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Dart

Water on.

Cold.

Steam rises as frigid shower water splashes across his fur. Heat swims through him, through his blood, his brain. It's good heat, It's good burn, but there's so much of it, because his meal tonight was monstrous.

Dartagnan, AKA Dart, rubs his hands over his face and presses his muzzle through the fingers as though parting reeds. They catch on the sabretooth man's eponymous teeth, briefly, then rub his aching jaws. He smiles. He'd enjoyed his meal - played with him for what had felt like an hour, after the hour of lovemaking. His fingers drift their way down his body and pause again over his pectorals. He flexes them experimentally. They throb under his broad, feline paws. Each one fills each hand with firm muscle, and each throb spreads his fingers fractionally as his body works through his meal.

That rat had earned the title 'gym rat,' that was for sure. Presently, he twitches in Dartagnan's torso in his sleep while he's steadily diminished. Muscle, libido, and mass transfer ounce by ounce into the predator's frame. Dart lets his paws fall to the shrinking, round bulge of rodent inside him. He licks his lips, still gathering the taste of his own jizz that had glazed the rat as he'd gone down. He growls, a low, reverberating sound that rattles the small shower. "Mine," he whispers.

His paws drop further down to a pair of nuts the size of softballs. They churn at the touch, but once they settle, he grunts to feel them swelling, as well. The rat isn't going to contribute much in the cock department, but rats have a reputation, and given how much cum Dart still had matting down his fur despite the water, it was one they earned.

He finishes his exploration of self with his ass and thighs. Again - taut, burning, and growing tangibly under his fingers. Always more of him.

The tiger peers through the steam to find the rat's shampoo and soap. After several minutes of scrubbing, his growth has ceased and the rat is a barely noticeable bulge, not quite visible behind a wall of hard-cut abdominal muscles. Dart rinses himself off and steps out, then rubs clear a spot on his prey's bathroom mirror to check himself out.

Six-ten, up from six-eight earlier this evening. He dries himself off with a few towels and steps out back into dinner's bedroom.

The rat will be fine, of course. Dart always takes the precautions - besides, losing a fuck like that rat would be a loss the whole world would feel. But he will be a bit... less. Whereas Dart will be a bit... more. As it should be.

He pulls back on his jeans, hiding away (and painfully compressing) his newly enlarged assets. Then, finding his black muscle tee can't possibly fit anymore, he simply shrugs, gathers his backpack, and heads outside to walk home, baring his ever bigger, ever more powerful body, for the world to witness.

Karat

On hands and knees, Karat finished gasping out the last ecstatic moans of orgasm and squeezing the final ropes of cum from his cock. The fennec fox with fur like burnished gold fired one final shot that spattered against the bushes, nearly revealing his location. He coughed out a laugh when he felt another twitch of lizard tail under his own tail. "Oh, fuck. Oh, you fit... perfectly," he purred under his breath. He staggered to his feet and on straightening up, clenched his perfectly shaped glutes together to suck the last half a foot of lizard boy - inch by treasured, squirming inch - inside him for good.

Beyond the hedge they'd found to play in, a pop-up brew garden in the clothing-optional district of town was buzzing with activity. Dozens of stalls featured hundreds of domestic and international ales to ward off the gentle chill of spring, and the crowds being what they were, inhibitions were down.

Fuck, lizard tongues were made for rim jobs, and those smooth bodies just begged to go the rest of the way in. Karat located his satchel and retrieved some dry shampoo and cologne to help clean off the cum and mask the scent of it - as though it could really be made out over the heady, yeasty, sour scents permeating the air. His meal had been tipsy and eager and had fucked Karat till he was spilling over.

Karat's belly twitched and he giggled despite himself. Always felt nice, as they settled in for the ride, and he was sure the guy was surprised to find that not only was there room, but also company - he was number three for the afternoon. Karat's slender body compressed its occupants to a fraction their original size, so the four-foot-four twink at most looked like he was a bit bloated from overindulging at the event. Which, of course, was technically true.

He positively glowed. He reveled in the attention given his slim, yet plush frame, his thick layer of fur rich and luxurious to spread fingers and noses through. And he loved feeling the moment as some big dick plowed him with their big dick, bent to his quiet request they clean him up a bit, and then thrashed as his hips claimed them.

Be humble, boys, he thought, practically purring to himself as he scanned the crowd for another. It felt so good to walk around like this, none the wiser for what he carried. Already, his arousal was peeking out of his modest sheath. He caught the eyes of a naga who was pouring something rich and dark down his throat, licked his lips, and 'shyly' sauntered towards his next target. It never got old.

Rath

Rath blinked blearily to himself. What time was it... six in the morning? Ah, fuck. He never woke at six except with a screaming hangover headache. The anthropomorphic hare grimaced and braced himself up on his elbows.

Heavy.

What... oh. He looked down at his chest, which had pectorals bloated out far enough that he practically had to peer over them to see his navel. His hazy gaze rolled over to his biceps. Cannonballs fit to tear the masts off ships. That wasn't normal; he'd been pudgy and soft last night...

And where was he? He squinted and looked at a bedside table. There was a picture there of two pine marten boys - well, men - laughing about some stupid inside joke. One with a bandana, another with a pair of purple studs piercing his right ear. Cute couple, for sure.

Something inside his ball sack moved. It was like the normal rolling of a testicle, but more like a stretch, and he swore he felt blunted claws on the inside surface. He looked sharply down, and finally the previous evening fought its way past the opaque fog of hangover.

Rath's nuts were draped over both his thighs and both his knees. A grin broke across his face and the hare chuckled to himself, then winced as it made his teeth ache. God, the morning amnesia could be awful some days. Each nut had the vague outline of an anthro shape inside it, complemented by the bump of a tail. He took in the state of the bed. Absolutely - completely - darkened, through and through, with gyzym, some of which still pooled in spots. Burgundy covers over gold sheets that would need a miracle to recover.

Hey. They'd asked if it was true about hares and fucking, and he'd answered. They just probably hadn't anticipated this one's particular mode of staying that virile.

Rath took some effort to swing his feet over the edge of the bed, then barely kept himself from toppling forward from the weight of two small bodies inside his loins. He heard a muffled groan, but mustelids tended to like hammocks, so Rath stood, exulting quietly in the power of well-fed thighs holding up his new tenants, and let them swing for a bit. They rolled, unaware, and settled back down. The sensation started summoning the only part of him that hadn't grown from its holster: a sheath like a two-liter soda bottle housing the cock that got pictured next to "hyper" in fetish dictionaries.

Fully nude, Rath yawned and stretched, letting his mind caress the new extent of his body. He loved the self-assessment, the mindful awareness of a changed form. He stumbled a bit as he tried to arrange his nuts to best accommodate walking, but eventually got them back behind his legs to swing pendulously from back thigh to back thigh as he made his way out of the couple's bedroom.

It was a cute, small, two-story house. Wooden stairs complained under his tripled bulk as he descended them. Scores of picture frames featuring family members hung on the walls, chronicling the couple's time together and history. There was one of those tiny organs peeking out from around a corner from the foyer where the stairs landed. Rath vaguely remembered one of them showing off on it from the night before, about a bottle of champagne apiece into their bacchanalia.

He at last found the kitchen and that gift from the divine: a coffeepot. The ritual of fixing a pot of coffee let his mind settle a bit. He loved this part. Loved being in someone else's house "alone." Knowing he commanded whether and when they came or went. Using their things as though they were his. The sense of absolute dominion that came with not just overpowering or convincing or persuading, but engulfing, containing, owning. And when he let himself admit it? Protecting and providing for. He relived the moments of pushing each of them into his cock the night before - one muzzle-first, one feet-first, and wetly kissing both into himself before claiming them. His cock rose to toast the memory. It crawled up to flop on the kitchen counter, its feet of length mindlessly eager to fuck, to consume - unceasing in its ravenous lust.

There was a twinge of bitterness to it. It was rare that someone wanted to repeat the experience, once they were made aware of what had happened. He usually let booze or drugs do the work for him: lowered judgment, inhibitions, and etc. And on waking, people would be released, gasp for breath, scream things at him, and worst, never call. So, he'd taken to assuming everything was one-night stands, because the other option was to simply bide the insatiable drives, whatever caused them, within, and Rath was an unapologetic hedonist. He could experience a form of pleasure rarely found, and he'd be damned before he'd eschew such a thing.

He went to a windowed sliding door out to the couple's back porch to check himself out in the reflection. Fuck but he was hot like this. Broad, lean bulk that was hard in all the right places and round in all the right places. Always made him want to just... he growled low to himself, barely able to set aside the hunger... to just keep someone, since having them in him let him look this way. He sighed. But, besides its being murder, that pretty quickly got you put on magic cops' hit lists, and that wasn't the type of arrest that made it to the evening news.

Rath was abruptly pulled out of his reverie when he caught sight of an elderly Afghan hound staring slack-jawed at him. He smiled and waved cheerily, hundred-pound nuts and all, then turned to the coffeemaker and left, to give her some small mercy.

"Y'all take your coffee black?" he asked out loud while he pulled down their coffee mugs and braced himself for the response.

There was a yawn, muffled by the layer of fur and flesh, and he felt that sensation of stretching in his sac again. A long pause, some shifting.

From his right nut: "Oh." That was a new response. It was usually a gasp and yelling. Another, longer pause, and then, "I do. He takes it white, though."

From his left: "I do not."

"Just pour a cup of milk."

"Don't pour a cup of milk."

"Milk and whipped cream."

"Do not pour me a cup of milk and whipped cream but there is whipped cream in the fridge and I would like some thank you."

Rath's fur stood out all over his body as confused adrenaline fired through him. He, uh. He couldn't really process this.

He poured three mugs of coffee and retrieved the whipped cream while they bickered inside him.

Huh.

... he smiled.

It was a real goofy smile.