Poutine Coon
A trusting raccoon is abducted, raped, tortured, and cooked by a sadistic college fraternity.
-a dark story containing torture and cooking snuff, as comissioned for Din Fleetpaw -written by Charn -all rights reserved, copyright 2011
The pudgy raccoon was having the best day of his life. He had finished his report on the leading economic duress of the European nations during the black plague, to standing ovation. He had found a five dollar bill just laying on the ground, by his car, which he had used to buy a strawberry cheesecake milkshake at the Zaxby's just by the college commons, and he was on his way to tutor Blake in remedial algebra.
Blake, in case you didn't know it, was just the hottest damn predator in the senior class. Smooth talking, sharp fanged, and smoldery-eyed, Din couldn't even look at the hungry fellow without feeling his knees buckle a little inside. He didn't think the big guy even knew he existed, either, until last week. He had been munching on his veggie burger on a park bench, minding his own business, watching the extreme frisbee players tackle and dry hump each other, when he had felt the bench creak as more weight was added to it. He glanced over, expecting his friend Jack the fox to be sitting down like he normally did, but instead of the slender little fox, he found a leather shrouded cougar.
"B-Blake!" He nearly threw his sandwich at the feline, so surprised was he. "Um, hi!"
Blake coolly scoured the grassy commons, arms folding over the back of the chair with that sensuous creaking that only leather can give. "Yup. Hey."
Din quickly wrapped up his sandwich, carefully folding the saran wrap over the soft wet bread, then tucking it into his backpack. "Hey! Uh, I didn't even think you knew me, um, uh, so, what's up?"
Blake lifted one side of his upper lip, sneering softly. "I need a favor." the tube tail that had threaded itself between the bench slats gave a lazy twitch through the air. "I need you to do my math homework for me."
"Do your - well, I mean, I - "
"Come by the frat on Wednesday, after class. Make sure you have a nice lunch. We're gonna be..." He reached up, pushing his beret up off of his brow, over his ears. "..studying, for a long time."
"Oh." Din knew that helping the predator cheat at his studies was wrong, immoral, and potentially illegal. He was going to say so, too, but the predator made eye contact with him, his eyes so dark and, well, Powerful! It halted his protests before they could even make it to his throat, and the raccoon just nodded. He pulled his pack up, into his lap to hide the embarrassing tent he was making there, as the cougar stretched out into a tail twitching standing position. He made a show of picking at his teeth, with one long, slender claw.
"Oh, and Jack sends his regards. He's the one who recommended you." And then the cougar walked away, all lean power and hungry suspense. Din let out a soft, happy sigh as he watched the feline wander over to his truck, and then with a squeal, he pulled his phone out of his blazer.
[OMG U told blake 2 talk 2 me!!1]
Din giggled, waiting for Jack to respond. The fox was even more of a tech freak than he was, and he was sure he didn't have long to wait.
Apparently he did, though, because Jack didn't respond. Not to that text, or to the one after that, or to the one he sent during dinner, or to the one he sent when he woke up the next morning. His parents must have cut the service, Jack did tend to ring up exorbitant bills, after all.
The rest of the week had been a blur, and now it was Wednesday, and Din was driving over to the frat. It was called a frat, but the only person in the fraternity that went to the college, that Din knew about anyways, was Blake. Supposedly there were others that went to another local college, the DuFry's Technical Institute, but Din had never met any of them. He was kind of excited to, all those blue collar predator types always made his heart flutter so!
He slurped the last of his milk shake out of the bottom of his cup as he pulled into the driveway. It was a long driveway, and was just Filled with cars, on both sides, all the way down to the house. He pulled in all the way up to the front porch of the fraternity. There were a couple dobermans lazing in wicker chairs, passing a bottle of jack back and forth between them. Din slipped out of the car, clutching his pack to his chest. Oh, this place was wrong, deliciously wrong. This was the kind of place that plump raccoons like him would disappear from, or be raped, or be indoctrinated into some far left liberal religious cult. He chittered to himself, that sort of thing only happened in stories though.
He stepped into the porch, making sure to make his car beep. The comfort of knowing his car doors were locked, was offset by the sight of a familiar looking truck rolling in behind him. Crap, and with that long driveway, and it all blocked in with other cars, now he was going to have to ask Blake to move his truck when he was done! How embarrassing. He stood on the porch, the two dobermen ignoring him behind. Just passing, gulping, passing back. Din could smell the pungent liquor, and their breath, hanging in the sticky summer air.
The truck door slammed, and Blake scowled as he walked up to the porch, scowling at the raccoon's car as he passed by it.
"Nice car," he replied, walking past the raccoon without even saying hi, just opening the screen door to the frat house and standing, waiting for Din. After a moment of stalling, the coon bustled himself into the house, brushing past the cougar on his way in. Blake smelled nice, like cedar and cinnamon.
The inside of the frat house was a mess. There was pizza boxes everywhere, discarded paper glasses, beer cans and bottles, and the smell of stale male... expulsions.
"Hey, dudes," Blake dryly called out. "Brought some fresh meat. Come n get it!"
Just like that, there were males in the house. They came down from the upstairs, peeking over the balcony from the loft. They dribbled out from the backrooms, wearing nothing but boxers and nicely tightened muscle shirts. They came from the side room, pulling their pants up and stuffing erections back into them, and they came from the outside. Two drunk dobermans who locked the door behind him.
"Oh, my. Um." Din swallowed, his tail frizzing full out behind him, and he nervously scooped it up, as if to hide behind it. Brushing and worrying with the fur as he eyes up all the hungry, lean, rough looking predators. "Am I supposed to do All of your homework?"
"Not quite," chuckled Blake. "Now remember guys, if it gets too crazy, -again- and the authorities get called... this little feller was here consensually, and this is all part of the hazing."
"But, but I'm not trying to join your fraternity!" Din's voice had edged up in pitch, almost a squeek by the time he finished.
"And yet, here you are. First step for potential hazers? No personal property." The dobermans lurched, grabbing at the raccoon, and he squealed! And ran, leaving them with his backpack, trying to burst his way through the circle of half naked predators that had gathered around him. Claws snagged at his shirt, hauling him back into the middle, and all at once they set upon him! He couldn't escape, as tiger, wolf, weasel and shark all grabbed and tore, ripping at his sleek and stylish polo shirt, his khaki shorts, even his boxers. They stripped and ripped until the raccoon was naked, cowering and covering his modesty with his paws.
"Very good. Jake, Ryan, make sure to get into an accident with this, later," Blake tossed the two dobermen the raccoon's keys.
"No! Don't hurt it, it's my parents!"
"All the more reason it's not recognizable when they find it, hmm?"
Din tried to twist free of the predators who still, even naked, held him, as the dobermen laughed and pocketed his car keys. Things were NOT turning out that well! He hung his head, he knew that in any hostage situation you had to play along to prevent escalation.
"Okay, fine, you have my car, you have my notes, my lap top, you have my wallet. Now what are you going to do?"
The cougar answered with a smile, shrugging out of his leather jacket. And then his own sweat stained t-shirt. And then his pants.
"Well, we're going to have a little fun, first. Right guys?"
Din glanced around. Yeah, apparently the other guys agreed. Those that weren't already boned up, were shucking their jeans and shorts and boxers, rubbing themselves up, and staring at him with growling bellies.
It was going to be a long night.
The raccoon was sore, bruised, enflamed, and bleeding in a few spots when he finally left the living room. He did not walk out, no, that was not really a possibility. The raccoon had been unconscious for almost an hour by that point, the sheer exhaustion having over whelmed the poor pudgy bandit. So the last two rounds, on either end, went completely unnoticed by the bedraggled procyon.
Two of the frats dragged him out to the kitchen, just to the side of the front door, and left him there, sprawled out on the cool linoleum floor. Blearily he opened an eye, unfocused as he stared around the unfamiliar room. It was hot in there, and apparently they had roasted a pig - there was something dark brown and crackly on the sink, trussed up with it's arms and legs tucked behind it. There was something dark in it's muzzle, wedging and forcing it open, and Din realized with a start that this was no suckling pig. This was a canine, of some sort. Not a wolf, but certainly a dog, a dog with a short, narrow snout and with... with longer back legs than front ones. It was... it was another furry!
Jack's phone blooped and bleeped from the trash can. Normally you wouldn't be able to tell, definitively, if one person's phone is theirs or another, but as far as Din knew, nobody else in the world had custom hacked the song "2" by the band Black Ravens, as their ringtone. The sound of it was muffled under whatever garbage had been piled on top of it, but it was definitely that song. That roasted... furry on the counter... was Jack. They had cooked Jack! The raccoon's poor mind snapped, and he sank down into darkness again.
He woke up in a cool, dark place. His arms ached, behind him, his wrist sore from his weight pushing it against the stone wall behind him. He shook his head, his brain aching in refusal of the action. It was sore. His lips were sore, too, and he could taste blood from where he had bit one. They were puffy. He sat up, wishing he could wipe at the crust that had congealed on them, and looked down at himself. His beautiful pelt was crusted down, long streaks and ribbons of salt having soaked in and dried out like glue, leaving 'signatures' on his belly, chest, his thighs. His ass felt like it was on fire, tender and puffy.
Where was he? He shuffled slightly, still sitting down, and looked up at his wrists. They were manacled, old school, to the walls. The thick metal loops look like they had been built in with the walls. His feet were untethered, sprawled out in front of him. The only light in the room came from a squat, flat, rectangular window. There was a dull blue light streaming down through it, leaving a pale, almost silvery shape on the floot at his feet. It was just enough to let him look around the dank, dark, underground room he was in. He was in a basement, somewhere, and he was alone.
At least, he hoped he was. As terrifying as being trapped in a basement in the dark was, the idea of someone else sitting in the darkness, watching him, waiting was even more terrifying.
"Hello? Hello, anyone there?" he called out, softly. There was no reply.
He sobbed, a little, for himself, then. How had he gotten into such a mess? How was he going to get out? Poor, poor, pudgy little raccoon.
Then he smelled something. Something... what was the smell. It was so foreign, in the situation, that he had no idea what to think of it. It was like smelling cigarette smoke in a dentist's office. He sniff-sniff-sniffed, twisting his head back and forth in the air. It was an entrancing smell, a delicious smell. He realized all of a sudden that, despite having been pumped full of bear, cheetah, and serval jizz, his belly was growlingly hungry. He nosed upwards, and found a.. dangling tube. It was plastic, and the tip of it was wet. He lapped at it, once, twice, the end of it releasing a thick, glutinous syrup against his tongue. It was extremely sweet, like molasses cut with melted popsicle.
But it was delicious, too. He tried to slurp on the tube, but the end of it had a little metal ball on it. He realized, with a flush in his ears, that it was a hampster bottle. Like, a pet hampster. He had to lick at it, over and over again, to get anything tasty from it. Which he did. It was a way to while away the time, after all, licking and lapping and occasionally trying to pry the ball free with his teeth. Every time though, it would slide back up, and he would have to coax it back out again.
Then the light came on, and the raccoon tried to curl up in a ball as he heard footsteps coming down creaky wooden stairs. He could see the yellow light from the upstairs, where ever that was, streaming down around a dark sillhouette. He could hear noises coming down from the upstairs, too, the sounds of platewear clattering, people talking, the sound of silverware scraping together. They were eating. Were they eating Jack? Was he still in the frat house?
The figure approached, and knelt down at the coon's trembling meaty feetpaws. "Now now, we're not cooking ya tonight. That honor goes to your friend." It was Blake, of course, the cougar smiling almost paternally down to the trembling raccoon.
"Cook me!" Din couldn't reach down to hide the swelling in his sheath, that was surely caused by his fear at the situation. "I mean! No! Don't cook me! Please!"
"Oh, silly raccoon, your fate's been set since you picked that five dollar bill off of the pavement.
Din's mind reeled. "What do you mean, five dollar bill?" But he had a feeling he already knew.
"You know the predation laws. No meat can be harvested unless they are duly compensated, and come willingly to the place of preparation." The cougar turned away, rummaging around. A squeak of metal heard, and then the sound of fluid spattering. Din strained, but couldn't see. He felt it though, as the cold water arched through the air, splattering against his soft belly. It was worse than cold, it was frigid!
The raccoon squealed as he was hosed down, the cougar coming back closer, garden hose in paw. "But but I didn't know you wanted to cook me!"
"That's not what your texts to your buddy Jack say. According to them, you and him signed a pact to go through it together." Blake moved the water over his chest, shoulders, dousing and soaking the poor raccoon.
"They'll know you forged that!" Din wailed, sputtering as he got splashed across the snout. He tried to twist away from the inescapable shower, but the cougar was nothing if not thorough.
"Unfortunately, you'll not be around to tell them. And we have video of you picking up the five dollars. And the contract you signed." He grinned, then walked away, the squeaking metal signifying the end of the terrible bath. Din sighed. He felt like a drowned rat, his fur a limp, pooling half of sogginess.
"Now, the next two days are gonna be hard for you, but I imagine you can handle it." He paused, then let out a low chuckle. "Maybe handle isn't the right word." He knelt down in the pool of water collected around the bound raccoon, and in his hand shone a wickedly long barber's straight edge. "Sorry, forgot to bring down the shaving cream. Unforgivable, I know." The blade went down, towards the trembling belly, and then flicked! A smooth swatch of coon flesh bared, as it smoothly carved through the wet pelt. He flicked it again, sending the soggy fur on the blade off to the side. Splap, went the wet fur on the ground.
It dug down again, and then again, each time smoothly shearing another blob or patch of grayish fur from the shivering raccoon. On the one hand, the cougar seemed to be taking care not to do more then bare the raccoon's flesh to the air. On the other hand, he also seemed to be enjoying teasing the soft, vulnerable, pudgy flesh with each long, slow, dangerous scrape.
"Oh yes, you'll marbelize nicely, mm hmm... now let's get those chubby legs of yours up in the air, shall we?" And he did so, the naked sides and belly of the raccoon gleaming in the dim light. The cougar hitched those legs over his shoulders, as if he were to have the quasimustelid impaled on his stiff spike. That had already happened though, several times before, and Din whimpered more at the idea of that, then at the systematic denuding of his lovely fur!
Fortunately, though, the raccoon's tender backside was not to be degraded yet again. No, there was not even the kiss of naked cougar-shaft against the debauched coon portal. Just the slow, unyielding caress of that razor. It slid easily along that smooth, snug buttcheek, and then along the other. And then back. The cougar smiled down into his tender treat held up with one arm, as he bared that bottom to the basement's cool air. He leaned down, as if to give Din a smooch or a kiss... and instead, licked up the side of one soft-furred cheek.
Din shuddered, knowing exactly that that lick was for. A Taste test. "Delicious," purred the feline. "I believe that you will go well with .... " he smacks his lips, and Din's heart pounded. A portabello chianti glaze? A saffron infused alfredo sauce? A tabasco soaked tamarind chutney? Oh gods, what would this culinary God edict as his glaze? What? What???
".. French fries."
The look of shock on Din's face could only be matched by the feel of the razor sliding slowly up between his thighs, slowly scraping the fuzz there one inch at a time.
"I... I want to go home."
"It's too late for that, little morsel" purred the cougar.
"No, No, you had your fun. This is, this is depraved. Let me go. I demand it!"
"Meat doesn't get to demand anything," his captor replied, and pressed the blade against the side of the raccon's rampant little erection.
"Eep." Din went quiet then.
"Much better. I suppose you thought you'd be fricassied all fancy style, hmm? With turnip sprouts and creamed brule and-"
"It's CREME brule! And you can't even eat turnip sprouts! They're poisonous unless you-" Din couldn't hold back, spouting out his frustration.
"That's enough. You're -my- dinner, so if I want to cook you like a country fried chicken, I will. If I wanna toss you in the microwave with a bag of frozen veggies, I will! You don't get to protest, cuz you're just meat." The cougar spat that last word out with a hint of smug pride, before bringing the blade to the prey's throat. Scritch, scritch, scritch. The blade had been dulled with so much fur to scrape off, and the raccoon's body was starting to have that after-shave burn, the skin reddening at the aggravation, and the exposure to the air. Din lifted his chin, meekly, closing his eyes and waiting for the slice that he knew was going to happen.
Only it didn't happen. Instead, the blade kept it's soft little scratching, cleaning away the fuzz on his cheek, on his chin, on the sides of his snout. It digged suggestively against his eyelids, scraping slowly across them. Din waited for the soft piece of metal through flesh, but all he saw were the lazy white and green stripes and stars of the pressure against his retina. It finally tapped against his brow, and slid up over it. And then through his scalp. Long brown hairs slid loose, as the raccoon's naked pate was exposed. Slow slides, scrapes, and finally the raccoon was bald. Completely bald.
The next splash of hose water was significantly colder feeling than the first.
Din spent the night, now completely naked, his body shivering as it dried itself from the second rinsing it had received. The sucrose feeder kept him from getting too hungry, though after he had licked and lapped at it for another hour or so, his mouth began to cramp up again. He sighed, his belly grumbling, unhappy with the liquid 'diet' he was on, and that grumbling was his only company. There was the sound of music, upstairs, and the occasional thump and clatter of a chair or something being slid around, knocked over. Shouting, muffled and unintelligible. At one point, he heard the so-distant wailing of his car alarm, and the crunching of glass under... well, was it a bat? It had been a dull, flat crunching sound, like he imagined a bat would make against glass. If it had been a crowbar or tire iron or something, he imagined it would have been a sharper, tighter sound. In any case, he could kiss the idea of driving out of here good bye.
The next morning he was visited by one of the other frat brothers. It was a fox, gray pelted, sour faced, with a lone piercing in it's left ear.
"Breakfast time!" he called off cheerfully, and put a dinnertray table over the raccoon's supine lap. Then, oddly, he tied off Din's legs, using smooth, stretchable tubing to bind down the prisoner's ankles. It was awfully tight, and Din mentioned as such, but the fox snickered and ignored him. He pulled the battered silver cap off of the dinner tray, revealing a styrofoam plate filled with... french fries. French fries slathered in gravy and, by the smell of it, processed american cheese spread. The pungent, almost plasticy smell of the cheese was more insulting to the raccoon than anything else yet bestowed upon him, and the fox grinned and stabbed a couple of the french fries with a fork.
"Aw, come on now, here comes the air plane! Zzzzrrrrrrm!" the fox swooped the forkfull of processed potato starch back and forth, before smearing the gravy against the raccoon's lips. Din sneered, and turned his head the other way to avoid it.
"You know you want to eat this, doncha? Gotta keep up your strength for more fucking!" the fox tried again, the frenchfries smushed and broken, and again Din twisted his head to avoid them.
"Don't want your numnums, huh? Well, that's okay. You know how I tied up your legs, nice and tight? That was actually for a reason. It's a little thing we like to call a turn-ket, and-"
"Tourniquet," the raccoon corrected.
The fox stared at him, beady black eyes narrowing. "... TURNKET, and we're just gonna leave it on until you finish eating." He grinned, then, and reached back to give the raccoon's littlest pudgy toe a pinch. "Can you feel that?"
The brave little raccoon stuck out his chin. "... No... but it could be... the onset of type two diabetese."
The fox moved to the next toe up. "And this one?" He grinned.
The raccoon's lip quavered. "I... oh, are those french fries? Can I have some?"
"Good boy..."
The airplane made several successful stops, that morning, each of them in Din's mouth. To be honest, the gravy, while being rather salty, didn't taste that bad, and it was a welcome reprieve from what had to be soda syrup in the hamster bottle. Some of the landings weren't all that successful, too, and Din's hairless snout was soon besmackled with blobs of coagulated yellow and gray. Drips and droops of it had fallen onto his belly, too, and chest.
This was probably because, while the plate full of food had emptied, the raccoon's feeling in his feet had turned to numbness, which had then turned to sharp, painful pins and needles. As he tried to pull the last of the french fries from the fork, the fox stood up, leaving the plastic utensil dangling from his mouth.
"That should be enough time."
Din sighed with relief, until he saw his feet. They were... black. And normally they weren't black. But they looked puffy and swollen. He wiggled his toes. They didn't wiggle back at him.
"I think.. I think my feet are hurt!"
"Naw. They're dead, is all, but that's okay. Haven't been dead long enough to affect the flavor, -too- much." The fox came back, a bonesaw in hand. "Now normally you're supposed to do all sorts of fancy shmancy preparation n stuff, like anusthessa and stuff like that, but" He shrugs, "It's not like I have a doctor's license. And it's not like it matters if you don't make it. We got a nice, big freezer to keep you in. So, I mean, -you- should try to stay alive, m'kay? But if you don't, no big deal."
The hacksaw rested on the dainty ankle of the raccoon. He tensed up, expecting the first sharp scrape of the metal, but then the fox laughed, and pulled it away.
"Just kidding." Din's eyes widened. "Had you fooled, didn't I? Yeah, that always gets them. Everyone knows, always cut the LEFT leg first. Makes the right one easier, later."
SCRP! SCRP! SCRP!
Din really wished he had been given some anesthesia, or a bullet to bite on, or a hammer to hit himself in the head with. Apparently, though, he thought pissily to himself, that was something they do in -fancy- restaurants. He closed his eyes, trying not to wail too loudly as the vulpine carved off his feet, one bit at a time. He felt the last shred of his flesh connected to them rip under the tension, rather then cutting, as the dead, severed weight was pulled free. He knew they were gone, but he didn't want to look. When he heard the fox giggling, though, he had to.
The fox, who had never really revealed his name, was holding Din's severed feet on either side of his snout, like the kid from Home Alone. Din had hated that movie, mostly because the kid was unreasonably super powered. The burglars -should- have gotten him, which Din was pretty sure most of the audience would have been fine with. Now he hated that fox, just as much.
"PBBBBBBBT!" The fox made a raspberry between the two soles of the feet, and then waved one of them goodbye. "See ya later, Meat! I bet you can guess what's for lunch!" and cackling, he ran up the stairs. Din stared dejectedly at his legs, which now ended in smooth, tied off little stumps, rather than, well, feet. He mentally crossed walking out of the house off the list of things he could do. An hour later, when they came back for his hands, he crossed climbing out of the basement window off of his list, as well.
They were nice enough to change the flavor of the syrup in the water bottle, though, which Din, in his traumatized stupor, took great relish in playing with.
He was interrupted at some point by one of the fraternity members. Din remembered him only as 'Barbie', though he wasn't quite sure why. It was a cheetah, small in stature, kind of ratlike really. He seemed shifty, eyeing around the basement as he pulled his pants down and climbed on top of the raccoon.
Din couldn't exactly have fought off the cat if he had wanted to, with the lack of hands and feet, and being tied down and everything. He expected excruciating pain, after what they had done to him back there when he first arrived, but the cat was almost... gentle? as he eased himself into that soft naked rump.
"Hey, man. I brought you something." He whispered in the groggy Din's ear. He heard a thump of something on the table, and opened his eyes. It was his phone. He gasped.
"Yeah, we can just pretend that it fell out of my pocket. I just hate seeing ya all laid up like this. Here, I can even call someone, if you want.."
The cat's hips bounced and slid, the reason why he was coined 'Barbie' resurfacing. Those little flesh daggers scraped and digged at his poor flesh as the raccoon nodded, grunting with the sensation of the feline's meat pressing insistently against, inside, through him.
"Yes, yes, um, call... call my friend Jack... oh, no, wait... call my dad... oh, wait, no... Ummm..." It was hard to think, with the cheetah starting to jack hammer inside him. What, what was the number, there was a number he always called, UNF, when he needed help with something, but what was it?? "try, nng, a little to the left, I mean, Um, try Speed dial," pant pant, "try speed dial eight... yeah... eight?"
"Speed dial eight? Okay, if you say so." The cheetah giggled behind him, slapping his boney hips against those cute, tight butt cheeks, as he pressed a few buttons and then hit the green send button. The phone rang, as the cheetah slowed himself down, pacing himself in the raccoon's rear.
There was a click, and the cheetah hilted, pausing, the moment pregnant with anticipation. This was Din's most likely last chance to escape, he had to think of the right words to say.
"Hola! Como estas?" came the voice on the other end of the line.
Como estas! Din didn't know any italians! He sputtered for a bit, trying to think back to highschool french.
"Como? Como como?"
"Uh! Uhm, Hi, Um, I need help... I'm tied up and I'm missing my feet and they-"
"Está usted un mapache sucio?" The raccoon had no idea what they were saying, but they were asking a question. He dug deep, pulling out every last bit of French he could muster.
"Oui, um, Je suis, um, un..." and the cheetah hilted inside of him. It made the raccoon see stars, again, though this was much more pleasant than with the straight razor. "JE SUIS UN SANDWICH!" The other side of the phone crackled with static, and simultaneously, the raccoon heard an uproar of laughter upstairs.
"Silly coon, did you really think we'd let you call out? Nice try, love how you tried to speed dial "Rick's Pizza Express" for your last call. Don't worry, though, I'm sure you'll have your fill of 'carry out' soon enough!" Modern cell phones don't have 'clicks' to signify when someone hangs up, so Din wasn't quite sure if the evil Blake was really done or not. Barbie was, though, and he extricated himself from the raccoon's posterior. Din was sobbing, of course, because not only did he not get to phone out and arrange an escape for himself, but he realized now that he was never, Ever going to have Rick's super deluxe Shiny Supreme pizza again. It was a hard moment for the poor hairless procyon.
An hour or so later, he was treated with more real food. Not french fries, this time, though. Blake himself brought down a styrofoam plate. Din had been left on his belly, the whole time, face down on the little table he had been put on, and someone had been nice enough to prop up his butt, so that his little coonie stiffie could get the air it needed. A few of the fratboys had been nice enough to keep him company, too. Vigorous, thrusting company. The coon was sure that his guts were leaking, and with his rump lifted up in the air, like it was, none of it could even dribble out.
Blake sat down in front of the table, smiling to the racoon.
"Are you ready for your big meal? Your, you might say, last meal?"
Din blinked at the cougar, licking at the salty crust his tears had left on his upper lip.
"Is it spaghetti?"
"... No." The cougar lifted the other styrofoam plate away from the top, baring the meal inside. It was a hand! A hand curled around an... apple. A Shiny, Red, Apple.
"It's a Macintosh," the raccoon murmured, sniffing softly. So shiny, so round and perfect. And big!
"It's an apple," the cougar corrected. He picked it up and put it aside, out of the raccoon's biting range. Then he slapped the raccoon, right in the face, for being such an impudent whelp. "Whew, that feels better. I've been wanting to do that all day. Now. You eat your meal, and you'll get a nice, juicy desert, how does that sound? And then we'll pull you out of this dingy dungeon and get you ready for company."
Company? Company! Maybe Din could convince one of them to save him, someone that wasn't a total freak like these frat guys were! They didn't even use proper plates, for crying out loud! He nodded, and opened his mouth, as the cougar reached to the crispy, breaded hand, and peeled one of the curled fingers off of it. Ripped, really, the bones popping, juicy grease drooling from the marrow. It was still warm, steaming, and Din's stomach lurched at how delicious it smelled.
Blake turned the finger inwards, and tap-tap-tapped it against his tongue, tickling it's way in. He let it rest there, and pulled his fingers out, and Din went about softly sucking and chewing on the crunchy flesh.
He kind of knew that it was wrong to be doing this, chewing on someone's finger like this. Whoever's it was, had probably lost it just like he had his. He shuddered, thinking it could even be his friend Jack's. But he suckled, pulling at the flesh, teeth scraping and throat working to get each little greasy bit of flesh free. Then spitting out the bone.
The cougar chuckled, "Tasty, isn't it?" and pulled free another finger, feeding it to him like some bizarre chicken wing. The raccoon dug into it with gusto, tugging at the perfectly fried meat. Not dried out, not raw in the middle. It was very good. But it was also from a sentient being's! Which means it couldn't be tasty, even if it WAS tasty.
The cougar slapped the raccoon again, growling. "I said, Tasty, isn't it!"
Din didn't know if it would be better to tell the truth, or to lie. "It's, okay?"
"Okay, huh? Maybe you just didn't get enough of a taste of it!" the cougar growled, grabbing the raccoon by the skull and pulling upwards. Din yelped in surprise and pain, but before he could even finish the yelp, the hot, crispy palm of that deep fried hand had been settled down onto his tongue, bulging his cheeks out with it's breaded goodness..
And it was good. As terrible as the idea of what he was doing disgusted him, the raccoon had to admit that it was Delicious. He mmmphs and mrrrmed, eyes closing, sucking and chewing on the soft, greasy, juicy flesh of the hand. The cougar made sure to tuck those fingers in, too, well most of them, until only one dainty thumb stuck out of his mouth. It wiggled back and forth as the raccoon chewed and ate, the cougar finally standing up. He picked the red apple from the table, casually rolling it from one palm to the other. And back again. And forth again. And back. Din watched that apple as it rolled from hand to hand, and struggled to chew and break and swallow that mouthful of fried meat down.
He had gotten almost all of it down, too, when the cat put a wrench in his plans. "You know, I'm surprised. I don't think I've ever seen Anyone look so happy to eat their own hand. You don't even seem phased by it. You must have really been jonesing to get cooked up, huh?"
Din whimpered, glancing from the apple to the cougar to the apple again. It was... it was HIS hand? But it was so... delicious! Tangy and lightly seasoned. He looked up to the cougar, who continued to sneer down at him, standing over him.
"Good boy, I'm glad you are so obedient, so willing to please. Now I know you have not finished your little... snack... yet, but I have a nice, delicious treat for you here. Uh uh, don't look there, look at me." The raccoon glanced back up, blushing around his mouthful as he tried to break and swallow down more of his own deep fried hand, trying desperately not to think about what he was doing, and where he was.
"There we go. Look at me, not the apple." The cougar leaned down, a thumb prying between the trash bandit's jaws, pushing them open. There was mashed... meat laying on his tongue, bones sticking against his cheeks, but the cougar ignored them. That big, succulent, hard, crisp apple pushed in, still cool from the refrigerator, pushing against Din's tongue. Pushing it down. Bulging out his cheeks, as the feline used his thumbs to sheath and lock it into the captive cripple's maw. He waited until he saw tears of strain begin to trickle from the coon's eyes, before those fingers slid down, caressing under that fur-less jaw. And pulled up.
-Crshkt!-
"There you go, aren't you a purty little thing... no, don't try to speak." he tapped the leaking nose, the raccoon's mouth perfectly sealed with the fresh fruit, his own sharp teeth embedded into the Big Macintosh's juicy flesh. There was a soft, whimpering sound, almost inaudible, but the cougar's ears flicked forward, hearing that soft hum of despair.
"Now you're ready for company. Almost. Just have to prep you a little bit more."
The cougar knelt down, and began untie the raccoon's arms, legs, and waist. He scooped up the little fella, lifting the dirty, jizz crusted, fur-less procyon up into his strong, warm arms. "Oh, feels like you've gained a bit of weight," he chuckled down to his bundle, eyes narrowing. "Good. You'll need it."
The trip up the stairs was slow, arduous, and with each step, Din's heartbeat picked up a little faster. He could hear people talking, casually, and the sounds of things thumping and clattering. He was brought up into a room he hadn't seen before. A dining room, by the looks of it, though the table, if you could call it that, was currently being occupied by shirtless, smoking dudes playing a game of poker. One of them, a kangaroo that looked like he had sat on his balls one too many times, cussed as he lost his round, and leaned back in his chair. The wolf sitting next to him leaned closer, and thudded his fist into the roo's crotch. That explained the face, at least. He was apparently a bad poker player. The table itself was missing a leg, and was scuffed, chipped, and water-stained. Is this where Din's last moments on Earth would take place? On a dirty, cheaply made table, surrounded by uncaring hooligans? He couldn't speak, of course, not with that sweet sapped apple in his mouth, but he begged with his eyes to the poker players. Had any of them any shred of decency? Of remorse?
The wolf actually returned his gaze, staring at him as he was carted into the next room over. He said nothing, just leaned back against his cheap folding chair, and rubbed his belly, in a lazy circle. Winked, too, at the poor raccoon, before he rounded the corner.
The next room over turned out to be the kitchen. There was not much to it, really - a refrigerator standing along on one side of the room, a rusty sink, and what was apparently a custom made oven on the opposite wall. There was something that looked like a garbage can suspended over a couple propane torches, too, and Din surmised that that was how the hand... err, hands, and feet must have been fried. He glanced to the oven. It was a custom made affair, he could tell, bigger than anything you would find in a normal household. Nearly eight feet wide, but only three feet tall. There was something else that was wrong with it, too. The inside seemed too smooth, as if it was missing something. Din didn't really have enough time to think about it, the cougar flopped him over onto a plywood counter, the fabricated wood rough, and marred with the occasional notch where a blade chopped through previous victims just a bit too far. It was stained a dark, almost blackish brown, presumably by those same victims. It bowed under his weight, now, and he scrabbled for the the far edge of it to pull himself forward. Nerves, Exposed nerves, screamed at him as he rubbed his decapitated arms against the rough, dirty particle board.
Warm, rough scaled fingers grabbed his naked ass, and a burst of laughter broke out from above the coon. He craned his head, whimpering through his apple gag at the sight of the chubby, thick shouldered orc.
"Look dis one, guys, he's CERTIFIED!"
Oh god, they had found his tattoo. Din closed his eyes in shame, and resignation, as a wolf and a badger stumbled over, stinking of cheap, sourmash whiskey. They chortled, pointing, tracing the simple, black lined tattoo on the raccoon's left buttcheek.
"You... is... da? Prime?" The wolf rubbed at his chin. "I don't get it. You is da prime, so what?"
"Naw man, don't you get it?" the badger growled, grabbing that ripe coon butt and stroking either cheek in his thick, stubby fingers. His claws scraped welts into the raccoon's ass. "It's saying he's USDA Prime. As in, like, Prime Beef, Certified! LIke Angus!"
"Oh, Angus, I remember him, he WAS Tasty!"
"Yeah, awesome! Hey you guys mind if I take a turn with him? I didn't get the chance to yesterday, since I was out taking care of that fox's brother n stuff."
"Sure man, go ahead, what's a little more cream stuffing? We gotta wait for the oven to turn on, anyways," said the wolf, sauntering from the room. The badger grinned and positioned himself behind the raccoon, pushing his grungy boxers down to his knees. "This is gonna be great, I- Hey!"
The orc, who had stood by as the two mammals had deliberated over the raccoon's butt and the implications of the markings upon it, had come back into the scene, pushing the badger aside with a simple slam of his hips into the weaseloid's side.
"Me first, you wait turn," he belched, and lined that thick, greasy, slimy green cock up, just as the badger had been. Din's rear was by no means snug and sheathy anymore, no, that had been expunged from him, permanently, about two days ago, with the help of the fifteen or so other fraternity members. That said, it still wasn't easy for the orc to grind this thick green sausage into that hot, slippery butthole. Din whimpered into the applegag, jaws clenching, but the thick flesh pushed against his gums after his teeth sank the rest of the way into him. It felt as hard and solid as a jawbreaker in his mouth.
He felt the orc slide into him, into a handicapped, defenseless, fur-less raccoon. He waggled his stumped arms at the big brute, and felt his stomach twitch as the orc's hardon only thickened inside him. "Yeah, kick those legs," he heard the brute mutter.
"Love it when they squirm," he added a few strokes later. Din felt like he was going to have his meal pushed back out through his mouth. It was so big, so uncaring, just using him like a fucking cocksock. The badger, impatiently, was pacing back and forth behind the orc.
"Come on, man, I want my turn before he's shoved in the oven!"
"You can fuck yerself!" said the orc, grunting, drip dropping to splat and splah on the raccoon's back, pooling along the crevasse along his spine. "Dis worth taking time for!"
Maybe not for Din, though. That thick plunging was ripping apart his insides, that fat rolling pin tugging his guts out, then cramming them in, the raccoon nearly prolapsing with each heavy stroke.
"Fuck you, Diesel, you got five minutes or I'm tossing your nuts in the fire!"
Maybe the badger knew it would have that effect, or maybe it was a fortunate coincidence, but the orc roared at that. Shoved himself deep, the raccoon feeling - feeling- something inside him yield and tear. And then the stinging gushes, spilling into him, unending, heated splashes that burned his tender, bruised innards.
The badger elbowed the orc in the gut, the thick, half-softened sledge popping out, raw slime spilling after it. The badger slammed himself back home before the preytoy could lose any more of his fluids, cramming it in with his shorter, but thicker, prong.
"Yeah," he chirred, in a low, bassy voice. His fingers slid up the din's back, sort of like a caress, but occasionally gripping the soft, pudgy flesh, giving it a firm squeeze. "Yeah, I know you love it. Gonna marinade you in my juices, little meal, and then we're gonna pop you in the oven." He snickered, reaching under the raccoon's spread legs, as he popped his thick erection lazily in and out of the raccoon's torn, ruptured softstar. Grabbing those fat coonie nuts, giving them a firm squeeze. "So if you don't want to be cooked in the next ten minutes, you better try to make me last."
Din tried to scream through his gag. Not only had his ass been butchered to beyond usability, meaning he couldn't do anything to try and keep the badger from cumming, but his soft coonballs were super sensitive, swollen and sore from the three days he had been being abused. Yes, before he had even come to the frat, he had been teasing himeslf, fantasizing about, well, simpler things. Maybe an invite out to eat at a nice restaurant, or some foodplay, even some biting play. Nothing like this. His nuts screamed in the badger's thick, calloused paw, and he couldn't reach down to push them away, or kick, or bite, or anything. He was completely helpless.
Which the badger really seemed to enjoy. "Ooooh, yeah, you like being plugged up, doncha, little faggot meal?" Those fingers squeezed harder, grinding his nuggets together, and the raccoon clenched and tried to wiggle away more. Which just made him wiggle on the badger's dick, all the more. "Maybe I'll let you keep ONE of your nuts, if you wiggle for me REAL good. Who knows, maybe the other one will insulate it, you know? And then maybe your family could find it.. do something with it, get a baby out of their useless son." He snickers, digging his claw firmly into the side of the soft skinned scrotum. Dug it in, deep, and hard, and Din was sure he nearly popped his own teeth out of their socket as he shouted into the apple.
"Come on, big kay, the oven's lit. Finish up with the little fuck and throw him in, Jersey Shore is almost on!"
Big K ignored his fratmate, slam-popping that fat dick into the little raccoon's ass. "Just a little more wiggling, you little piece of meat, show me how bad you want this, Unh, unh, Yeeeeeaaaaaaaayyyyyyy..."
The badger's sperm was just as hot as the orc's, only the flesh inside him had been ruined a lot more, more inflamed, angrier at the intrusion. He was filled, again, and if he had fingers, he would have rubbed at his belly to feel if it was bulging.
There was no fight left in the pathetic little rodent, what was left of him, when the badger pulled out. So there was nothing to fight against the cougar, now naked, when he came back into the kitchen to claim the rodent.
"Well, my little friend, we've had our fun, mmm? Yes, I think we have." He lifted the soggy Din up from the chopping board, and carried him over to a the open door of the oven. Din could feel the cougar's erection against his butt as he carried him, and he realized with a small amount of shame that he was dripping... orc and badger fluids from his rump. Probably getting it on the feline's dick, or feet.
"Are you ready to be made into a nice, delicious meal for me any my friends? I..." The cougar paused, standing upright. Din could feel the tension build in his arms.
"Hey, Diesel, you hear something? Like, outside? Go check it out, yeah?"
The orc, maybe picking up on something in Blake's voice, shuffled from side to side. Din blinked back tears, his face uncontrollably facing the oven, the walls, floor, and roof of which was glowing a bright, neon red. It was singing his delicate nose, burning his eyes, so he kept them close.
"Just do it, Diesel. That's an order."
"I, Fine, okay, I'll do it, but-HOLY-"
There was a loud crash. Shouting. "THIS IS A RAID! PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!"
Footsteps, more shouting. Blake hurriedly hefted the raccoon up onto the door of the oven, which singed against his nipples, his soft belly. No! No! Din was so close! A raid meant he would be saved! Maybe they had tracked his cell phone! He heard the thumpthumpthump of footsteps as they stormed through the living room, and managed to turn his head, cheek burning on the oven door, to see who was coming through the room.
It was a police officer! Err... he blinked again. Well, it wasn't police, but it was someone wearing a security uniform. And, err... holding two cases of Milwaukee's Best.
"DUDE! I totally HAD YOU!" said the police officer.
Blake laughed, a strained laugh, and regrabbed the raccoon's hips, lifting him up onto the over door. "Yeah, you got me. I admit it. I thought my ass was toast!" He turned back to Din, and slowly pushed him down along the door. "But I guess Yours is, huh little buddy. Can't wait to sink my fangs into it!" With a slow, deliberate heave, the raccoon was slid into the oven, rolling over onto his back and then again onto his belly as he was pushed and shoved into the long, coffin like appliance.
The heat baked into him from all sides. He thought the floor of the oven, which was red hot, visually, would be hotter to the touch, but it was as hot above as it was below. It felt like he was in the sun, the plasmic radiation scorching and sinking into him from all sides, soaking through his flesh and into his bones. He was in a toaster, it felt like, or he Was the toaster, his skeleton getting hotter, seeming to be cooking his flesh from the inside out.
Din wiggled in the oven, unseasoned and alone, as the rest of the fraternity cracked open the beers and sat down for a night of Snookie and the Situation. It would take about as long as the episode for the meal to finish cooking, and they had quite a few beers to plow through on the way. That didn't help him, though, as he roiled and wiggled in the unrelenting heat.
Slowly, carefully, he curled up into a ball. That didn't seem to help, though, as he was so hot it just made him more nauseous. He rolled over, onto his knees, crouching down. His rump up in the air, his naked, whip like tail, so slender and ratlike without all that fur on it, flapping back and forth in the air. He rested his arms underneath his chest, spreading his legs a bit, his heavy, bruised balls seeming to boil in their own juices. Seem to? They more likely than not Were.
The poor raccoon rested his chin on his forearms, as distantly he heard whoops and hollars from the next room over. They were enjoying their show, paying no heed to the slow death of their tormented captive, only a dozen feet away. It was the furthest thought from their minds. There was a timer, after all, to tell them when it was done cooking. With that thought, one one last, sad sigh, the raccoon ceased being Din, and started being Dinner.
The kangaroo laughed and shook his head as the commercials played through, "Oh man, I love that crazy bitch that does the insurance commercials. She's so fucking whack."
He glanced over to Blake, who was staring moodily at the wall. "Hey, man, that your cell phone going off?"
The cougar glanced down to the buzzing contraption in his left hand. "Uh, yeah."
"You gonna answer it?"
"Naw. It's the food alarm." Blake stood up, stiffly, and left the room, heading towards the kitchen.
"Dudes! Hear that? Food's about ready!"
"Ah, awesome," said the skunk in the corner. "That fox was okay, but college kids seem to be getting stringier and stringier these days."
"Blame Michelle Obama, she's the one trying to force 'healthy food' and exercise down the public's throat," threw out the orc in the opposite corner. "It's just a fact of life, unfortunately."
There was a collective grunt of disapproval for the former first lady's policies, as they all stood up and shuffled, some drunkenly, out to get their grub.
Blake hadn't had to do much to prepare the food after it had been taken from the oven. The coon was in a fine position, as if he had been offering his rump up for an invisible lover when he had, ah, stopped moving. There was a glaze trickling out, down along his taint and over the sumptuously steaming ball-sack. He was sure the badger would claim that, he always did. Weirdo.
In fact, the next five minutes would probably destroy the pleasantly browned, crispy masterpiece of jury rigged cooking set before him. Then there was a flurry of hungry, grasping fingers, plastic knives and forks digging and prying chunks of perfectly cooked procyon meat from steaming bones, an orgy of hungry predators feasting on their fallen meal.
They retreated with their plates of greasy steaming freshly cooked meat, to the living room, leaving a hacked, broken apart skeleton. The only part that hadn't been touched, oddly enough, was the meat's skull area. The cougar remained, staring at it for a while, before reaching down to pry the now-soft, baked, brown skinned apple from the gaping maw. He wandered back into the living room to join his brethren, slurping at the roasted juices that drooled from the baked apple. It was, all in all, a good meal, and he couldn't imagine a better group of people to share it with.