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Title's not witty. Anyway, contains: butt growth, watersports, semi-NC and grossness, among other things, although those are the most likely to offend. It's pretty short (13 pages) and to the point; just threw it together really quick tonight for my bf, randomly. No proof-reading or anything, so probably a fair number of typos. I might expand it to ~25 pages; could be a pretty decent fapstory. But as is, everything happens pretty quick and a lot get glossed over. A couple of things I might have otherwise done got skipped altogether. So if you like the general theme and subject material of this, keep an eye out for the expanded version. Oh, there's also some 4th wall/meta stuff in here just to entertain myself, so if that's going to ruin it for you, don't bother.
Originally posted for my FA, where people are, of course, more familiar with these characters, so their descriptions were pretty sketchy. If you're not familiar with the characters, here are some visual references:
http://www.furaffinity.net/view/8319028/
http://www.furaffinity.net/view/8890177/
And if you wanna buy a commission, I'm cheaper than the usual lot. Bare in mind that below is basically a truncated, rough-draft version of the sort of thing I usually do. Hit me up on FA at http://www.furaffinity.net/user/woofwoofwoof
It's not like they were dripping with glow sticks or something, but it was obvious that these two were headed for a party - from the looks of it, the sort of party where they might stand out a bit precisely because their pants aren't adorned with fifteen+ pockets and/or straps that seem to serve no purpose other than to get caught on door knobs or get torn off in the washing machine. No faux-indie rock band buttons, no faux-Indian necklaces, no t-shirts with the big, red 'A' in the circle. The mink would have none of that, anyway.
"Bunch of idiots. The people who wear that shit are like the kids who carry around a copy of - abridged, and they probably don't even know it - Atlas Shrugged or Nietzsche around with 'em: You know, people who think that sort of garbage qualifies as philosophy. I don't think many people actually know what 'anarchy' means, and if they think that it has something to do with freedom, then they're either idiots who haven't thought it through or who have a really twisted idea of what the fuck 'freedom' is supposed to be." It was one of his quasi-catch-all derogatories that he wheeled out, from time to time, in conversations which involved anything he thought he could make a case for calling pseudointellectual. Which was a pretty large variety of things (of course, this is the 'somebody mentioned Ron Paul' variation); a bit of a snob, he is. But you wouldn't make that inference by the way he's dressed.
"I'm pretty sure it's pronounced 'nee-ET-shee.' Isn't he the guy who killed all those Jews?" The mink's company tonight, more specifically his boyfriend, had certainly heard the line, or something very close to it, at least once or twice before, so he didn't pay it much mind. In his typical fashion of being utterly disinterested in serious conversation (not that the mink was necessarily looking for one), he just decides to heckle the dude a bit; although, again, they were too familiar with each other for the mink to be bothered by it.
Oh right, about how these guys are dressed, tonight: so you've got a mink and a chipmunk, and they currently comprise fifty percent of the population of the subway car. There's some rat and some cat chick sitting next to each other across the coach, but otherwise, it's completely empty as a couple of other people spill out of it onto the platform, so at least they have a sort of ersatz privacy. Which is something that you'd probably want, if you were wearing what these fags are (sure, it was already mentioned that they were boyfriends, but you wouldn't need that to realize it, given what they were cavorting around in).
First, the mustelid. It's not that he needs any gussying up; he's already about as pretty as boys can come. Svelte, taut body, lissom arms, a feminine, epicene face framed in long, wavy hair: snowy, dense fur that looks like half-melted vanilla ice cream bathes him from head to toe to tail-tip. His eyes are even purple. But it looks like that wherever they're headed, it's expected that they try to show off a bit; what they plan on trying to get out of that is anybody's guess, but the brown, paper bag tucked between them insinuates that it might have something to do with people's judgment being impaired. What his excuse for going with the mid-rift, fishnet top and the spray-painted-on-so-tight-his-ball-cleft-can-be-made-out-leather pants (and damn, those are some balls; it looks like he's stowing away two grapefruits between his thighs) is, however, up in the air. But the thong - a really stringy one, with the little bows and everything, and pink to boot - makes sense; if you had an ass like that, you'd have a damn hard time finding men's underwear, too. It's the sort of butt you wouldn't ever expect to see outside of the perimeter of Compton; and it's a butt you'd actually be willing to step foot into Compton for, even. It leaves him looking just a little bit out of balance, yes, but when you get a look at it, it tends to inspire tunnel vision, so it's a bit hard to concentrate on the whole of him like that.
But that's nothing. "That's probably how they'd pronounce it, if you asked them," the smaller creature quips back at his rodent boytoy. Ok, so this guy's not dressed quite as ridiculously; but that's only because he doesn't have to. As big and ghettolicious as the mink's ass might be, the chipmunk has him beat in spades; there isn't really all that much to say about the guy, if we're talking about something besides his ass. Gives the slight impression that it just might even have a little bit to do with why, exactly, these guys are together; difficult to fathom that it would be mere coincidence that two butts like that could be found in such close proximity to each other. He's a little bit taller, just the slightest bit doughier, standard brown and white and racing stripes, the stubby, little tail and all that jazz. I mean, it seems like he's packing between his legs as well, although the cargo shorts make it much more difficult to verify that information. But that ass ('dat ass'; it really requires it) doesn't even seem natural. If the weasel is hiding a pair of grapefruits down his crotch, this guy lifted a pair of basketballs and hid them down his backside. It really is like that: Just not all hard and round. More . . . gloopy, would almost be the word. It spills out beneath him and has him sitting a couple inches further from the backrest than might otherwise be possible.
So that's the basic set-up for what's about to happen.
The train makes another stop, all roaring and squealing against the rust-mottled tracks; this particular pair still has a good twenty minutes before they have to get off and make their connection, but it seems that they're losing that aforementioned tabby cat from their posse. . . . Not before the lovely Detroit subway system decides to fulfill one of its stereotypes, though. No, wait: Forgot to mention the fucking stink on the car. Sure, it smells like piss, but there's more to it than that: maybe 'rotting skunk' would be the right words? Actually, the right words would be really unsavory, so let's just leave it to your imagination. But it's fairly sick. Anyway, there's a bit of unintelligible mumbling between the rat and the departing feline; a few suspicious glances from her over at our protagonists, but this is all followed by a slightly nervous - on her end, strictly - exchange of three twenty dollar bills from her for a little, plastic baggie from him. She darts off just before the doors are about to close and send her on a rather laborious round trip through the scenic subway tunnels, and our chipmunk can't help but struggle to stifle a giggle.
That's the mink's first response, too: Well, that and quickly putting his brain in the mode to avoid eye contact with the brown, seedy rat sitting, unfortunately, directly across from them. He totally looks the type, too. He's a fair mix of punk and trailer trash; the stained wifebeater, piercings galore and the red-tipped faux-hawk really say "doesn't give a shit" more than they portend to any purposeful aesthetic on his part, at least it seems. But give it 30 seconds, and the mink decides that, maybe, there's something to be done here.
Given their proximity to the rat, the whispers are particularly quiet. "Hey . . . should we try to get some ecstasy from him?" There's a sort of childish excitement in his voice that he can't quite keep down, despite his preferred demeanor of superiority; he always gets like this when he's in his scheme-hatching mode. Once again, the munk's first reaction is to crack a joke, although the situation seems slightly too dire for that just yet, given that the fluffy, white guy doesn't seem to be kidding.
"Uh, how about no."
"Oh c'mon, Max." Hey, we've got the chipmunk's name, now.
"No, I really don't want to."
"Why not?" He's the insistent type, as you can probably tell, and this seems to be one of the times that it's getting on Max's nerves. Throughout all of this, the whispers are getting less inconspicuous, and while not apparently anything that would qualify as a heated debate, both were resolute in their positions, and thus voices were slowly raising.
"Just because. I said no." Neither were into drugs, but the mink tended to be fairly adventurous, and was definitely a fan of bedroom accessories; it was more in this framework that he was interested in trying ecstasy. They'd discussed it a couple of times before, and actually, both were at least a little bit curious, but the chipmunk was simply too . . . how to put it in a way so-as to not sound demeaning . . . very averse to talking to strangers. Asocial, perhaps? Well, they both were, although in very different senses; Max more in the sense of being a bit shy and awkward, the mustelid more in the sense of just being a bit of a prick, typically.
But every argument has to come to end. "I don't have any ecstasy." Fucking rats and those big, fucking ears. He's got a really cocky, eely grin on his face, as if he just caught two people talking about him or something; wherever on earth would he get that idea from? His voice is icy and cool, just a little bit gnarled from all that smoking he's been doing. Cigarettes! How awful! As said before, he's got a bit of that trailer park look to him, and that description fits well with his body in general; got that whole lanky-but-a-little-toned thing going on. It's a good look on him; a really good one. But that's only contributing very negligibly to the blush in the mink's and the chipmunk's respective cheeks (more-so the mink's; the munk actually likes some curves, here and there). A couple of seconds go by, and they're obviously just going to keep staring, doe-eyed in the headbeams of getting caught so off guard. So . . . I guess it's still the rat's turn to talk?
"It's a dead drug; or might as well be. Fucking impossible to find, especially the real stuff. And when you do, it's way-overpriced. It's more dead than coke; and I don't have that, either." He doesn't have the diction or dialect of a drug-dealer. At least not what one usually conjures up in their head when asked to put together the stereotypical pill-pusher. This guy might have even gone all the way through high school, believe it or not. Actually, there's an almost eerie similarity between his and the mink's, but that one actually probably is a coincidence. But it catches them even more off kilter.
Vinon - we'd have to learn the mink's name at some point or another, at the very least so we could stop calling him "the mink" every time we're called to mention him - knows that the 'munk isn't gonna be the one to do any of the talking, and from the way that the rat's expression is melting into boredom and mild frustration as silence elapses, he feels rather compelled to say something. Guys who sell drugs have a way of being intimidating, after all, particularly in rather confined spaces. "Er, uh, sorry. Don't worry about it. Sorry." Too bad the guy's got such blindingly white fur: All the better for that crimson hue in his cheeks to seep through.
But that just puts the smile back on the rat's face; a bit Cheshire. He gets up . . . slowly, so as to not just outright terrify these poor, curious kids (it doesn't work; they looks fairly terrified, arms tensing, breathing shallowing out) and eases, eases himself down onto their bench, the mink getting crushed a bit into the corner, the chipmunk now stuck between the pair. The city'd probably call the bench a three-seater, but if we're being precise, it's more like 2.5. And the rat likes to be comfortable; not a bit of him is hanging off of the edge, so that gives you an idea of how snug the new threesome has quickly become.
So, if this were a cheesy, low-budget porno, this is where the rat would say something like, "no need to be sorry," or some other-such, wholly obvious line: lame dialogue would proceed for at least another page. I mean, you know this is going to be porn, considering the emphasis on the size of the asses on this train car, but let's at least have a few twists and turns. So, at least somewhat out of left field, and to save you some time: "if you're looking to feel good," his thin, tendril-like fingers crawling up with spine-twisting bravura, claws effortlessly parting away the chocolatey fur of the chipmunk to skip and skim along the sensitive skin beneath, "I've got something plenty better than ecstasy."
The mink is fucking livid; this asshole is touching his man. But see, here's the thing: Minks are pretty vicious creatures, but their viciousness comes more in the form of nasty snark and a silver tongue. Look at this faggy, little bitch. He's not going to say a goddamn thing to what he has no reason to doubt is a moderately dangerous person. At the very least, a much taller, i.e. bigger, person. Well, maybe he'll say, "hey . . ." and the rat will say, "hey!" playing like he doesn't understand what the problem is (this is precisely what happens), but that's about where it's going to end. The chipmunk is just too frozen in place to do anything more than try to make it look like it doesn't feel quite as good as it does; he can at least give Vinon that much courtesy. But he's about ten times less likely to start something up, so that's all that he's gonna contribute.
Oh, and the rat knows it. Vinon glares at the rat, "I'm Frege. Yours?" And the rat just smirks right back; sure, technically he's playing with the fellow rodent, but the guy he's really playing is the mink. Their eye contact doesn't break for a second, and Max is just left to look back and forth between them in between receiving what he truly hates to admit is some of the best teasing his ears have ever gotten. Once again, those fucking rats and their fucking ears; makes sense that it'd be an area of expertise. Fuck it's hard for the chipmunk not to whimper or whinge a little - you know, when Frege drags a claw right around the very, very edge of his ears, other fingers curling through his hair. But then Vinon would probably kill him; looks like they're both in pretty tough spots.
"Could you please stop that?" It's a bit sheepish, but it's more than Frege was expecting from the guy; there's a shaky sort of anger not completely concealed in his tone. So the tormentor gives him a little bit of credit for having some metaphorical balls to go along with his real ones and does, indeed, retract his hand from Max's skull.
"Sure, I can stop." It's very non-chalant, as if nothing wrong had just transpired, purposefully gauche, degage and oblivious.
"Sorry, but yeah . . ." Endorphines are racing through Vinon's system; his stomach feels like it's in his throat, and his forehead feels like it's been held to a fire. His hands are even trembling just the slightest bit. Basically, he's giving the rat all the cues that he's scared out of his mind. The chipmunk, on the other hand, has mixed feelings, understandably. See, the munk is slightly easy to excite, and a bit more open-minded about these sorts of things, so his nervousness is coming much more from the potential conflict that's building up on either side of him, claustrophobically squeezing him into perhaps the most uncomfortable position of all. He's still basically frozen, and remains silent, for the time being.
"No problem." This is quickly turning into the mink show; that's not what Frege wants. Frege wants some chipmunk booty; he's got no reason to want to play with the second-best. So he's gonna go ahead and put this matter to rest, namely take charge here. He lifts a finger up to Max's chin and twists the guy's head toward his own. Slowly, slowly now, so that both know exactly what's about to happen. This is important, see, because he wants to stress two things: that Vinon isn't going to do anything about it, and that Max isn't going to do anything about it. Now, why Max might not put up much of a fight . . . that question is left in the air to torture the mink. It's not Frege's concern, as long as he gets what he wants. And he's going to.
Nobody on this bench looks like the type for tender loving, but hey, it can get a point across pretty well. Kissy kissy: the rat twists his head and pulls the other's into his own, hands again entangling themselves in Max's hair, although this time more to ensure a proper grip. Frege decides when this stops. If.
Oh boy, the chipmunk's lips don't seem to be too interested in putting up all that much of a fight; it's a shame that such a beautiful, little detail is going to go right over the head of the mink. Nah: Frege pulls back for a moment. "Oh wow, you sure are eager." Max looks like he's finally about to interject, here, but the rat shuts him up pretty quickly, jamming his muzzle much more forcefully into his rodent brethren's, this time, making sort of over-the-top, obnoxious glugging noises as his tongue dances into Max's maw and flails, wildly and wickedly, the tip flicking across each little dent and crevasse it can fine, wanting to explore it completely; it even makes a little indentation along the outside of the chipmunk's cheek. You know, the one that Vinon can see. Frege doesn't bother to do it for the other one; what would be the fun in that?
The mink just sits there, boiling over in fury as he occasionally sort of half-leans forward, about to do something or another, but always thinks better of it, always second-guessing himself. Just too much of a fucking pussy to do jack-shit about it. Max simply takes it, for the most part; I mean, the rat's hands are all over the poor guy, who does occasionally shiver and shake when Frege's claws find something extra-nice to sink into, or scratch just that teensie-tiniest bit too hard, climbing and clambering under Max's t-shirt and not leaving a single, square inch of his surface unmarred. He wouldn't want to miss a sensitive spot; after all, this is really just to fill out his catalog of body parts he can tease to get the most pitiful moans out of his prey, and consequently inflict the most degradation on poor, pathetic Vinon.
But wait, there's more! As the rat really goes to town - there are big, thumb-thick strands of saliva less dangling, but drooling and oozing, out of the entwined, writhing mess that is the pair of mouths - and jams his molars against the munk's own (you know, to literally throat-fuck him with his tongue), that question, 'is the munk as hung as the mink,' is put to rest. The answer is, "almost." Well, it's sort of hard to say that definitively; obviously, the rat is an expert when it comes to big dicks (more on that later, but yeah, you guessed it: He puts these idiots to shame), but the mink is soft. Whereas (oh, did you guess right again?) the chipmunk's dick is as solid as a steel beam. Ok, maybe "beam" is exaggerating a bit . . . but "baseball bat" actually doesn't do him justice, if we're talking about girth. So yeah, given that, there's no fucking chance that the mink hasn't noticed just how hard his boyfriend is getting from having another guy's tongue down his throat.
The rat, however, might actually not be aware: His eyes still haven't moved from Vinon's. He's just staring down his true victim, just staring; there's nothing that the mink can do but look away. And he usually does, but at every moment he can feel the heat of the rat's glare searing, piercing into him, like a laser. He can feel it on him; it makes him a bit sick. Something akin to having a cockroach crawling across you, without the ability to swat it off. There's no getting out of its way, and there's nothing that's going to be done about it.
Well, the rat does notice, in fact. Sure, you could say it's so big that it's basically impossible not to, but it really isn't that. It's the smell. The whole of the chipmunk's pants are soaked with precum; it oozes down his leg and forms a swelling in the crotch of his too-tight Levi's that seems to be working to bleed through the fabric. It's not long before the entire confines of the car are muggy, damp with sex, the humidity of it stifling and making each breath more and more laborious. A puddle - quickly, then, a pool - of the slimy, glistening gunk grows out around them, each twist and bump in the railway making it spread in funny directions. I mean, there really is a lot of the stuff. And it only seems to keep coming out faster and faster, the more Frege rails the poor guy's throat. So yeah, that sort of smell is something that nobody wouldn't notice. Although incidentally, it's only a hint beneath the vicious, fecund stink that has been in the air this whole time. In fact, it only seems like it's been getting stronger; probably all that goop on the floor is jostling it back into the cloistered atmosphere.
Ok, that's enough of this. Well, almost: Let's show off, a bit, and show Vinon something that he probably can't do. Namely . . . Frege tilts Max's head all the way back until his chin is completely horizontal, and with just the slightest bit of raising himself up into his seat - recall that our two boys are short, and the rat is tall, after all - he rams his tongue all the way down and presses back. Puts a bulge in the chipmunk's throat for just a moment before the tongue is recoiled, mouth pulled away from Max (with sticky cobwebs still connecting their lips, which Frege likes the look of, and Max is too petrified to swipe away), and simply spills himself over the chipmunk, arms lazily cupping the brownish, saliva-soaked torso, a leg throwing itself into Max's excited lap. That gets a bit of a yelp, but it doesn't seem to be slowing down the speed at which it's producing that mess.
Max finally comes out of his stupor just long enough to wipe the spittle off of his face and neck, but as for words, it's more a sort of incredibly nervous chuckle, followed by a, "yeah . . ." The intent was obviously that something like, "don't do that again," would come after the 'yeah' - it's clear - but he's just not the kind of guy to say it. He just can't quite make himself, no matter how much this is wrecking Vinon's brain. There's a lot, a lot, of guilt going on here, but he's less angry than he is depressed at what he's allowed the rat to do to his boyfriend, but even more than that, he's scared. Who wouldn't be, at this point? This guy is definitely fairly unhinged. And that comes through in his voice, which instead of smooth, as before, has a bit of panicked, manic quality; up and down and all over the place in tone and timbre.
"Tell me what you think of this," goads the rat, eyes locked onto Vinon as ever, as he grabs one of Max's paws and sinks it down into plush rat-crotch. Plush is definitely the word; there's just so, so fucking much of it, a fact that had slipped past the radar of the mink, who was usually on the lookout for that sort of thing. Max's hand really does just disappear into the cheap, K-Mark khaki, the crotch of the rat's pants, the cargo's front darkened and grunge-stained beyond all hope of cleanliness. So, so much heat and heft stresses itself into the chipmunk's palm that he can scarcely control himself; his expression is a mixture of fear (even more than before), astonishment, and excitement. The sheer depth that Max's wrist disappears into is truly mighty. Grapefruits? That's child's play. Here, we're talking canteloupes and a two liter: Soft.
"I said," he continues surprisingly forcefully, "tell me what you think."
And then Max does the last thing that the mink wanted to see; he presses down further, all on his own accord. The rat winces slightly, but he's enjoying it for other reasons. Max: "pretty good, I guess." It's sort of sarcastic and nervous, but Frege just wanted to get some dialog out of the guy, for once.
Now, he had made the mistake of taking his eyes off of the mink, and when he looks back over, the mink's hands are curled into tremulous fists. Whoops: it's really looking like he's got about three seconds before this stops being fun, and turns into something ugly. So he tugs the chipmunk's now-oily hand away from him and gives the mink as disarming a smile as possible - it's super-ineffective, but maybe it buys him a moment or two - and, in as, jarringly, a cheerful voice as he can muster, "then what do you think? I think your pretty, little squeeze over there has been a really patient guy." Switching the active attention back to the mink . . . ok, that probably bought a whole three or four extra seconds. But he wants more than that: he's got no interest in 'getting away.' Things are only warming up. "Should I let him try it out, too?"
What a fucking dick move. And a sly one, at that: See, here's the problem that the mink now has to face (and from that glazed-over look in his buddy's eyes, it doesn't appear as though he'll be getting any help sorting through it). What can Vinon actually do, here? He could say yes, which would vindicate what the rat's been doing so far and invite this to go quite a bit further - and make it seem like he was just jealous, or he could say no. But is he really going to say no? Mr. Rat seems to be at least vaguely psychotic, and it would leave the chipmunk in a terribly uncomfortable position. The rat stresses this a bit, as if fully aware of what's going on in the fluffy, white guy's head, by teasing a finger across Max's throat, a very delicate place. "Eh," is the mink's response, with a nervous shrug of the shoulders; he'll take the invitation and then try to send the rat on his way in a less heated moment. He begins to timidly reach his hand toward what the chipmunk had found so impressive, but:
"Oh, naw." He said it gently enough, but anything coming out of the rat was enough to put a bit of a start in the mink. "Not like that: Like this." Frege was already up and out of his seat by the time he had finished, the mink completely frozen in place as the rat lorded over him. He was a lanky fellow, but he was pretty tall, and looked even more-so from where Vinon was sitting. 'This' basically meant 'with your face': The long, gnarled fingers of the rodent grasp into the mink's hair, claws seeping into the back of his skull as the mustelid's face is drawn forward to meet the out-thrusting hips of the rat.
So this is the point in time that the mink finds out that horrible, weird smell in the traincar? This is where it's been coming from. There is just so much, so ridiculously much cock and balls that his whole face sinks into it like silly putty, nasty ballsweat seeping out through the cheap khaki pants around the rat's hips, much like stepping into a wet carpet. It drips and dribbles down Vinon's front as his face is completely drenched in the noxious, viral soup; he throws his hands out against Frege's waist, but the fumes are just making him so weak - not that he was ever strong enough, not when that motherfucker is bucking so viciously, always threatening to sink his claws in deeper and deeper.
The mink tries his best not to breathe; his nostrils burn, just like his eyes. He can taste it in the back of his throat. But what the fuck is that chipmunk doing?!? Why isn't he helping? "Enjoying yourself?" There's a little grunt out of the 'munk; it's unclear what that meaning of it is, but Frege does relent. Just . . . he takes his time with it. "Oh, you think he's had enough, hunny?" He wants the mink to get a big hit of what he's oozing. And finally, Vinon has to gasp. It's not air that fills his lungs: It's lachrymose poison, something truly terrible. The sensation is like breathing bleach, but somehow . . . heavier. It feels like it leaves skid marks down his trachea, his lungs weighed down like lead in his chest as the rat finally peels - peels, like velcro, and that's about the sound it makes - away from the once-white, now-yellowish face.
Vinon yelps out in a literal pain, but he must keep gulping at the air. He had held off too long; he just doesn't have the time to vomit, quite yet, which is what his body really wants to do. The scent is almost impossible to describe, because it has so much going on, so to speak. As soon as you say, "it smells like this, this and this," you have to add something else. So if you go with, "garbage, mold and rotten meat," you quickly realize that you forgot the "mustard gas" and the "spoiled fish," and it would probably keep going like that for quite a long time. Truly ineffible.
But the chipmunk seems somehow less sympathetic to his friend's perils than he might otherwise be. That might have something to do with the raging erection in his pants. See, Max is sort of a fan of man-stink, so this is going really well for Frege. Not so great for Vinon, who through his watered eyes watches agog as the rat pulls his boyfriend out into the middle of the car and quickly puts the chipmunk down onto his knees. It's pretty obvious what's about to happen, here. Well, the dick-sucking part, and Vinon has definitely been given the impression that this guy is not to be fucked with. So I guess he'll just have to sit back and let it happen, and deal with Max's overeagerness later.
Or not. "Hey white boy, get over here. I didn't forget about you." The mink just keeps trying to wipe that shit out of his fur, but it's sort of like trying to wash away vaseline with cold water.
"No. I'm fine. You guys can do whatever." Vinon is basically playing the role of the grumpy kid who didn't get to play with his favorite toy, so now he's gonna pretend that he doesn't wanna play with anything at all. He's not sure who he's more pissed off at, right this moment. He fucking hates this asshole rat, but there's a real sense of betrayal, here, when it comes to Max. I mean, how obvious does the mink have to make it that he's not digging this? But Max is a bit goofy and not exceptionally great at reading cues like that, and besides, they're both sorta slutty, so it's fairly uncommon for Vinon not to be up for something like this. Especially when the other guy is packing just so, so, so much heat, something that the mink has always pined for.
The rat just clicks his fingertips across the top of Max's skull: The meaning of this is definitely not lost on Vinon, even if it's lost on the chipmunk. But as mentioned before, the 'munk is no prude, either, so he just calls out with a sort of elongated, "miiiiink," and puts Vinon in an even tougher position.
"Hey: You wanted those pills I was telling you about? How about I give you all of 'em I've got, on the house." This really made absolutely no difference to the mink, who was busy being mortified at the off-white grime that stained the fur on his paws, after having with so much futility tried to wipe it off his snout. It was the seemingly precarious situation his boyfriend was in - although Max seems totally oblivious to his own vulnerability - that finally made him get up off his feet with a dejected and tear-stifled, "fine." The rat's happy: He unzips his pants and cements the fact that, yeah, this is gonna happen.
But the zipper isn't enough; next it's the button, and from there it's a bit of a struggle to pull those pants down over the massive pillow of flesh jutting out from the rat's hips, the chipmunk's eyes getting wider all throughout. The zipper isn't enough because this guy's dick wouldn't fit through that puny hole. Same with the button. That fucker is a monster truck; there's all this strain in his arms as he sluggishly hauls his boxer-wrapped dick out, up and over the waist of his pants, which stand half-way down his hips. It's a three-liter dick, but without the tapered tip. Maybe even the opposite. It's about at this point that Max's previous eagerness is starting to be replaced by a sort of pallid, blank expression. But Frege doesn't care; where the hell's he gonna go, anyway?
The mink is just stupidly, pointlessly standing next to the chipmunk as Frege continues working his audience; he doesn't take too much mind of Vin, because the expressions on Max's face are just so much more interesting. There's definitely some fear, there. And a fuck of a lot of disgust; those boxers are stained all sorts of awful colors, holes in them that seem more melted than torn-in. Vinon has his wrist over his nose, trying to block the scent; the chipmunk would, too, if he was willing to be less tactful.
"Don't just stand there; why don't you sidle up next to your buddy down there. Don't you want to have fun, too?" There isn't anything manic in his voice; his sinister nature is practiced, more artistic. There is an absurdity in it; it is something that one finds in the fantasies of the more depraved, not in real life, and yet here this poor mink his, the situation becoming more and more surreal, in no small part due to the sheer volume of fumes rolling out from behind that tattered veil of cotton, which is stretched so pitifully and tautly around the rat's cock that its threads are all distinctly discernible. The mink, despite how vehemently he wishes for his nose to be as far away as possible from what Frege has been laboriously dragging out of the quaggy, bile-roiling depths of his khakis, which 'steams' visibly, like the translucent heat spilling off the hood of a Buick in the middle of an Alabama summer.
But as soon as he's on the ground, all hell breaks loose. "I bet you like this. Don't lie, now . . ." Frege presses the sole of his boot into the mink's crotch, and as one has come to expect from him, there is little to no mercy in this act. The mink squeals out like a stuck pig and darts his hands down, desperately trying to find a grip around the foot, but as soon as his fingers even get the inclination that they might be in a position to do something about it, the heel crushes all the harder into his nuts.
"Fuck, stop it!"
"I said, don't lie. You like it." The rat works to assure the mink that, indeed, he likes it: Frege presses down so hard it feels sincerely dangerous, making Vinon yelp out pitifully. Yup, he likes it more than when it's that hard. And Frege retracts - a bit. But it's about this time that Max figures out that, hey, this isn't quite right. He starts to clamber up, but the rat's hands press down into his shoulders. "Don't worry, you're gonna like this next part."
Max sort of shoves at Frege's legs, and does throw him just the slightest bit off balance, giving the mink a chance to slink out beneath those heavy, rubber cleats. But before either of them can get up to their feet, the rat has a hand in Max's hair and yanks violently forward before twisting it around to face the captive mustelid, whose crotch is swiftly recoupled with Frege's foot. Hard. Vinon nearly screams out into the soulless, metal cave, which feels all the colder and more empty, even as it fills with the not-entirely-without-color-steam. Plastic windows get fogged, and finally that thing whips out.
There's not much that Max can do; his role has been completely reversed. Whereas before it was the mink fearing for the chipmunk, now it is the other way around. He only has to take one look into the pained expression of his boyfriend before he knows that he's basically gotta do whatever the fuck he's told; the hand gripping his skull loosens itself from him, because the rat knows that this stupid, fat-assed chipmunk isn't gonna let his boyfriend get hurt. Not too bad, at least. Frege's dick isn't really as much of a dick as it is a tank, a force of nature, all covered in sweaty, matte cockscum, his head hidden beneath miles of thick, rubbery folds of foreskin. And apparently, that's what the 'munk gets to make out with next: the vicious rodent raises it right up to Max's snout and just sneers down, with total contempt. The cheesy dialog is over; now it's time to get to work.
Well, not quite over. "Hey. Let him up." It's about half the words Max has said all evening.
"Hey. Clean me out and I'll give him back," he snarls back down, his voice all full of venom, spat like a cobra down at this impudent, little cur. How dare his time be wasted: That's the timbre, stressed with more heel straight to poor, little Vinon's sac, which is far beyond being nebulous, so there's plenty of balls for Frege's heel to hurt. How can you say no to those big, tear-filled puppydog eyes the mink is making (in vain) at Frege? Well, if you're Frege, it's easy, even fun, to say no, but if you're Max . . . you just don't.
"You're an asshole."
Frege countermands. "Just do it; I promise you'll like it." Doesn't seem like this is going quite the way it's supposed to; it's not supposed to be this rough. Sure, it's fun when it's mean, but these guys have to be catching a connection in not too much time, and Frege isn't gonna get in the way of that. "Let's make sure you like it." He reaches into his pocket, and with some skillful fumbling for just the right thing - made slightly more difficult by the fact that his pants aren't where they normally are - he pulls out a little baggie of a few white-and-blue pills. He yanks a pair out of the plastic and leans down, placing one in Max's paw and stuffs the second one right into the lip of his wrinkly, gel-filled foreskin. "That one's for you; convince your hubby to take the other one."
There's not much convincing that needs to be done; the mink is already familiar with this game, and simply takes it like a man. The chipmunk is the one in for much more of an ordeal, but the rat, well, he's obliging. He knows how hard it can be to swallow those damn things without something to drink it down with. So as soon as Max finally resigns to putting his lips around that nasty, squirming tip of the rat's foreskin, Frege sort of clenches his hips a bit and lets loose a massive, torrential gout of precum right down that stupid fuck's throat.
This guy's dick's so thick that the beam of pre roaring out is about as big around as his wrist; Max chokes and sputters, but gets most of it down, despite just how thick it is. It's just a little bit more drinkable than tar might be, and tastes worse. Really, just for safety's sake, it should almost have to be chewed. But as much of it that comes back out of those appropriately, chipmunky-bloated cheeks of his, that conspicuous, little pill isn't in the mix. The rat gives Max some time to struggle with trying to claw that shit off of his tongue - and let the drug do its magic.
Seems like the mink is starting to get the picture of just what that little pill is doing. His whole body begins to fill with a pulsing heat; it's warm, uncomfortably warm, as sweat begins to pour effusively from him in every place. But no place more than his crotch, which quickly becomes where the heat seems to swarm to, feeling as though it's sucking all of the rationality in his brain right out of it and down to his dong. He squirms half-heartedly, so weakened by its effects: Head spins, arms go half-limp . . . faggy hips grind back into Frege's boot. And it feels better and better, as if every nerve between his legs was exploding with new life.
The chipmunk is fairly quick to follow, but the rat doesn't feel like waiting. He sedulously shoves his disgusting cock up against the tip of Max's face and starts letting that foreskin slink itself around the chipmunk's blunted muzzle, hugging around it like cling-wrap as obscene and truly vile, squelching sounds fill the air. The rat quickly withdraws when Max hits the edge of hurling, paws darting to his stomach as he nearly doubles over. But a single finger lifts his head back up, eyes of the rat locking with Max's and insinuating that he's capable of doing quite a lot of damage if he doesn't get some cooperation, even as massive blobs of filth drip across the chipmunk's nostrils. But as the drug takes hold, it only starts smelling all the sweeter, Max quickly getting an idea of what has Vinon writhing around like such a whore, in quite stark contrast to only a minute or so ago.
That horrendous joke of a cock is as big around as the chipmunk's neck, so the mess it makes is truly monstrous. And as much as Max wants to protest, he just can't, for more reasons than one. It's not long before his hips buck at nothing but air, desperate and needy; the rat was right. Ecstasy sucks, when there's this sort of shit on the market. His senses blur and dull, which is probably the only reason he's actually able to will himself to do as he's been told. Frege just lets loose over Max's face, thick, grungy blobs of precum drooling all over the chipmunk's face, in his hair, in his eyes as the poor bitch chokes each time he accidentally tries to snort it down. And whenever he tries to breathe with his mouth, well, the rat just fills it to the brim. The shit coming out of his dick, it has no luster; it's completely opaque. It's truly vicious.
But the chipmunk can't seem to get enough of it; the neediness in his pants utterly compels him, overriding every other system he has as the mink is left to simply whimper and moan whenever the rat grinds just that tiniest bit harder. The crotch of his leather pants are ballooned with the massive collection of precum just waiting to gush out of them; it's so pathetic, and Vinon knows it. How easily he's been made such a fool of, all of a sudden so at the behest of Frege in precisely the sort of ways that he never thought he could be. He's owned, and so is Max, which is the worse part.
But the chipmunk doesn't seem to mind. "Lap at it. Like a dog. Wag." Frege commands: Max obeys, huge booty sloshing and wobbling as he swipes his tongue hungrily at that broken faucet, like a hamster drinking at one of those bottle feeders.
"Ungh, fuck." Max can hardly get the 'words' out; they're all choked and blubbed out. Sort of like somebody trying to talk with their mouth full, while under water. Vinon just sort of lays there, all exhausted and motionless, just riding the wave of pleasure coursing through him, but Max is more proactive. He darts his hands down to his own pants and, in his stupor, struggles to even get his fingers around the button. When he does manage to find that dexterity, they're really too weak to get them off, but the rat wants none of it, regardless.
"Bad dog. Dogs don't know how to do that: Neither should you." He kicks the chipmunk's hands away, although he's more interested in the collateral damage, i.e. giving Max a taste of what Vinon's got. But this is much more abrupt, less minatory, so it doesn't feel nice no matter how much narcotic is coursing through his veins. Max groans out as the mink feebly paws at him, but for now he has to ignore it. He's got work to do; now, the game is getting this over as quickly as possible.
But the rat has no interest in getting off; these guys' ride is almost up, and even an ass like that wouldn't be able to get him off quick enough. After all, it's not as if he wants to inconvenience them. He smirks down at the chipmunk and presses his hand against the tip of his enormous, half-hard shaft, pressing down into the foreskin along the top of his concealed head, and that's when the defeated 'munk gets to see just how ratty this motherfucker really is. What comes gooshing out of those folds is truly sick, and he's not getting away from it. The segmented, serpentine tail of the rat comes tearing through the air and clamping down around the base of Max's muzzle, its articulation more than spry enough to keep it nicely shut.
Well, not so nice, because that sludge being squeezed out of that cavernous foreskin is horrific. It's animate, organic, fecund; there is no consistency, but there are consistences: They range from velveeta to cottage to ricotta to feta; in color: Beige, to yellow, to orange, to brown, to black (and greenish variations of all of the above, laces of one color spindled into another, like the center of a marble). Let's not mince words: it's fucking putrid, rancid smegma, big, thumb-sized, hearty chunks gushing out and traveling down snotty tendrils of the newer stuff. The sound it's making is horrendous, like tipping a jar of mayonnaise over and dumping it on the floor from ten feet high, or alternatively, the sound a bath tub makes when it's almost done draining. But he's not almost done, nothing close to it.
Frege yanks his foreskin right over the chipmunk's face. He's got enough to cover it. And then he just swirls his dick around, getting all that extra-good gunk in the back wiped away with the chipmunk's nose, which is completely clogged. Every time he tries to take a breath there's this awful, piggish, stopped up sort of snorting noise, as Max desperately tries to peel it out from around his muzzle, but there's just so much of it. It's like trying to 'push' water. And again, any time he manages to get a good grip around it, the rat just dumps another bucket of precum across his eyes and distracts him with that.
But everything good comes to an end, and finally he's convinced that his cock is just barely clean enough not to kill that stupid mink, who's apparently a lot more sensitive to that kind of thing than Max is. He peels his cock away from the chipmunk's face and tosses him back. There are a lot of things that Max might want to do at this moment: try to wrestle Vinon away from the rat, try to claw that shit out of his eyes (or his nose), try to just escape. But those things . . . they're unimportant compared to whipping his dick out and finally giving it the release it's so, so terribly, desperately screaming for. He can't concentrate on anything for more than a moment, his sight seeming to click back and forth. He can hardly move, but his body is so desperate that when it comes to wrapping his grubby, little paws around his dong (which is pretty damn impressive), for some reason his frame can find the strength for that.
"Ok, your turn. And just in time." This is directed to the mink, who is now, once again, the center of the rat's attention. That puts just the slightest bit of lucidity into Vinon's sundered mind; he knows to be scared, and being scared requires a little bit of thought. The rat aims his cock right at the mink, but what comes out of it isn't what has the chipmunk's gut all bloated. Nah, it's not nearly as bad: just piss. Vinon is too weak to throw his hands over his face; he just sort of whines and turns his head away as he's completely drenched in the massive beam of hot, acrid gold that doesn't arc through the air. No no no, there's too much force behind it for that: It parts the fur and dimples the flesh wherever it lands. And it lands everywhere.
Not too long ago, the mink was so white and fluffy; now he's just sopping and stained a sickly ecru. The piss doesn't stop: It just doesn't. It keeps on coming; apparently, this guy's been on this subway for a pretty long time, and has been saving up for just some such occasion. Max doesn't seem to care all that much, though; he's far too busy pawing furiously along his shaft, which spits and spews thick, gooey ropes of precum through the air like a garden hose let loose in the yard. But very suddenly, it does cease, but not naturally; Frege cuts it off, for whatever reason.
"Get up here."
Vinon half-heartedly tries; he really doesn't want to, so there's no impetus to push him through the weakness in his legs. When it becomes obvious that it's not gonna happen without a bit of assistance, the rat leans down and hoists him up, until they're eye to eye. Or, given the disparity in their heights, as eye to eye as they can naturally get. "Hope you're enjoying that. But that's not the pill I was talking about. Wanna try something really special?"
The mink can hardly keep himself up, mostly just propping himself against the rat as he wallows in his artificial pleasure. But that's all the better, because just as he had thrown Max away, he now lowers Vinon into his old place, sitting ass-to-ankles (and considering that ass, it's more like ankles-buried-in-ass). Again, the rat fumbles through his pockets and comes up with another baggie, this one nearly full with cherry-red capsules. "Open up, doll."
Vinon shakes his head, somehow trying to bring about a more useful sort of consciousness, but for now, he's simply in a state of complacency and obeys. The pill is placed at the back of his tongue and the rat raises his shaft up the mustelid's piss-dripping snout, but the mink knows what's about to come, and doesn't want to have any part of it. Doesn't matter to the rat; he just pisses all through the mink's hair, and Vinon swallows the pill down dry. The rat shakes the last, few bits out and then yanks the kid back up to his feet, bony hands slithering into the seat of Vinon's pants as the strength of his wrists tug the tight, leather pants down and over that massive, white booty. The rat, in half-whisper/half-growl, tone ice and breath horridly humid, whispers into the mink's ear, "you're gonna love this one." You can just hear the cocky, prep school smirk under those words.
But it's not the mink who's going to enjoy this. It's everyone else. Frege clings the sopping-wet mink closer to his body, letting that massive cock of his grind into Vinon's crotch as his hands work those pants down lower and lower, until finally they fall around the mink's ankles. Vinon kicks them away as the rat grins over the mink's shoulder, down at Max, hands gripping into supple minkbooty and kneading it like dough. "Whad'ya think? Should I give him more?"
"Oh fuck yes." It's a desperate sort of plea, in fact, from the chipmunk; Vinon, though, has no idea what's really going on. It just feels like the same thing it felt like before; he's not quite sure what sort of added effect this new drug is supposed to have. But the other two know exactly what's going on.
"You're the boss, then." Frege suddenly darts his hand up to Vinon's face, the rat's thumb and forefinger prying the bitch's jaws open as the other begins pouring the baggie of pills down his throat. The mink sputters and spits a few on the floor, but once the baggie is empty, Frege clamps his jaw shut and leaves him little recourse other than to, eventually, swallow, as the taste of medicine on his mouth gets more and more unsavory. Apparently, as admittedly nice as the high from those blue things is, it's not exactly long-lasting, and as fast as the effects took place, they were just as quickly leaving, leaving the mink to realize in full force just how truly pathetic and degraded his situation is, all cold, now shivering without that ersatz heat, covered in piss in the arms of the guy who's precisely the reason he's in this state.
But the rat is almost done; their stop is only a couple of minutes away, at this point. He grabs Vinon's paws and sinks them into the mink's own butt, to finally show him just what those red things do. It's not obvious at first, as he still struggles to comprehend just what he's feeling through the haze of the pills, but it seems like something's . . . off. But then, as that fistful of red things start to course through his system, he finds out the hard way just what the point of those things is. His ass is getting . . . yup, he confirms with dread . . . bigger.
That thing was already bigger, but now, "now everyone'll be able to just take one look at you and know what a fucking cockslut you are, 'cuz no straight man will ever have an ass like the one you're about to get stuck with. Aaaaaaaaaaaand . . . that's my stop. See ya, boys." The rat throws the mink down, fattening-ass-first onto Max's face. His unceremonious departure is so terribly pharisaic, when he had put in so much effort to get that BDSM sort of thing going.
"Nonononono- waitwait!"
"Oh, don't worry. What is it . . . Saturday?" The train comes to a typically noisy stop and the rat is half-way out the door, one foot on the platform. "The effects oughta start wearing off sometime around . . . oh right. Never. Never-fucking-ever. Hope you like giving a show, 'cuz the morning rush is only a few hours away. Oh, and watch out; the pills have a secondary effect, but it's a bit delayed." And he's gone.
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? They're getting off at the next stop.
So, the chipmunk, still momentarily under the spell of that stupid, fucking pill, is a fan of asses. It's not as if he'd said 'more' if he wasn't, and this is bad for the mink: Max clings around Vinon's waist and tugs him all the harder into himself. It's not apparent just yet, but the clock is ticking in a truly terrifying way; that ass swells around Max's face as his paws hungrily grab huge, fat chunks of it, the texture getting softer and softer until it's equivalent to a thin layer of latex spread over a vat of vanilla pudding, the chipmunk's hands sinking into the mounds of ass like quicksand, delving wrist - then mid-forearm - deep. Into the meat, not the crack: The crack is quickly becoming, sincerely, endless, as what was once, on an overestimation, a pair of volleyballs, is now a pair of soccerball bags, which continue to swell and devour everything in their wake (that means Max, and he likes it; he likes it so much he cums right in the sobbing mink's face).
But, if you recall, the mink is pretty much drenched in sweat, at least in the places that he's not drenched in piss, and the floor is a fucking slip-n-slide of pretty much everything that gets secreted from a male body: A lot of it. His feet scramble across the floor of the subway car like a cartoon character trying to regain his balance across an oil slick, claws scraping loudly against brushed aluminum as Max's epoch, more specifically after the considerable afterglow, finally get his brain working back to near-full capacity. And this is when he realizes that he's torso-deep in asscheek. Oh, and he can't breathe: that's a sort of important thing to note. There simply isn't air, in there: Just sweat.
The munk takes a lung-full of it and gags; he tries to push himself out of there but there's simply nowhere to go, and the mink can't help him. In actually, Vinon is sitting in Max's lap, and yet the chipmunk's face is still buried in booty, which is now approximately the size of a pair of jumbo bean bag chairs. All the chipmunk can do is slip his arms in there and occasionally try to pry open an air pocket around his face, which is exactly what he does. He makes terribly, choking noises as his fur is soaked to the bone in trunk-sweat, a veritable river of it running down the mink's crack and pouring over Max's spine. The mink tries to claw his way off of Max, but that fucking ass weighs as much as a Fiat. And the Fiat is a good comparison, because each cheek is about the size of one of them before the growth finally, finally stops (just kidding! It hasn't stopped yet; the mink's just in denial), with not only a chipmunk, but an entire bench seat, wedged in that crack.
The train rolls to a stop: Their stop. But they're not getting off. No way they could lug that fucking thing around, much less get it through one of the doors. Vinon's ass continues to fill out, his hips now as wide as he is tall, and those hips aren't growing at a tenth the rate his booty itself is, which by now is a pair of vans (the non-mini kind), pressing against floor, wall and ceiling simultaneously, the mink crammed into a corner as his ass is now so big and stupidly gloopy that it literally starts swelling out around the mink himself, hugging around his sides and spilling over his own head as the subway car crushes it into him.
Oh, right: That delayed effect the rat mentioned? As the chipmunk swims through blubbery, sweaty hell, the mink finally gets an inkling of just what that is: His balls start to feel a dull, heated ache, the very same one his butt did when its growth really got going.