and prey, and the shaking, post-adolescent boy had agreed. He feels at his belly again. Nothing left. It all just went to fuel the furnace of his new, impossibly gluttonous metabolism.

He takes a few deep, steadying breaths to quell his panic. All the while, he can't shake the sensation of how indelibly correct this is, and how empowering, and how satisfying. The smoothing of the last forms of his prey into his testes - making their whole flesh into his sex, the source of his growth and libido. That prowling, predatory mindset triumphantly continues to fire arousal through his bloodstream.

He jerks himself up to his feet and walks to his shower while carefully avoiding the spreading pool of his semen in the entryway. He bumps his shoulder on the doorway. He's so broad, now. He turns on the water as cold as it will go, directly onto himself. In the yellow light of the bathroom, he looks down at himself. Besides the stubbornly persistent erection, he's changed tremendously. Gone are the inches of gut that used to hang off his waist in every direction. Pectorals that had hung flabby with fat are taut and firm against his paws when he rubs and flexes them. His abdomen hasn't gone svelte; rather, his hands find a powerful, broad, well-defined topography of musculature that could easily support deadlifting, what... three hundred pounds, at a guess? From someone who would have struggled with one-fifty two days ago, had he even dared to try. Xander knows bodies. He's studied them academically and lasciviously. He wouldn't win bodybuilding competitions like this, but he could model - underwear, shirts, blue jeans - without question. Well. Perhaps not underwear. Not on TV, anyway.

His mind still burns as the frigid water gradually discourages his monumental arousal. What has he done? Should he turn himself into the police? He's pretty sure there are magic police, too. Special divisions, or something. He didn't clean up his predation site last night, so the tens of gallons of semen there are unquestionably going to be reported to supernatural authorities.

He's out of the shower, toweling off, and wearing Bullet's bright red boxer shorts before the thought's complete. His package bulges obscenely, but at least it's covered. He puts his hand on the door.

"Refrain."

From inches behind him. In purely lapine prey reflex, he kicks his foot, claws splayed, behind him. The center of it is met with a pair of small hands that, far from simply stopping the blow, catches around the long, narrow midfoot and yanks to bring Xander loudly to the ground. He twists to get himself on his back and face his attacker. Said attacker dashes onto his belly and has needle-sharp claws pressed against his throat. It's heavy. Heavy as lead glass, but swift and strong. "Stop and I stop," the voice rapidly commands. He freezes. He stares into eyes that would be lightless were it not for the amber pinpricks that seem thousands of miles distant within them.

"I intend no harm, but I will commit it if threatened with injury. The assault was self preservation and nothing more. I apologize for the surprise. Please restrain yourself," issues a high tenor, semi-synthetic voice. The creature itself is as pitch black as its eyes, but Xander catches a glimpse of vermillion clothing in a small backpack. It traveled here nearly invisible in the darkness and is now nude atop him. It's a sable.

"How did you get in?" he asks.

"Your back window while you showered."

"Who are you?"

"There are ten thousand suns, and each listens to the others across the ocean of space for harmonies that will outlive them."

Xander blinks. Right. Assistants and their names. Child-sized magical golems with peak musculature and eerie empathy, made explicitly to serve.

"Witness told you to come here." Witness, the Assistant who consumed, transformed, and released Xander without a word's explanation. Xander isn't sure if he's angry or indignant or if he's using those emotions just to justify how focused he immediately is on finding a way to put this creature inside his ravenous body.

"I was not commanded. We share a network." The way it says that conveys so much more than the simple idea of a social network. As though it said they share a room. "I acted because I believe what Witness did was in poor judgment, though my Father and I consented."

"Who is your Father?"

"We do not know his name."

It's all too strange and confusing. Xander becomes aware that if he says nothing, the diminutive sable atop him won't move. It's comfortable in this situation. It has no qualms about continuing to restrain him.

The pressure of the claws doesn't retract. Instead, the other paw begins exploring Xander's body. More in the fashion of an ultrasound wand than an organism's hand, it scans his torso methodically. It pauses between his navel and waist, traces upward to his sternum, touches his hyoid, then retracts. "I will explore your genitals, now. From outside. You may disrobe if you feel some autonomy in this matter would be reassuring. Attempts at predation will be met violently. While the thoughts you are experiencing are not your fault, you must bear responsibility for the actions that result from them."

Xander can read how serious the creature is. Yet another sense has awakened now that he's registered what it is. He watches closely while he arches his hips off the ground enough to tug down his new running shorts. He feels it reading his movements, but there's something missing. There's something his awareness flags in the direct, explicit threat.

The Assistant doesn't wait for Xander to kick off his clothes. It slides smoothly off him to the side and begins the same scanning passes of its palms across his testicles. The gentle, clinical touches send tingles rippling out from their origins across Xander's body. It's not arousing, but it's... stimulating. It pauses three times: once on the left and twice on the right. It's sensing some residue of the people he's absorbed. It traces them with those feathery touches to where the "tattoos" that remain of them now adorn his hips and flanks. Somehow, he resists the incredible urge in his groin to become erect again, and his sheath remains motionless.

"What do I call you?"

"I am called Listens." It doffs its backpack and retrieves a smartphone, into which it begins tapping with alarming speed, but no visible hurry. Even so, Xander believes he senses worry. Or haste, or anxiety... the emotions are different, here, but he can still get a sense for their general nature. Are even these alien golems accessible to his new ability to understand people? Or is that only because of what happened when Witness engulfed him?

"What happened to me?"

"I cannot offer a comprehensive diagnosis, and it would therefore violate our ethics to do so. I apologize. The one called Witness will arrive shortly to corroborate. Then, we will perhaps tell you." It fixes him with its eyes. He can tell the intent is some amount of command, but it's not aggressive. It's... permissive. It allows Xander to afford it authority despite its gentle tone and servile nature. There's a softness, a roundness, an innocence. He blanches mentally at the revelation that it's like a teddy bear. But behind those eyes is a power of presence even Xander's bosses can't project.

"What happened to the people I... ate?" His groin throbs at the reminder. Both entities in the room know that, whether or not he wants to, Xander views the Assistant as not just a meal, but something exotic. A delicacy.

No response. Xander sits up, studying the creature. How does it weigh so much...? "How much do you weigh?"

"Approximately four hundred kilograms."

His mind boggles. "Are you a neutron star?"

It smiles gently. "A far kinder interpretation than others we have heard. No. We acquire mass through-"

It stops itself and looks at Xander quizzically. He feels his hackles rise and senses his hands brace themselves on the floor. There's conflict, here.

"You took more than you gave."

"What?"

It goes silent again and sends a flurry of text messages that are answered at dizzying speed.

Of course he took more than he gave. He's consumed and absorbed four entire people. He's a predator. Predators don't give. They take.

He tries to turn back to the subject. "Do you all weigh that much?"

Silence. More than that, stillness.

Xander sits up against the door. No reaction. It may as well have been turned off. He stands up and stretches. "I need to clean up the park."

In soft monotone with no inflection whatsoever, it answers, "That has been managed. Remain here."

"Will you stop me if I try to leave?"

No response.

"Make breakfast," he says experimentally, to see if its primary function of service can be manipulated.

A tremor works through its body. Then, its eyes close and it folds itself into full lotus position, with legs crossed and each foot resting atop the opposite thigh.

"Hm," he comments. He leaves it by the door and moves to start breakfast himself. He's famished again after his latest transformative orgasm. A pang of conscience remembers the fox and sets his mind at war again. The Assistant touched him as though it sensed something, right? The fox is okay, somehow? He finds himself shaking again as the dutiful, altruistic Xander of a few days ago fights with the predator of this morning. It's not even an external "voice" - it's his own mind, knowing what he's capable of and what he's capable of becoming.

His package smushes against the countertop while he cooks up a panful of eggs and cheese (salt, butter, cayenne, paprika - his mind summons flavors from forgotten how-to videos), and he's grateful for his heightened awareness that lets him avoid any dangerous accidents resulting from his new proportions. He can't help but notice how light everything feels, from the cast iron skillet to the chair he pulls out to sit down on. His mind wanders back to his thoughts in the shower and his estimation of how much he can lift, now. Three hundred pounds seems right, if what he's read online is accurate. His eyes dart over to the statuesque Assistant by his door. He wants to go to the nearby twenty-four hour gym to test his new strength. He can maybe fit the running tee Ray wore yesterday over his frame, and maybe sweatpants will be enough to cover his package again. Doubtful, but perhaps he can count on the early hour to find some privacy.

Listens weighs four hundred kilograms. He considers: Witness consumed him Friday night, and was presumably still somehow able to return home to its owner. The Assistants must have some means of hiding the mass and masking or manipulating the weight. And from the way Listens spoke and acted, he's interfaced with some part of their senses already. Maybe he can just... borrow them. The rational brain of yesterday says that's insane because his testes cannot possibly hold a half-ton apiece. The mind of today remembers how pleasurable the stretching sensation of fitting two fully grown men into his sack was and imagines the enormity of the Assistants can only possibly be... delectable.

He finishes his meal and approaches Listens. His cock is already half-hard from his thoughts and bobs obscenely in front of him. "How long will it take Witness to get here?" he asks.

On cue, there's the sound of another small body dropping in through the window in his bedroom. Xander's loins throb, but he's aware he's unlikely to be able to contest both of them if forced to.

Witness pads from his bedroom to stand in front of him. It's fully nude, which emphasizes the purple-gold-orange splashes of color over its otherwise jet black body. Laser-like green pinpricks are visible in its eyes, lightyears away. Listenes awakens and the two of them immediately begin exchanging dozens of text messages. They won't even speak out loud in his presence. These things are devious and powerful - how did they ever get out into society as commodities?

The exchange ceases with the same abruptness with which it began. Witness looks up at him and speaks in its weird, soothing, semi-clinical voice. "I am going to enter you to attempt to retrieve the fox. It may be impossible. Listens will enter your genitals on a similar mission. Attempts to digest us will be met with lethal force. Open your mouth."

Xander's maw is open before he consciously responds. The sensation is like going to a doctor for a check-up and responding to each thing they ask thoughtlessly, but exponentiated. Quiet, commanding, expectant. No one would say "no" when a dentist said "open your mouth." This is that, but eldritch.

Besides, it's an offering of food. The Assistant clambers up his body using the convenient, semi-turgid handhold at his waist both as a ladder rung and a standing platform, then presses its muzzle into Xander's maw. His jaw stretches wider, then wider as the little creature works in its shoulders, then chest. Xander drools. The moment he feels that nose on the back of his throat, he grabs Witness's hips and tries to tug the squirrel onward with his tongue and a gulp. To his surprise, the squirrel simply rides the movement with a push of its legs. It squirms forward so its package rests on Xander's tongue, then its thighs, then knees, then finally toes. Xander's heart hammers and his cock bloats and stiffens beneath him as the meal offers itself to him, inch by inch. He can't stop thinking about the density, the quality. His cock engorges further, pumps harder, as his body is suffused by increasingly unified and synergistic forces of hunger and lust. Every contour of the hard, muscular body is dragged across his tongue and through his lips and down his throat.

With only thighs and tail and below hanging out of his maw, he peers down and feels Listens tug at the end of his mighty phallus. It swings its way up him to stand on his waist. Leaning its back on his chest, it then walks its feet up the dorsal surface of his cock. For all its seriousness... is it having fun? He guides its foot into his accepting, wet cock slit with one hand at the same time he pushes Witness's feet behind the prison of his jaws with the other. He wants Witness to be successful, sure, but... he also wants to own it.

He can feel Witness inside him. He can feel his body attempting to penetrate and acquire the calories, the musculature, the mass. He doesn't encourage it, but he has trouble discouraging it, especially as Listens presses its leg deeper down his urethra. "Fffhhh..." he hisses as his cock is stretched out. His breath is shallow. He contains so many - he wants one more. It grips gluttonously, burbles precum, and pulls. Listens is tugged slightly off his torso by the strength of it. The Assistant braces on his biceps and dips in its other foot, which is instantly accepted. Xander growls and grips the little servant by its shoulders, then pushes hard until it's up to its waist. His snarl gets louder as he watches the creature's form stretch out the belly of his cock. He pushes again. More. Belly, chest, shoulders-head-ears-"MINE," he rumbles as his own paws vanish in his cock with the force of his thrust. Listen's form is drawn gradually through his cock, down into his nuts which, having stretched to hold many times that volume the previous night, have no issue tightly gripping the little Assistant on his thighs and groin. Xander puts one paw on his belly and one on his sac to feel his new occupants.

They won't be leaving.

His paw finds his massive right testis - small in comparison to its roommate - up close to his abdomen and rolls it into position between Listens' scapulae. It feels the faint divot in the musculature there for a brief moment before that firm clay-like sensation takes over again and the organ seeps into and fuses with the creature's spine. "That's more like it," he rumbles quietly to himself. His prisoner shivers as its body is taken over, subsumed, and made a part of Xander's. It doesn't change shape - yet - but it belongs to him. "One."

"Xander," comes a muffled voice from inside him. "I've located the fox. He can be reconstituted and revived."

"How?"

"Release me."

It's too easy. He'll let them go, he swears to himself. This is just to feel how big he can get. How monstrous. It just feels so good to for once be empowered rather than cowed. "Okay."

"I'm coming out. Don't resist." There is a series of squirms as Witness arranges its arms to crawl up out of the abdominal chamber. They feel delightful inside him, and the throbbing, drooling cock sticking up at the height of his chin seems to agree.

Xander doesn't resist, but the little Assistant has no way of reading him. With his massively erect cock right at his muzzle, he simply opens his maw around its broad, purple head. He winces as Witness becomes aware of the trap and attempts to alter its personal gravity to get free, but he lurches forward to ensure its nose is already stuffed inside. Xander clenches his pecs ferociously to clamp down on its movements and dives his lips down a half-foot of his cock to tip over its center of gravity out of his chest and throat. It struggles with balance, but he fellates himself deeper by another few inches, he catches himself against a counter to lean forward more, and it's forced over and down. From there, gravity and the viscous precum constantly flowing from Xander mean the struggle is over. He feels its body pass from his throat into his cock. He experiences his prey with layers of tactile exuberance as it slides into him. He pulls off with a loud slurp so he can drive those feet down with his hands. For a long moment, he proudly pauses to look at the upside-down silhouette stretching out his flesh, feel its weight inside his organ and supported by his quads, revel in his prize. Moments later, it glides through an internal sphincter to pass into his nut sack, next to its companion. As soon as it's been forced into the fetal position by the constrictive area, he repeats his movement with his left testis, fusing it with the space between Witness's shoulder blades.

"... and two." They_do_ look and feel incredible as testicles. He rests a hand on either form where they hang between his thighs. They've gone fully inert. Maybe asleep, maybe a defensive posture. Either way, his supernatural body begins working over them and attempting to absorb their mass. This sensation is different from the brothers and the wolf. There's no instantaneous claim. The material isn't quite right. His testicles strain against his sac, but it holds - even holds with the most wondrous pull against his frame - and he lifts up his new pair of half-ton nuts. The gravity manipulation must already be at work, or his knees would have given out.

Suddenly, both forms explosively expand. Doubling and doubling again and doubling over again, the tiny forms are soon each bigger than a rottweiler, then bigger than a pony, then each the size of a full-grown Siberian tiger, curled up inside of him and stretching out the infinitely elastic flesh of his scrotum.

He shivers and whispers to himself, "All mine. It's all mine. It's all me." His balls have bowled over chairs and rearranged his couch and table. Each one is so much larger than he is. His cock throbs with the possession, the consumption, the strength, the growth. He presses his paws to it, but no, no, he's not going to spew out this mass, no, because this is all his. The compression magic they were hoarding that had let them pack so much mass into such tiny frames seeps into him, and it becomes like flexing a muscle: he flexes, and his left nut compresses; another flex, and his right nut begins to; together, they draw in closer, closer to his abdomen. Back down to beachball, then watermelon, then cantaloupe, then mangos, where he leaves them. The hand-filling size is perfect. The insane heft is perfect. He relishes the knowledge of the living beings contained inside him. He can barely think. He needs to cum. Maybe he'll let out just some. Just to celebrate a successful hunt.

He saunters to the bathroom, feeling his new possessions swinging against his thighs, and circles his cock with both hands to stroke its vascular length. His breath quickens. His heart races. He shoves down on the beastly shaft to point it into his bathtub and cums like a fire hydrant. Spunk fills the tub over the space of the next two minutes while Xander experiences ecstasy. It pumps, and pumps, and pumps out of him, while the fractions of muscle mass he managed to steal before the Assistants turtled up effectively power into his shoulders, his ass, his thighs, his abs, to tighten lines and bold them. He looks down at himself after the last spurt - itself several cups of gyzym - splashes into the tub. He could win bodybuilding competitions like this. Local ones, at least. He looks incredible. From a fraction of what the little synthetic golems have in them.

He convinces himself to compress his cock and sheath down to something that will at least fit into his shorts, if somewhat obscenely, and clothes himself again. His chest and shoulders come close to tearing through Ray's tee shirt when he puts it on. He still needs to hit the gym and test all of this out, after all.

--

Rocko's Mostly Legal Machines and Heavy Stuff is a shitty name for a gym, but it's the one Rocko chose and it somehow stuck. Xander has to go by it on his way to work every day and pretend he'll stop there on the way home (he never has). In fact, it's one of half a dozen places he could go to, all within convenient driving distance. Why Rocko's? Maybe the murals of an absurdly beefy tiger in a rainbow pattern jockstrap and nothing else that adorn so many of the walls. Maybe because he can easily bike there, thus giving early morning drivers a shocking image of a rabbit with a package more often seen on rams rolling between his thighs with every pedal. Maybe he's seen some particularly good looking men go in and out of it, and he's hungr-

no, no. No more just eating people. He's here to work out. He's here to do science, before finally figuring out how to let out his prey so he can get back to work tomorrow and let this be just... this.

He's wearing a backpack with the Assistants' gear in it out of a stubborn fear that someone will break into his home like the little golems did and find their affects. It also contains Ray's, Bullet's, and the wolf's clothing and gear. All of this automatically, without having to consciously think about the logistics of protecting himself.

He steps in and purchases a day pass from a yawning clerk. His climaxes have drained his energy stores and left him at barely five feet tall. Five feet jacked and looking ready to attend Olympic gymnastics training, but five feet, so he has to look up at the teenager. He doesn't register as a meal - more as a snack. Not much to gain.

I'm not here to eat.

He drops his collection of his new residents' gear by a wall and takes in his surroundings. Years on years of researching workout habits, but rarely tried them. He's alone, luckily, and he's pretty sure he's watched enough videos on form to do it right. He approaches a bench with a rack for chest presses.

Okay. Start with no plates, just to do the form. He sits down, leans back, adjusts himself on the bench - takes a moment to appreciate how high up his bulge protrudes in his shorts - and grips the 45-lb bar. Lifts it from the rack. Brings it to his chest. It feels like his mind is able to focus on every small neuromuscular junction. Different pectoral connections fire until he's in perfect position, and then triceps and pectorals surge, abdomen tightens for stability, shoulders likewise stabilize, and he exhales as he pushes the bar back up. It feels weightless.

Okay. Two 45-lb plates. He's cinched the clamps on and lain back down before he's aware of it. The bodymind wants to work. He repeats the motion from before - picks the bar up off the rack, lowers it to his chest, pushes it back up. This time, there's resistance, but 135 lbs is... still pretty easy. He pumps out four more reps just to test and re-racks the bar. His heart is racing. The new and old minds bicker with one another. Adding ninety more pounds? Absurd. He compromises to seventy, and lies back down. Bench-pressing 205 lbs - far more than he'd weigh without the Assistants on board - and not being concerned about not having a spotter. Lift, lower... there, the muscles actually have to work this time. He pushes up and exhales, lowers and inhales, up and exhales... it's automatic. Robotic. His body responds so smoothly, so cleanly, and his loins roil in response as he arouses himself. Four more reps, and he re-racks it again.

More.

He rapidly fastens two 25s to the bar. 255 lbs. More than he could squat two days ago, by at least half. He stares up. He feels himself grin. He feels around psychically for all those he's consumed. Do they know, somewhere, what they are, now? What they've made? He pulls down the bar to his chest and growls to himself. He's half-hard, with his bare cock crawling up his abdomen. The cold metal has warmed in his paws. He pushes up, away, with a low grunt. One more. Down to the chest, every fiber contributes to the motion... and up. He struggles just faintly to reach the peak of the movement before re-racking the bar, taking a deep breath, and sitting up. His cock is flopped over one thigh. He stares at it while he controls his breathing until it retreats back down into his sheath.

Fuck. He's a beast.

He wipes down his bench and meanders over to the powerlifting area and its rubber mats. Without thinking, he's prepped a bar to weigh 185 lbs and gotten an overhand grip. He lowers into a standard deadlift, knees bent, stance slightly wide, then straightens his legs. The weight fairly floats off the ground. He drops his center of gravity, fires the thigh and butt muscles his clade is known for, adjusts his wrists, and catches the weight at chest height, then stands up and lifts it over his head in a perfect clean.

"Fuck. Oh fuck." He lowers it carefully to chest, then hips, then ground to reset. He's trembling. Maybe that was too much...? Maybe he's just too excited. Hungrily, he slams on two pairs of 45-lb plates and secures them. Deadlift time. 365 lbs. He gets his grip. He plants his feet. The muscle fibers in his ass and quads burn, but it's a clean and beautiful burn, and the bar comes up off the ground to the level of his thighs, to rest pleasantly under his low-hanging nuts. He resets, adjusts his grip, and goes again. Then a third time, and a fourth, before he can feel himself trembling and ends up letting the bar drop the last inch to the ground. He's five feet tall and weighs no more than 160. He's lifting more than twice his weight like he's been doing it for years.

He hits the other, smaller muscle groups one at a time. Each time, he's no Hercules, but for someone at his size and training, he's godlike. He's curling sixty-pound barbells in ten-rep sets. He's doing hundred-pound flies in six-rep sets. He finds a squat rack and tears through hundreds of pounds of front and back squats before his legs tremble. In half an hour, he's lifted tens of thousands of pounds of volume and knows he's only exhausted from a lack of planning.

Panting, he snags his bag and heads to the showers. If he stays here too long, he might be seen, but he's _never_felt comfortable in public showers, so he may as well get half the experience. He's stripped nude in the locker room before even asking himself if he's alright with it. He groans and "relaxes" his nuts until they're back to the usual size of the Assistants. Something about that feels so incredibly right. His cock was begging for attention in the weight room, and now, it pumps out to half mast before he's grabbed a towel and walked into the showers.

The showers are in an open, tiled area with a six-inch step down as a splash guard and a few drains. Apparently, curtains are for the humble, and humility isn't for someone who paints sexy tiger men all over his gym. Xander shrugs and just turns on one of the shower heads to full heat. It drenches his throbbing musculature and he exhales triumphantly. He's never felt so good. Every muscle group burns one way or another. He flexes one pectoral and then the other to watch the slabs of muscle tighten and bob. He slides his paws down tight, fiery thighs. He hugs himself and feels his biceps and triceps and shoulders and pecs all bunch up and crowd the space in the most wonderful way.

And of course, exposed and confident and pumped as he is, that moster cock surges to full height and breadth. Sixteen inches of rabbit cock. He tries to ignore it. Given the way he cums, he knows he'd eat the clerk on the way out. But the way his heightened pulse and blood pressure from the workout make his veins flare beautifully across that broad, turgid flesh draws his fingers to it so tantalizingly... and there are drains here... and there's something else tugging at the back of his mind alongside each tangible throb of his heartbeat as it pulses through his virile organ, something he saw on a poster on his way in, but he can't, won't put his finger on it, and then he's lavishing his cockhead with his tongue and lips and urgently stroking both paws down it. Precum flows like a fountain. In moments, he's on his knees, crouched over himself and desperately jacking off with both paws. The steam from the shower partially masks him. Pleasure erupts through him, toes to ear tips. His mind goes blank.

--

"Oh, hey, someone left their backpack here."

"Hey, Jet, ya gotta swing that cock around?"

"Yeah kinda, with it this big and all."

"Pete's just butt-hurt 'cuz you weigh half what he does but you're packing double."

"Fuck you, Tucker!"

"Y'all smell that?"

"Can't smell a damn thing over Pete's bullshit."

"I smell it, Diego; that there's cum."

"That's semen, alright."

"Spooge."

"Puppy batter."

"Man-shake."

"A purging of potential Hitlers."

"Goddammit did Shane wear a cum-stained jock again?"

"Guys. Holy..."

"What is it, Yolk oh my god."

"What the..."

"Is this a prank?"

"Who is that?"

Xander flutters open his eyes where he lies, face up, in a pool of his own semen that's risen to the lip of the shallow well that constitutes the shower room and is slowly draining. His cock throbs, still turgid, bobbing slightly above his chest and muzzle, while he peers upside-down at half the local recreational league rugby team. His ankles are crossed such that his nuts rest between and atop his thighs. He lazily hugs his pillar of cock to himself like a pillow. He can't be more than four feet tall. "Gentlemen," he greets them with a smile.

The next hour is blurry. The hyper-aphrodisiac vapors rising out of his cum suffuse the air. He's treated to the beautiful sight of seven men approaching him, their feet splashing noisily in his gyzym, while growing rapidly erect. He rolls over and crawls towards the heaviest-hung one - a hybrid wolf of some kind with horns and a thick, muscular tail - and swallows his erecting cock to the hilt without effort despite the fact it's half as long as his torso. A pitbull who must have trouble getting through standard doorways kneels behind Xander, picks him up by his waist, dips his own purpling cock into the cum he's kneeling in, and crams the rabbit down on dog cock without ceremony.

He squeals in muffled pleasure. He's a sex object. His shoulders bulge as he clings to the brown wolf's hips. Each individual component of what is usually an indistinct ball of shoulder muscle is visible under his fur and makes them more like miniature mountains, crags and all. He snaps his fingers at an enormous panther who's as tall as yesterday's meals, but packed with muscle and with a far more confident stride. The panther drops to all fours in the literal pool of cum. Xander points at his cock where it protrudes between and behind the horned wolf's legs. The panther is instantly, lustfully obedient. He's blessed with several whole seconds to worship the monstrous rabbit cock with his tongue before Xander reaches between the wolf's muscular thighs to grab the cat's nape and cram his muzzle into his cock.

The lithe, rippling feline body is heavenly as it squirms inside him. He can make out each detail of the physique that he's soon to own - already owns. Another one of his prey - a chestnut-furred husky with hard roundness all through his body - lubricates himself in rabbit jizz and mounts the panther being consumed to start humping him into Xander's shaft. The rabbit lets out a muffled groan around wolf cock and stretches his jaws as he yanks at said wolf's hips to drive his knot into his jaws. The wolf smirks through a snarl, grabs the lop ears near their base, and rocks his hips with libidinal need. Another wolf and a jaguar, thus far left out, lower themselves next to Xander and begin fawning over him with lips and tongues and hands. They give his waxen body the attention and devotion it's worthy of while one of their teammates helps him consume another.

The pitbull finally cums. His enormous, powerlifter body, likely capable of lifting hundreds of pounds more than Xander can, would normally be in danger of crushing the rabbit's pelvis, but his hips meet ass and hamstrings like corded steel as he empties himself with a howl. This sends the horned wolf over the edge, and a shocking a mount of wolf cum fires directly down Xander's gullet while the rabbit's nose is mashed into his groin. The panther has slipped nearly entirely into the predator bun's cock, so that the opportunistic husky is now instead docked with that insatiable phallus to hump directly into it. One.

Xander detaches himself from the wolf, dismounts weirdly gracefully from the pitbull, and points a finger at the last person in the room - a blue-furred, lean baboon playing with himself in the corner. "Call the rest," he rasps. "Get your whole team in here. Tell them whatever you need to. Tell them to close the gym after they get here. They're mine."

He stutters briefly. Xander splashes towards him across the room, trailing his captured panther behind him, and flops his monstrous cock up against the taller man's chest while meeting his eyes. "Do it." His tone isn't angry. If anything, it's coaxing. Encouraging. Friendly. His body begins processing the big cat in his loins. He swells while the feline shrinks, and his foot stamps against the ground as the sensation surges through his body. He starts climaxing, which showers the baboon in gyzym, then turns and aims his spray at the rest of his worshippers.

There's so much more fun to be had. He saunters back to them, knocks the white wolf flat on his back, kneels over his well-endowed cock, and slides himself down onto it with the ease of an expert. Then, he beckons the husky over. The dog presents his needy cock at first, but Xander shakes his head. "Not thirsty. Hungry," he growls. He lifts the husky's foot up to his lips. His heart is hammering in his chest. This way, he's not sure he can let them go again. But he knows how drained he is. And everything in him is telling him he needs to finish this, needs to feel this. Before the thought is done, he finds his fingers already gripping the husky's nape to finish pushing his head inside his muzzle and down his throat and join the rest of him that had gladly stepped in while Xander tried to think. The muscular canine has been forced to kneel in his belly, then gradually curl up, but he doesn't resist. His muzzle vanishes behind the famished rabbit's jaws, there's a gulp to claim the last tip of his nose, and the shape of him instantly begins shrinking as power pours through Xander's system. Two.

It continues like this for half an hour. The pitbull stretches his cock marvelously with his bulky, barrel-like body, all while he power-bottoms for the tall white wolf. Three. He floods the room with cum again, grows again, pulls himself off the white wolf and stuffs his muzzle into his member, to start consuming him while he mounts the horned wolf again and gets the jaguar's cock in his mouth. Again, his body pulses larger, stronger, while gallons of semen spew across the room and another orgasm perfuses his body with ecstasy and hunger. Four. Once his muzzle is dripping with cat cum, he commands the jaguar to lie on his back and push his toes in, so the strength of Xander's erection can drag him inward across the pool of cum, inch by inch, and treat the horned wolf to the show. He takes extra pleasure, after watching the chest and shoulders stretch out his member, in gripping the once-predator's massive jaws and teeth in his hand and fingers to push him the last few inches down, before he's sucked through Xander's internals to his balls. Five. He floods the horned wolf's face and chest with his next climax, which triggers the man's second, and before Xander is even done cumming out the remains of the jaguar, he's pushing the canine's muzzle into his organ.

Six. The growth was and continues to be blissfully monstrous. Muscle layers on him like plates of armor. These were all ex college athletes or pros in an off season who just got together to throw around a ball and mud wrestle and call it rugby. They were all enormous. His pecs bloat by inches; his thighs swell like oaks in a time lapse; muscles he's forgotten the names of balloon over his body... but not a one like a Hulk or Mr. Hyde. Everything in perfect proportions. Everything without an ounce more body fat than what's needed. In the midst of the outpouring of gyzym that overflowed the showers and flooded into the locker room, he felt over individual striations made apparent by his growth. He traces the vasculature that spiderwebs across every muscle group. He's gone from a four-foot-nothing bundle of hard muscle to four-four, four-eight, five, steadily expanding as each form in his nutsack shrunk. Five-three, five-six, five-eight, ten... eleven... He reaches his hands down to coax the now-miniscule forms of his prey to fuse with his testicles and bulks up another two inches in height as their essence drains fully into him. The baboon returns to be greeted by slightly over six feet of godlike lapine physique, and is welcomed in by the last, gallon-sized splash of orgasm that remains of the wolf.

Xander approaches through the pool of his essence and asks, "They're on their way?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good boy." He casually hoists the baboon by his nape one-handed and yawns his maw wide. He'll need the calories for the next batch.

--

Another hour later, a seven-five, five hundred-fifty-pound rabbit (plus two half-ton testes, of course) that could have laid claim to a seat at Mount Olympus, dripping from a cold shower and sporting a sheath sized more appropriate to contain ten liters of whiskey than a person's phallus, walks out into the main room of Rocko's gym. He's completely nude and carries a few backpacks. His flanks are nearly white, cluttered as they are with tattoo-like symbols. He admires himself in the mirrors as he walks and strikes various poses. With each step, a few inches of height disappear and the pristine, stark vascularity crawling under his fur fades beneath protective fat, to be summoned again... whenever he wants. By the time he's at the desk, he's a diminutive powerhouse at around five-six, and his nuts are back to a size that would merely overfill a normal hand apiece. He takes a moment to get dressed - picks through all his new clothes - and turns to the guy. "Oh, I thought you closed. You're welcome for the view. Ah, checking out myself and the team."

"Th-the team?"

"Yeah." He plays with his massive bulge in a pair of bright purple athletic shorts. It looks SO nice. "Thirteen, I think? You can just check them all out."

"Oh. Okay."

"Keep this to yourself?" He flashes a grin. It's predatory. It's undeniable.

"Yes. Yes, sir, of course, sir."

"And get some sleep. Can't work out tired, y'know. Good man."

Xander walks outside, picks a car from among a few in the lot, stows his various packs and his bicycle, and drives home.

--

Xander safely pulls into a guest parking spot at the apartment complex, turns off the car, and puts on the parking break before he lets himself start shaking. Tremors rock his body to the point it challenges the sedan's shock absorbers. He contains so many. He counts them on his flanks with his fingers, gripping against perfectly defined serrati and obliques while he does to quell the shaking. One wolf delivery man. Two big cat neighbors. A fox... undetectable. Two Assistants, still curled up and dormant in his sac. A thirteen-man recreational rugby team. Well... eleven. Two of them were food. He's consumed nineteen individuals in two days. Not even two. It's not noon, yet.

For now, he leaves all his victims' assets in the car. He fumbles his keys as he opens his apartment door. His heel taps a tarantella on his welcome mat as he tries to get inside. The keys won't go. He feels himself panicking. Oh, oh, these are someone else's - there's a neon orange key fob, so it must be the horned wolf's. He'd seen a matching, sporty SUV at the gym. He checks his shorts, finds the right set of keys, and lets himself in.

He closes the door carefully behind him and locks it. He turns around to take in his apartment. There's a faint stain from where he'd hurried his clean-up of his climax from this morning. It stretches multiple feet across the floor.

"Did, um," he stutters. His mind is whirring. Nineteen. He has nineteen people inside him. He has all the most pristine parts of their physiques. He can summon hundreds of pounds of muscle and other tissues in an instant. "Did a-anyone else invade my h, home, w-while I was out?" His teeth chatter from his crashing nerves. He can barely talk. What is he?

"Yes," answers a voice from the hallway by his bedroom. "Didn't want to alarm you."

The nerves vanish. The predator takes over again. "Come out," he commands.

A snow-white ermine in blue jeans and a tight, black tee shirt steps around the corner as though dragged. His palms are up. His eyes are a deep shade of purple. There's something... wrong about the way his shirt fits him. He has a low tenor, perhaps high baritone voice. It's smooth and even. Placating though he looks, he fixes Xander with that alien gaze. "You've acquired some of my merchandise. One is leased to a very powerful customer of mine. The other is scheduled for delivery tomorrow morning."

"Who are you?" Xander fights the urge to grow. He doesn't want to scare this one away. He needs a pet to calm himself down, and this soft-furred, smooth-voiced man seems perfect.

"I'm ..." He utters a name and Xander immediately forgets it.

He wrinkles his nose as though he can smell the eldritch magic used. "I thought all of that kind of stuff was illegal."

"Some illegal, some impossible."

"Explain. And take your clothes off while you do."

"I assure you it's not as fine a cut of meat as you're accustomed to by now." He wasn't responding. Was the ermine immune to Xander's newfound domination? Xander strips his tank top off. It was the baboon's, he thinks.

The rabbit takes a few steps forward. Like this, he has to look up at the ermine, but there is something marvelous in feeling this much control from this far down. "Still. Explain."

That seems to break through. As though it was already on the tip of his tongue. "My Assistants were made using loopholes in The Disagreements in the Deep. They're not golems. They're uplifted animals."

"You gave an animal the spark of sapience."

"Two. I am extremely well-read." Cocky.

"That's why they can transmute and transform themselves and others."

"That's a smart bun."

Xander rips off the ermine's shirt with a casual, slashing motion of his hand. "Don't talk down to me, please."

"You are very short."

He snorts without looking away. "I'm very stressed. I just ate thirteen people and jizzed enough to fill a swimming pool." At the resistance he's meeting, the predator is getting angry and the Xander from before Friday night is getting scared. He's confused despite all the brainpower he has, and he doesn't like it.

"Yeah but have you fucked anyone in all this time? Or just jacked off and gotten lip service?" The ermine is smirking. He's smirking down at Xander. He's being used. Manipulated.

"Stop."

"I'll make you a deal." The ermine leans his head down and angles his long, flexible, mustelid neck to get on eye level with Xander. "You haven't fucked anyone during your entire orgiastic weekend. I haven't been fucked since I signed the Disagreements. And the way I see it, you owe me either eight thousand dollars for the use of my merchandise, or the humping of a lifetime."

Xander considers a one-liner before darting his head forward and engulfing the ermine's entire head in a single movement. The man struggles, but it's hopeless. Xander is unspeakably strong. He pins the taller man's arms to his sides and tugs him in inches at a time with greedy gulping sounds. He swells as he does. Dozens of pounds of muscle bulk out his form, along with inches of height that help him to gradually invert his prey. Weasels are known for their flexibility and dexterity, but Xander is an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Once his jaws have pinned the intruder's biceps to his sides, he more casually undoes the other man's belt and zipper to disrobe him. To his surprise, the ermine is rapidly, eagerly erect. Maybe Xander's pheromones activated without his realizing it.

He smiles around his meal. This will be fun. He lifts the weasel's feet off the ground just by arching his head back a bit and carries him over to his couch to be more comfortable. He strips nude, having to be careful to tug the now form-fitting shorts off, and fills his couch with his body. With a few, quick gulps and darting movements of his head, he brings the other man's erect cock up to his chin. His own member is lazily bloating down one thigh, but for now, he ignores it. Maybe he's being manipulated, here, but he can play his own games. Holding his prey still with his lips and tongue, he encircles the pleasantly thick - but still mundanely sized - cock with his fingers and begins stroking. The man is surprisingly virile to the point he begins seeping thick beads of precum almost immediately, which Xander uses to lubricate the path of his paw. His other hand goes back behind his head, casually. Through whatever magics let him warp his body to consume others, he's able to breathe, so he lets out a long, deep, hot sigh around the newest member of his body composite. It's a little disappointing he'll lose the chance to get answers, but he's hungry again, and the prospect of food is calming and stabilizing him.

He masturbates his prey with relative slowness while he takes enormous pleasure in the sounds issuing from his chest. Gradually, he begins tending to himself, as well. His thighs spread as he relaxes the compression to let the two Assistants he now uses as testes grow to their previous size. They roll about in his lap like normal nuts in anticipation of sex. His cock, he lets crawl rapidly to sixteen, twenty, twenty-four inches so it's near his chin, again with that sensation of reaching full erection and then compounding it. He tilts his head forward until he's able to close both hands around his member and his prey's. The weasel squirms and gasps with pleasure inside him. His cock throbs out another thick bead of precum, and Xander starts frotting him. God it would be nice to keep this one. Play with him.

But the hunger is, appropriately, all-consuming. As his stomach begins snarling for the meal it's being teased with, Xander amps up his movements. His paws squeeze the two wet, warm, squishing cocks together firmly as he pumps his hips in the frot. He has to struggle to keep back deep swallows that threaten to cut short his pleasure. The body half inside him suddenly goes tense and there's a groan of release. Cum shoots out to spatter and soak Xander's neck and chest. Again, he's surprised by the volume: more than the average human tablespoon by easily a factor of ten splatters and drips down his torso to trickle over his nuts. He can't hold back his hunger, anymore, so rather than try to, he simply yawns his jaws that much wider and stuffs his cock in alongside his meal, to rub it on his vanishing body. Once the feet are the only things outside his throat, he climaxes hard down his own throat and drenches his meal in his essence, gulping it down by the liter as the ermine is forced to curl up in his belly.

"Ahh... ahhhhh... sorry, I suppose. I feel like you brought this on yourself, though." He rubs his belly as the compression and digestion go to work, flooding his body with-

"Yeah, I should have seen it coming."

He freezes. His paw can still feel the bulge in his chest, but it's not shrinking. If anything, his abdominals simply swell to be able to plausibly conceal that he's eaten someone. "What?"

"As in, I thought this was probably one outcome," continues the muffled voice, "but had it at a low percentage. Just under your calling the cops."

"How...?"

"I'm no spring chicken, my man Xan. One doesn't invent tiny predators and train them not to kill people without substantial preparation. Not do both that and survive, anyway."

There's a struggling motion inside Xander's chest and abdomen. He feels a foreign pressure at the back of his throat before a muzzle pushes its way out of his jaws.

"So I was thinki-"

He grabs the muzzle in a hand and pushes it back down his throat. "You stay put in there," he grumbles. There is something infinitely pleasurable about what just happened. The second time the weasel tries it, he lets it happen just to push his muzzle and swallow hard again.

The ermine makes a frustrated sound and keeps talking, but Xander ignores him. He stands up. He feels at the one occupant in his chest, then the two in his nuts. The master and his pets, huh? And now they all belong to him. He makes coffee while the man chatters away inside him. He's not sure how his internals work, but once it's cooled, he asks, "Coffee?" The casualness is itself arousing. Not in the standard, sexual way, but something broader and deeper, something... primally possessive.

"Yes, black, thank you." Who is this guy? Xander yawns open his maw, and when the long, narrow, creamy white muzzle surfaces, offers the lip of the mug. There's a slurp, and then, "God you have shit taste in coffee."

Xander gulps hard and clicks his teeth, then heads out his back door to enjoy the sun and sip his coffee, while the man inside him rambles away.

--

"So, anyway, that's my entire, detailed backstory. Can I come out?"

Xander has just finished stripping off the hardwood flooring after having placed a call to get more. It's amazing how much one can do on one's own with enough planning and, well, cash does come in handy. It's been barely an effort, but it's still been an effort, and he feels like he deserves a reward.

He flexes his chest carefully and stretches open his jaws. As soon as the ermine's head pokes out, he snatches the man's nape in one hand. It's blessedly less like vomiting and more like un-stuffing a sleeping bag. He plants the ermine face down on his bed, keeping his hand in place, and climbs up on top of his hips. "I'm going to fuck you now," he declares.

"Oh thank the fucking skies, finally," the ermine grunts into the mattress before he groans at the feeling of one spit-lubricated digit penetrating his ass. Xander hasn't done this in years, himself, but he's seen and read enough porn to have an idea. His thumb twists about and makes circular movements while his groin responds. He adjusts his body so it's a massive, but not impossible, eight inch club of rabbit cock, decides it's been plenty of prep time, positions his hips, and slides his steely cock inside, watching as it spreads his new pet.

"O-oh fuh, fuck, ahhhh..." The ermine clenches hard, but gradually adjusts. He's fiercely tight, but it's so warm. Xander pulls back an inch, then pushes in two. "Aaaa~~~!" the ermine cries out, but at the same time, he backs his hips up to meet Xander's thrust.

"You have had a dry spell," Xander muses.

"Shut up. Shut up and fuck me, oh, god."

Xander's heard all he needs. He gets that perfect handle of the ermine's nape again, leans over him, and hauls backwards as he thrusts forward. The ermine yelps in pain and surprise as Xander's hips slam into his butt cheeks, with plenty of lapine lubrication easing the way. It feels heavenly. He hadn't realized he'd missed it. He'd wanted to fuck the twins and not gotten to, and the rugby team, he'd been too lost in the orgy to even think. This man - moderately athletic, but physique hardly matters with this level of enthusiasm - gives him a flaming, cathartic sense of relief.

"Deeper."

Xander only reacts. He lets his whole body expand. Now five-two, now five-four. He feels the increased length of each thrust and depth as he powers home. Nine inches? Ten?

"Oh, oh god, deeper. Bigger." The man's claws dig into Xander's sheets as he begs. "Fuck me."

The rabbit expands. Five-five, five-eight. He's so muscled that even inches shorter than the ermine, he feels so much bigger. He already feels massive. As his cock grows and gains more surface area and the space it's ravaging gets tighter, it's just more nerves tingling and shooting electricity through his body. His nuts slam like wrecking balls into the ermine's thighs with every thrust. His jaw hangs open. He needs this.

"Mmmm... mmmore, oh, fuck, I'm g-gonna, I'm gonna...!"

More than a foot of cock is buried to the hilt in the ermine when Xander feels his body seize around his member. The mustelid lets out a choking, exultant stutter - "dooking," but climactic - and sprays his seed across Xander's sheets in long, viscous spurts. Xander bites down as he's seen and now felt predators do to him, rams forward one more time, and lets his full weight down on his catch. He's barely aware of how big he's let himself get and only remembers when he feels the other man's ears twitching between his pecs. Worried he'll suffocate the guy, he rolls over onto his back but doesn't relinquish his double-seatbelt grip over his chest for a single second. He can_see_ the outline of his cock bulging out the ermine's belly - at least, until it softens in the larger bloat of cups of rabbit cum filling up his insides.

The smaller man pants out more mustelid sounds between grinning laughter as Xander finishes out his climax. "Ah, a-hah, oh fuck, yes, ah, you, see, we both needed tha-mmff."

Xander unceremoniously silences his prey by again engulfing his head in his jaws. He gradually slides his cock - a few inches at a time, carefully, perhaps four inches here, another four there, another four... - out of his new cock sleeve, and graces it with a healthy last pulse of rabbit gyzym to glaze his long belly and spent loins. Gradually, he swallows the ermine down, down, down, to push his feet in with his hand once again and click his teeth shut.

"You might not understand the situation," he rumbles casually while he pets the warm bundle inside him, "although you should now."

The only answer is a shudder Xander presumes is one of comprehension. Why wouldn't it be? He has the ermine now. That means at any time, he can get the information he needs and let his collected prey go free. So there's no need to rush.

Over the afternoon and into early evening, Xander lets the ermine out and fucks him again eight times, sometimes a few times in a row. Any time he wants relief - which is nearly always, as his body remains flooded with hormones from his gorging this morning - he summons the other man from wherever he's stored, finds a surface in his home that hasn't been used, yet, and goes to town. Every wall, the kitchen counter, the shower, the couch, outside in his tiny backyard in the grass, on the floor, simply standing and supporting the weasel on his hips while he fucks him and fills him. Again and again and again, and his new toy's stamina seems infinite. He can take a foot and a half of Xander's cock. He can withstand the earthquake forces of his hips. Maybe some of that was revealed in that long, meandering backstory - it doesn't matter. By evening, Xander feels actually exhausted when he slumps against his couch with the ermine practically glued to his lap, both of them drenched in sweat, saliva, and semen.

"What... time is it?" asks the ermine.

"About seven in the evening. Why?"

"Mmm. I asked my cleaner to come by at 7:07."

Xander freezes "... your what?"

"Well, 'cleaner' is a bit of a stretch, but." He shrugs. "Anyway, decision time for you, and think fast, because the guy coming could be volatile. Haven't seen him since the signing."

Xander breathes out a dangerous growl. "Talk fast."

"You can be an Assistant or you can be on zero-strike probation for the rest of your life."

"What do you mean?"

"I chatted with Witness and Listens both before I got here and once you swallowed me. We can put all your Humpty Dumpties back together again, but you'll owe what I'll call a debt of mass for... well, depends on how efficient your body is after we empty you out. I mean it'll hardly suck - you'll learn to be a gym rat! You'll probably look pretty damn hot. Not a fraction as hot as you are now, though.

"There are options, too. We can send you on jobs to collect... debtors. Villains." Again, he shrugs. "I'm sure you've told yourself a lot of lies, but what you've done, big guy," he says as he crawls his fingers up the collage of tattoos along Xander's body, "isn't morally distinct from murder if you don't know how to undo it. And I ain't gettin' the cops involved. So, we can turn you into a little, musclebound servant with about ten percent of the willpower you're used to, or you can agree to the terms."

There's a knock at the door. It comes from higher up than it should. A deep, male voice like a bronze bell calls a name through the door that Xander instantly forgets.

The ermine meets Xander's eyes with his violet ones one more time and gives him a teasing, faux-affectionate squeeze with his rear end. "Come in, Forty. The doorknob's jammed; just force it."

There's a crack and a crash as a muscle-bound, nearly eight-foot-tall grey wolf* stumbles in. He looks at the shattered doorknob in his hand, then at the bound pair on the couch. "Ah. You're still a fucker in every single fucking way, aren't you."

The ermine twitches his whiskers in an unreadable response. Xander thinks he's insulted, but isn't sure. "Tried and true."

"Could've at least told me you had work for me." The wolf delicately strips off a bedsheet he'd fashioned into a draping tee shirt. His arms and legs are coated with fifteen wooden bracelets that clatter as he moves.

Xander tries to react. His predator mind is screaming that he just needs to ingest this one, too, and it will solve everything. He meets the wolf's eyes and orders him, "Get in me."

To his own surprise, Forty lurches forward. He steps closer, his gaze fixed on Xander's as though hypnotized. He has to duck so as not to brush the ceiling with his ears, and has to kneel to get his face near the predator bun's. Xander yawns open his maw, heart throbbing. So much meat.

"No."

Forty's teeth part and Xander finds himself clambering inside as the ermine dismounts. The lights go out.

*Read "Some Vore Porn With a Muscle-Wolf for context!

--

Monday afternoon. "Xander? My office."

Raided and Weathered, the business otter,* does not usually personally summon employees. In fact, Xander (the predator bun) isn't technically his employee. Nonetheless, the rabbit fairly bounces out of his seat to trot after him.

Raided doesn't say anything as they walk through the halls to an elevator lobby. He doesn't look at Xander. He would be unreadable to anyone else. Xander understands that he's fuming, though. Raided has been given orders he doesn't understand that follow a hierarchy he's not privy to, because of a purchase whose arrangements he had presumed were private. He's rightfully furious. An awkward elevator ride becomes an awkward buzzing in at a huge corner office becomes an awkward wait for Raided to make a brief phone call on an internal line.

In Raided's office, his Assistant, Witness, is watching Xander from the corner like a sentinel statue. It's back in its business suit. Weirdly, it seems smaller, even though its height is the same. Xander knows why. His ears burn bright red against his shoulders. Presently, an ermine (without a memorable name) and an emaciated grey wolf (wearing fifteen shitty, wooden bracelets) stand up from comfortable, leather chairs.

"Raided, earmuffs," the ermine without a memorable name says.

"Fuck you."

"I gave you that chance a month ago - you blew it. Earmuffs."

The otter rolls his eyes and dons a thick pair of black earmuffs as he sits down at his desk.

The ermine fixes Xander with his gaze. "You can't fool an Assistant whose name is Witness, especially not on day one. Where're your neighbors?"

Xander swallows. "I didn't take anything from them this time, I just got... I got hungry. I got horny. I don't know how to deal with the urges."

"You have got to learn, and real fuckin' fast. We agreed on a zero-strike policy."

"They're fine! They're fine, I swear - I'll let them out after lunch? I just... saw them out for their morning run, and they looked so... they looked so..." He had hunted them down one at a time, fucked them, and swallowed them again before he had realized what he was doing.

"Pants off. You are walking a thin line. The more you do this, the less likely they are to pass it off as a weird dream."

Xander obediently doffs his pants. Raided's ears go bright red and he stares even more furiously at his computer screen. Testicles the size of prize avocados roll out of Xander's briefs under a pleasantly fat pouch of a sheath. The ermine had insisted he get to keep his enhanced assets as a sign of good faith. The ermine was, of course, inherently deceptive. The ermine strides forward and feels up both testes to find the feline shapes within. Xander shivers. He knows, if he wanted, he could just grab the man's wrist and pull him in...

"Still intact."

"I t-told you." He bites down on his teeth to keep them from chattering. He's so hungry.

"Hey. Up here." He looks up in the ermine's eyes. "You'll do this. Take the good. You're fitter than you've ever been in your life. You're more aware. You're hot as hell (I like the short stature - nice choice). You can give people experiences no one else can. Well, except Forty here, but as we all know, he's out of the game for a bit."

The stick-thin wolf shrugs, making his twelve bracelets clatter. Xander's ears pull back as he remembers why there are three fewer. "Checks and balances," Forty grunts enigmatically.

"Aaaaaaanyway..." the ermine drawls, "someone probably needs to make sure you stick to your word, and I'll bet you're just famished." Forty rolls his eyes. Xander's balls roil.

*read "They're Perfect for Size Play ..." for context!

--

"So the salesman just left," Raided states as he escorts Xander back to his office.

"Mhm," Xander lies. He jolts as his chest and belly writhe.

"What was that?"

"Mmm. Noth- glp- nothing, sir. Gas."

"Mmmmhm."