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William Donatti frowned as he sat at his desk. He'd just finished his rather odd phone call with Pebble. Part of him wondered if Pebble had gone completely out of his mind. The other half, however, was confident that the lion knew what he was doing with the Smithers boy. He toyed with the idea of giving Fernald's parents a call, but then discarded it just as quickly. Bad idea. Best not to let Mr. and Mrs. Smithers in on anything until Pebble was ready to release the boy.

But what did Pebble intend to do with him? He didn't know. But he did know that whatever it was, it was going to be highly sexual in nature, and, furthermore, that Pebble wouldn't harm the kid. In the end, William decided he had full confidence in the lion's ability to restore the kid to sanity and a healthy desire for sex.

His thoughts turned to the unopened file folder on his desk. The Withers case. He frowned and thumbed through it. Mr. Samael "Sam" Withers was a high school gym teacher and coach whose students had a habit of either disappearing or turning up dead. One, Mike Jenson, was found inside a crack in the locker room floor. Withers had claimed the boy slipped and fell, but William suspected foul play.

However, Principal Scorby had interfered in the investigation. The politics of school sports prevailed and Withers was declared off limits. He was considered too valuable an asset to the school to get into any kind of trouble, and the school had closed ranks. William had been disgusted. He never liked it when organizations protected one of their own simply because he was one of their own. This was why, unlike so many of his co-workers, William had great respect for Internal Affairs. There was nothing he hated more than a dirty cop.

Of course... he himself was a dirty cop, in a way. Sleeping with an underage teen and giving information on a kidnapping to what essentially amounted to a vigilante, and allowing said vigilante to hold on to the kidnapping victim to "fix" him, which, William knew, translated to fucking him 'till he was all better. But he was no murderer. He bent the rules, sure. But at least his crookedness was in good cause.

Pullbrook had been furious when he learned the school refused to cooperate, and the D.A. had been trying to get a warrant for a DNA swab. It'd been slow going. Judge Smecker, apparently, was a graduate and former football hero of the school. More politics. But finally, a break had come. Another student, Terry Clifford. This one hadn't been found dead. He'd simply vanished. And George Prather, another coach at the school, one far more cooperative and concerned about his students' safety, claimed he'd seen Terry enter Withers' office... and never come out again.

This had been all the D.A. needed. Scorby had finally caved this morning. Although a DNA swab was still up in the air, the Principal had graciously agreed to let the detectives of the Burrow Heights Police Department interview Coach Withers. William was determined to nail this fucker, and nail him hard. He'd much rather be working on the Slatterly case, but Pullbrook had taken him off of that one for some Goddamn reason and beggars couldn't be choosers - he wanted to bust some bad guys, and Sam Withers was just gonna have to do.

Closing the folder, he got his Glock from his desk, checked the clip, and slid the gun into the holster tucked discretely under his left armpit. Slipping his jacket on, the squirrel exited the precinct.

As he departed, Lieutenant Pullbrook watched them through the blinds on his office door. He'd been trying hard as hell to keep Donatti away from the Slatterly case and get him killed by assigning him to dangerous vore-related homicide cases, usually without his longtime partner Victor Morrisey. Today, Morrisey was handling another vore case, also by himself.

Shutting the blinds, the well-built moose police lieutenant went and dialed the number of the Fletcher residence.

~*~

Alex Fletcher sat on the edge of the desk of his at-home office, absolutely bored out of his skull. This despite the fact he was currently receiving a blowjob from his son. Minerva was out. Alex had gotten horny, and had entertained the notion of calling in a prostitute or something, but then decided he was in the mood to have his son suck his dick, and to that end he'd summoned Alphonse into his office.

The younger rabbit was on his knees before his father, lips wrapped around the lengthy erection jutting forth from Alex's open fly. The black-haired rabbit grunted and bucked his hips.

"Harder," he said.

The boy nodded and quickened his pace. He slurped and sucked up and down the saliva-slickened pole, Alex's jet black pubic fur tickling his nose. Alex closed his eyes behind the purple lenses of his glasses and leaned his head back. Goddamn, Alphonse was a good cocksucker! He was close, he could feel it--

The phone rang.

"Fuck!" Alex exclaimed.

Alphonse paused and looked up questioningly. Alex smacked him upside the head.

"I didn't tell you to stop," he grumbled.

Alphonse resumed. The phone rang again. Alex gritted his teeth, feeling his impending orgasm beginning to elude him. God, he couldn't concentrate with that irritating ringing noise! He entertained the idea of hurling the phone across the room, before he thought better. It could be Minerva. Or even his father. Neither of whom liked being ignored...

It rang a third time. He sighed and shoved Alphonse away. The startled boy sprawled on the carpet, blinking, licking the precum off of his lips nervously. Without bothering to tuck away his still erect cock, Alex grabbed the phone before it could ring a fourth time.

"Hello?"

"It's me," said the voice on the other end. He recognized it, but couldn't place it.

"Me who...?" asked Alex.

"Pullbrook!" The moose police lieutenant. Now he remembered.

"Oh, you. What do you want?" asked Alex. He sighed. "I was right in the middle of a fucking fantastic blowjob, so this had better be good."

"Just to tell you that a certain thorn in your side has left the building and I can guarantee that by this time tomorrow, he'll just be a cum stain on a high school coach's bedsheets." Pullbrook allowed himself a conspiratorial chuckle.

Alex frowned and shifted on the desk. He guessed that the Lieutenant meant William Donatti, the squirrel detective who'd previously been handling the murders Minerva committed, including Mayor Slatterly's hooker son. He felt dull anger brewing in him suddenly. He had assumed Donatti had already been dealt with one way or another!

"You promised something similar last time!" Alex snapped. He could almost feel Pullbrook wince on the other end. "And yet Detective Donatti successfully managed to evade and arrest his would-be devourer. I'm warning you, Lieutenant. If Donatti survives this one, I'll be forced to take matters into my own hands. And if that happens... I trust you'll be wise enough to get the fuck out of town and never show your face in Burrow Heights again."

He slammed the phone down without waiting for the Lieutenant to reply.

"Fucking idiot!"

He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his muzzle. His cock was softening. Then, noticing Alphonse was still there, dutiful son that he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor, he placed the purple-tinted spectacles back on and gestured to the young teenager with one crooked finger.

"Come back to Daddy."

Smirking, Alphonse got back up on his knees and crawled back over to his father's feet. He took Alex's semi-flaccid dick in his nimble hands, stroking and caressing it. He then flicked the tip with a finger, and used it to slap himself in the face, splurting pre onto the fur of both cheeks. Alex groaned and instantly felt hot blood being pumped into the organ, the dick hardening and lengthening once more. As soon as it was hard and throbbing once more, Alphonse opened his maw and swallowed it. Alex hissed.

"God, you're so good to Daddy..."

And so the cocksucking resumed. This time, when Alex's climax hit, there was no interruption, and with a gasp, he blew his wad, shooting his thick load into his son's mouth. The red-haired rabbit swallowed every last drop that his father gave him, Alphonse having practiced swallowing large amounts of semen whenever he pleased his very well-endowed adoptive "mother," Minerva, whose monstrous member and the amount of cum it was capable of pouring forth put even "Big Ben" Fletcher to shame!

The boy pulled off of his father as soon as Alex was done cumming and swallowed the last mouthful of Alex's cum. He then smiled mischievously and lovingly up at his father.

"Can I go now?" he asked coyly.

"Yes..." Alex replied, a little breathlessly, and ruffled Alphonse's hair.

The boy hopped up and ran out of the room. Sliding off of his desk, Alex eased his softening dick back into his briefs and zipped up. Walking to a full length dressing mirror he kept in the office, he inspected himself, smoothing his hair into place and adjusting his tie. He groped his package and made sure that looked how it should, too. Perfect. He smirked.

His thoughts turned to Detective William Donatti. He frowned. If whatever pervert Pullbrook was counting on gobbling the squirrel up failed, Alex might be forced to handle him personally. Fortunately, he had his ways. Absently, he turned and looked at a gold antique binocular microscope with curiously elongated eyepieces he kept in a glass display case. Opening the case, he removed the microscope and carried it over and sat it down on his desk. He then stood back and looked at it.

"You'd better get eaten this time, Donatti, or I swear I'll kill you myself!" the rabbit hissed.

If he didn't take care of the problem one way or another, there'd be hell to pay with his father. He knew Ben would like nothing better than to throw Minerva under the bus to make everything go away. But Alex would kill the Goddamn police commissioner if he had to before he let that happen! His father had been looking for an excuse to get rid of Minerva ever since Alex married her, and he was going to be damned if he gave him that opportunity.

No, he thought, he'd handle this himself if Lieutenant Pullbrook's plan failed.

He smiled and turned the adjustment knobs on the sides of the microscope. There was a click. After a millisecond of delay, two six-inch knife blades shot out of the twin eyepieces. Alex had it specially modified to do this. It was impractical, he admitted, and seemed like something out of a cheesy spy movie, but the concept appealed to his cruelty and his love of killing people in interesting ways, and he very much looked forward to seeing it in action, and if things didn't go the way Pullbrook planned, William Donatti might just wind up its very first victim. Perhaps even Pullbrook himself.

He turned the knobs back and the knives retracted.

~*~

Back at the station, Pullbrook agonized over what to do. He still held the phone in his hands and started to replace it on the cradle when an idea occurred to him. He grinned evilly. He dialed a number he'd gotten from the case file currently sitting in Detective Donatti's desk drawer.

Okay, Donatti, he thought, let's see you get out of this one...

~*~

The shrill whistle signaled the end of practice for the day. "Okay, troops!" yelled Sam Withers, making a T with his arms upon getting the attention of the group of shirtless soccer players in their shorts, knee-high socks and cleats. "Practice is over for the day. Time to hit the showers."

He licked his lips at the thought of all of those hard, athletic young bodies nude and bathing under the hot running waters of the shower room, and felt his dick getting hard. The same one that had crushed two of his players to death and even, once, to his immense surprise, swallowed a priest whole when he'd tried to confess his sins. Whatever guilt he may have once felt evaporated that day.

The players needed no persuasion, and ran off in a mixture of relief and fear. Ever since the disappearance of Terry, the other boys had begun to get a little nervous around Coach Withers. But that was fine with him. It made doing what he did much easier. Nobody knew precisely what had happened to Terry, and certainly nobody knew about his connection to Father Bricklin's sudden transformation into a tidal wave of cum inside a church confessional... but everyone knew the utterly bizarre and frankly horrifying circumstances surrounding Mike's death. Since then, Sam had had an unspoken agreement with the teen boys under his guidance - do what he wanted or face the consequences. And they had done what he wanted. All of them. Some of them more than once.

And not a one of them dare say a damn thing.

To date it'd been simple fondling or the occasional assramming in the locker room, or perhaps a blowjob in his office. He'd managed to reign in his cock's tendency to grow monstrously huge and could now do it at will. He hadn't felt the urge or the need to use it to crush or devour a player. Not yet. But an itch had begun to build up inside him. Perhaps it was time to feed it again. He remembered how lovely it'd felt when Father Bricklin had vanished inside it...

Once upon a time he had felt guilty about what he did, at least a little bit. But the incident in church with Bricklin had convinced him he had divine protection. God wanted him to do whatever he pleased, with whoever he pleased.

His cell phone rang and he answered it. "Sam Withers speaking," he said automatically.

"You got yourself a cop comin' to talk to you," the deep, very male voice on the line said.

"Who is this?" Sam asked.

"Nevermind that," the caller replied. "Just know there's a cop comin' to see you today about Mike Jenson and Terry Clifford. He knows. He just can't prove it. Not yet, anyway. Use this information as you will, Mr. Withers. But my advice to you, for your own personal well-being, is to ensure he is dealt with." There was a click. The caller had hung up.

"What the fuck?" Sam wondered aloud.

Slipping his phone into his pocket, Sam grinned. Divine protection indeed. Here was some mysterious samaritan calling to warn him of the impending arrival of someone who could put him away for a very long time. He gave his hard-on a grope through his jeans. He thought he knew who'd be squirming down his dick later to share Father Bricklin's fate. Feeling utterly invincible, he headed inside.

As he entered, he passed his fellow coach, George Prather. The large alligator gave him the stink eye. Sam frowned. Prather suspected, he was sure. But he'd deal with him later. First, this cop his mysterious benefactor had warned him about.

~*~

William found getting a parking space at Diogenes High School was tougher tham he'd anticipated. There wasn't much in the way of room for visitors' cars, and the remaining spaces were all taken up by what he figured were cars belonging to students. Kids today, he thought, idly wondering if he saw a little bit of gray marring his wavy blonde hair in the rear view mirror. He remembered when owning a car in high school was a privilege, a status symbol. Now, it seemed everyone, even the nerds, had parents who got them cars. Times changed and teenagers seemed to keep getting more and more privileges. Even though he was only just now entering his late thirties, he felt old.

But, he reminded himself, he wasn't here for any pissant bratty teen sports hero. No. He was here for the one who'd been disposing of the teen sports heroes. He gripped the steering wheel of his department-issue Dodge, and then was finally obliged to find a parking space in a grassy empty lot down the street. He didn't see a "For Sale" sign so he guessed it was owned by the school and used for parking overflow during sporting events and open house type affairs.

After walking back to the school, he found he felt surprisingly at ease despite his distaste with the excesses of youth today. He'd heard many a dreadful tale over the years about how horrible high school was for some people. Not William Donatti. High school for him had been a breeze. Not that he hadn't witnessed many of the kinds of things he often heard about, especially the bullying. He may have even bullied a few kids, himself, not that he was proud of it. He had a very athletic build and was big for a squirrel, and happened to have been close friends with Alejandro, the captain of the football team, and by "close friends," he meant they occasionally sucked each other off in the boys' bathroom. Ah, memories.

Of course, neither of them had been openly gay, and Alejandro even dated Janine, the blonde bimbo cheerleader. Admitting to being gay in high school back then, and even today in some cases, was tantamount to social suicide. William didn't come out of the closet until college.

His looks, friendship with a popular athlete plus a passing interest in sports, himself, meant that the bullies stayed away from him. To fit in, he'd picked on a few weaker kids, though, and to this day, he regretted it. He'd come to privately theorize that high schools were breeding grounds for behavioral disorders. It seemed that the more of an asshole you were, the more popular you were, and cliques were encouraged and so was the harsh treatment of those who failed to fit in.

But, again, he reminded himself, he wasn't here for one of the students. Not today, anyway...

He met the principal in his office. Palmer Scorby was a short, thin, middle-aged mouse in a brownish-gray suit and a green bowtie. After taking a moment to mutually compliment one another on their choice of neckwear, William sat down in a very uncomfortable plastic seat opposite the Principal, and they got done to business. Scorby sighed, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. He looked troubled and tired. He probably was.

"I wish I could say I was meeting you under better circumstances, Detective," he said.

"So do I, Mr. Scorby," William admitted.

The mouse twisted in his seat a little. "These are serious allegations your department is making against Coach Withers."

"We're just doing our job," William said. "I'll even be happy to make a public apology if I'm wrong about the Coach. All I'm looking for is your permission to speak to him."

"And according to a certain D.A., I have to give you that permission."

"Not really. There's no court order."

"I'm aware of that, Detective," Scorby grumbled, sounding annoyed. He seemed like he'd like nothing better than to plant his foot against William's ass firmly and literally kick him off the property. "I could always call Rudy Smecker up and get him to make all this go away..."

His fingers idly slid over the telephone.

"...but I won't. Because one student is dead and another is missing. And believe it or not, Detective Donatti, I care about the kids I'm charged with."

He took his hand off the phone. He hadn't meant what he said about calling Judge Smecker. He'd just wanted to remind the squirrel that here, with no warrant backing him up, the detective had no power and Scorby had all of it. Jeez, though William, even when he's cooperating and genuinely showing concern for his students, this mouse enjoyed lording himself over others. William decided not to hold it against him. He figured Scorby didn't often get a chance to feel powerful, caught up as he was in the treacherous wheels of school politics, where a principal was often merely a figurehead.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," William said.

Scorby shrugged. "That and Superintendent Wakayama is on my back."

More politics. William sighed. Obviously Wakayama wanted this to go away, by any means possible. Ignoring the problem hadn't worked, and so now they were trying cooperation. That, or throwing Withers under the bus. Either way, William didn't care. As long as they cooperated and let him do his Goddamn job.

"So," said Scorby, "what say I call Coach Withers in?"

"Well, first, I'd like you to confirm a few things for me. It was Coach Prather who first brought Withers to your attention as a possible suspect?"

"In the disappearance of Terry Clifford, yes," Principal Scorby responded, nodding.

"I may need to talk to him, as well. But first, let's get Withers in here."

A few minutes later, Coach Samael "Sam" Withers walked in. He was a gigantic stallion so tall he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the top of the doorframe. He was dressed in a strappy white t-shirt with the logo of the Blazers, his soccer team on the left breast and a pair of tightfitting jeans. A baseball cap was perched on his head, and he emphatically didn't remove it. Sam himself was quite handsome. A long mane of hair and a neatly trimmed soul path just underneath his bottom lip. Strong and middle-aged with a thick body just slightly past his physical prime, a somewhat ponderous beer belly stretching his shirt. William also couldn't help but notice that something else entirely was stretching the front of Sam's jeans...

"Sam, this is Detective Donatti," Scorby said, rising to give the introductions. He seemed a little uneasy in the big horse's presence.

"Pleased to meet ya," the horse replied, and took William's offered hand in one of his gigantic ones and gave it the most powerful handshake the squirrel had ever encountered.

"Uh, likewise," William replied, nursing his hand a bit after getting it back. "If it isn't too inconvenient, Mr. Withers, I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened to two of the soccer players you coach."

"Of course not. Why don't we go into my office over at the gym?"

William nodded. He wasn't crazy about going anywhere alone with this guy, but any way he could get Sam to open up, he'd take it. Besides, he was comforted and reassured by the presence of the Glock automatic nestled snugly underneath his armpit. He rose, said some parting pleasantries to Principal Scorby, and then followed Sam out of the room and down the hall. School was letting out now. Students were buzzing hither and thither in a rush to get out so they could go home - or wherever it was they wanted to go.

They'd cleared out almost entirely by the time the two got to the gym. The coaches' offices were down a small hallway just off the main building. They were empty except for one occupied by a large alligator who appeared to be packing up his duffel bag and getting ready to leave. The sign on his partially open door was "GEORGE PRATHER - BASKETBALL COACH." As William passed his office, the gator locked eyes with him for a moment, but then he moved on.

Coach Withers' particular office was a relatively small and spartan affair. There was a desk and a very old, worn-looking leather chair. Neither looked particular upkept. Even less pristine-looking were the filing cabinets. They looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to them. One had been moved recently. William could see the rust spots on the floor where it'd originally been. For some reason, Sam had pushed it over into the corner of the room.

The only thing in the entire office that looked like Sam Withers gave a shit about it was the enormous trophy case which was against the back wall. It was constructed of dark, richly polished wood with spotless glass doors. Inside, the shelves were lined with numerous soccer trophies. If he'd been a little bit more of a sports enthusiast, William might've really cared, but, beyond being impressed with how many victories Sam Withers had brought the Blazers to, the squirrel didn't really care much and gave the displayed trophies only the most cursory of glances.

As he was taking this all in, he heard the door shut. "Now, then, Coach," he started to say without turning around.

Then he heard the unmistakable click of the lock. He had half turned when Sam suddenly struck him violently across the face with his closed fist. William went reeling. It felt like he'd been smacked with a sledgehammer. He recovered, staggering, whirling to face his attacker. His hand instinctively went inside his jacket, for the gun there.

"What the fuck--?!" he managed to blurt out before a second blow made lights dance before his eyes.

He whirled and almost crashed headfirst into the trophy case, but a firm hand seizing the collar of his jacket halted his momentum, and he hung there, dazed, supported only by Sam's grip on his jacket. Before he quite knew what was happening, one of the horse's strong hands was underneath that jacket, and the squirrel's Glock was out of its holster. Then Sam let him drop and he collapsed onto the cold concrete floor, blood dribbling from his split lip.

"That was a close one!" Sam exclaimed. "You almost smashed into my trophy case. Good thing I grabbed you in time." He chuckled and then thumbed off the safety and pointed the pistol at its owner. "Talk any louder than I am right now, Detective, and the last thing to go through your squirrel brain will be one of your own bullets, got it?"

William nodded numbly. He'd cooperate for now. In the meantime, his dazed mind raced. Clearly, Sam was the culprit. And he meaned to escape. And that meant disposing of William.

"Lucky for me I got an anonymous tip that you were comin'," the stallion said.

This was news to William. Someone had ratted him out. Someone wanted him dead.

"So... you did it, then?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yeah, both of 'em. Crushed 'em to death with this bad boy right here!" Sam grabbed his bulging crotch and groaned. He was getting aroused. "Plus a priest. Didn't crush him, though. I did to him what I'm gonna do to you."

"And what's that...?" William asked, eyes darting towards a metal waste basket by the desk.

"My monster ate 'im. Just fuckin' gobbled him right up inside that church!" He laughed. "I figure it was a sign from God, 'cause otherwise I couldn't have done it, huh? Fuck, man, he felt soooo good squirmin' down inside of me. Just like you're going to. Get up and strip, you sexy little fucker. You're takin' a one-way trip into my balls!"

Cockvore, thought William, as he wached Sam unbutton and unzip those way-too-tight jeans, revealing a pair of red briefs barely containing a gigantic beast that throbbed and pulsed, and was already getting more gigantic even as the squirrel watched. The stallion licked his lips and started thumbing his underwear down one-handed, keeping the Glock trained on his prey. A horse cock that was three feet in length and already getting longer and thicker spilled forth. A musky aroma filled the little office.

Grabbing the edge of the desk, William hoisted himself up. Although he was still dizzy, he pretended to be much more disoriented than he really was. Anything to make Sam more overconfident. His life depended on it.

"'Course I could always just crush you with this puppy like I did the others, and stuff you in the hole behind that file cabinet over there to keep poor old Terry company," Sam mused as he stroked his increasingly lengthening erection, precum dribbling from the flared head, "but it's about time I fed my baby again. So strip! Hurry up! You're so Goddamn cute I want you wrigglin' down my shaft right now!"

"Anybody every tell you you talk too much?" William cried, then lunged for the trashcan.

Sam fired. Missed. The bullet zinged noisily off the floor. The trashcan flew through the air. Wadded up bits of paper, an empty beer can, an old sandwich wrapper and what seemed like an entire office store's supply of paper clips flew everywhere, and before the stallion could fire again, the trashcan hit the hand holding the Glock, knocking the weapon from his hand. It went spinning off across the floor.

Too enraged to bother retrieving the weapon, Sam roared his fury and tackled William, pinning the squirrel to the desk. He thunked the detective's head violently against the hard wooden top, and once again William's world spun. He felt close to blacking out. Before he knew it, his clothes were being ripped off and discarded. Against his will, his erect cock rose proudly from his loins. Sam laughed and grabbed it, and gave his victim a little handjob.

"Didn't know this kinda shit'd turn you on, buddy. But it always does. All my lovelies go out with their cocks hard. And now it's your turn."

"Asshole..." William spat defiantly.

"Yeah, I guess I am. Now come on, baby... feed my horse cock!"

His ankles were seized. Toes wiggled along the urethra of that flared cockhead, and then it opened to admit the squirrel's feet. The fleshy lips sealed shut on William's ankles, and the squirrel felt a horrid tugging sensation. The shaft flexed, and drew him in to his knees with a quick slurping sound. William flailed desperately but weakly. He'd faced death before more than once. But he never envisioned he'd die being melted down into a load of stallion-spunk for some sociopathic soccer coach with delusions of grandeur.

To keep his meal under control, Sam grabbed William's wrists and pinned his arms to his sides, and then also took the time to very discourteously gag the squirrel with his own underwear so he couldn't scream for help. "That's right, you fluffy-tailed little meal, fight it! Squirm for me!"

"Mmmph!" was William's reply. The only reply he could make.

Schluck. The hungry member drew him ever deeper. His balls and buttocks rested against the drooling maw soon enough, his legs making a tapered bulge in the underside of Sam's cock, the muscular horse's upper body looming over the naked and powerless detective, his enormous frame completely blotting out the harsh flourescent ceiling light.

Schlork. A buck of those powerful hips, and in went William's waist. He was sunk in up to his belly button. His shamefully hard cock exploded inside of the one currently eating him, but he was simply too terrified to appreciate what would've otherwise been one hell of a mind-blowing orgasm. Somewhere in the back of his fear-crazed mind, he realized he might enjoy cockvore, if only his pred wasn't intent on killing him. Yes, experiencing it, even though it was to mean his extremely sticky demise, made him realize the appeal of being the "preyboy" in a vore situation. He was in very real danger of reverting to the submissive prey mode he often did when he was with Pebble, and he knew that if he did that, he was lost.

Slurrrpp! The ravenous horsecock ate its way up his muscular torso. He scream around the briefs stuffed inside his mouth and thrashed, but Sam was too strong. The horse released his arms once he was in up to his chest and they became pinned to his side, and stood back and grinned down at the blonde squirrel sinking slowly down into the all-consuming black hole of his gigantic cock. William imagined he looked like an earthworm disappearing down into its burrow.

Glllurp! His broad shoulders entered the gulping maw, thick globs of steamy pre oozing out around his neck. He looked up at Sam one final time with pleading eyes. There was no mercy in Sam's. William's look then turned to one of final, defiant rage, until the sound of the final slurp filled his ears and his world became dark, wet, tight and fleshy. Down he went. Down to what he knew was to be his final fate. He might've been crying but he couldn't quite tell.

He soon found himself inside a tight, fluid-filled chamber. One of Sam's nuts. That thought almost drove him insane, and he actually giggled. A squirrel in a nute. He sloshed and thrashed now that he could move a little more, but it was no use. Sam had won. Outside, he could hear Sam's muffled voice, gloating in victory.

"Fuck yeah, sucked you down like a frog sucks down a maggot-- hey, what the fuck are you doing here?"

Suddenly, William's fleshy prison lurched and everything spun. Sam had fallen down. Things shifted as he got back up. William could hear arguing.

"I said fucking let him go or I swear to God I'll pull him out of you myself, Sam!" said an unfamiliar voice.

"Put the damn gun down!" Sam shrieked.

A muffled thwacking sound. A scream of pain from Sam. The world tumbled again. There was a squelching sound and a scream of mixed pain and pleasure from the horse, and then, a green, scaly arm thrust its way down the interior of the shaft, entered the ball sack, and felt around. Feeling William's hair it grabbed hold, and with a yelp, the detective was dragged very slowly and painfully back up the way he'd come in, by the hair.

Emerging from the tip, he shielded his eyes from the bright light. Once his rescuer had pulled him fully from within the monstrous cock, he was flung aside and landed, coughing and sputtering on the floor. Cum dripped off of his naked body to form enormous pools on the floor.

"You okay?" his rescuer asked.

"Y-Yeah..."

"Sorry I was so rough with you, but I had to get you outta there as soon as possible, and it's a little difficult to hold a gun on someone and dig someone else outta their dick at the same time."

Once his eyes adjusted to the brightness, William turned and behind the alligator he'd seen earlier. Coach George Prather. One arm was covered in cum up to his elbow, and he was holding William's Glock two-handed and pointed at Sam, who lay sprawled and panting on the desk.

Christ, thought William... this was gonna make one fucking weird police report!

It took him a moment to regain his composure and his self-confidence. He spat out a wad of cum and sighed. What a day. Standing, he walked, nude and drenched in semen, but unashamed at his nakedness, to look down at his would-be predator.

"Sam Withers... you're under arrested for the murders of Terry Clifford and Mike Jenson..."