Catching Their Tails
I'm alive and writing. Enjoy it for what it is, I guess. =)
"Help... me!" the man groans, crawling up on his hands from the hole beneath the log.
His legs have been bound. Not in rope, but in sheets of fox flesh. His new, lean musculature staggers under the weight of his still-shrinking torso, as the vixen tugs his sprouting, naked tail down, back into the den.
One by one, each finger bloats and blackens with a dark brown fuzz, snapping into the shape of a paw as thickness hits his palms. As his rescuer reaches a hand out, he hooks his shrinking, padded digits around a bare wrist. The rescuer tries to recoil, but the man holds firm, tugs the arm, and looks his would-be savior in the eyes.
"Run!" he gasps, realizing his fate too late, to be sealed. Then, with a croon, as the vixen wraps her legs around his haunches and tugs, his chest collapses and rounds. He startles and rolls back in a heap of piss and raised fur, as the elated creature runs her tongue over every inch of bare human flesh he has left--marking, reshaping him as he groans. He tries to cover his eyes, but his arms no longer bend to allow that. Instead, they change into paws, moving of their own accord. He stands on all fours, body furring over in yellow, as he crawls, stinking, trying to escape one last time--
--stretching tail erect, and rippling with growing fluff, he takes in the sight of the moon, the scent of vixen's scat and piss, and the sensation of his entire body shuddering, revolting--and heating to a boil, as his ears rise over his head, and his head of brown hair begins to shed. It is as if the body of a fox has dominated all but his face, which struggles of its own accord--his last vestige of human identity, sprouting whiskers from both brows and out from his upper lip, as his body unsheaths its slick, vulpine tool.
The fox has won.
All at once his face stretches like putty, eyes yellowed, squinting, head shaking with useless, last efforts as it straightens, flattens... and wedges into a snout. He takes horrified, panicked breaths, each sounding more like pants as his tongue elongates and broadens. With a horrendous, bestial yowl, his jaws snap open, and new fangs burst from his gums, as his nose scales over and rounds, showing open nostrils, dripping and moist. Those new teeth set down upon a warm, bare leg, and while it kicks the beast away, those fangs have served their purpose.
Spittle glistens from the new beast's tongue, as in an instant he draws his fangs back from the wound they'd just made. The creature goes flying, and lands in the dirt. His mate wedges her muzzle beneath the he-fox, and urges him to stand. Sniffing the dirt curiously, the renard lifts a leg and makes his mark, then slinks along with his mate, into their new burrow.
They would not be lonely--already, they could hear grunts of pain, and cords and sheets of fox flesh, engulfing yet another lover. Their harem had just begun.