FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The first part of this story, enclosed by lines of dashes, is not told from Siber's perspective. I chose first-person because for this character, you have to be inside her head to understand her at all. Anyway, this story is full of all sorts of things unsuitable for people under the age of eighteen, at least by law, because clearly, a numerical measure of physical age is an accurate prediction of mental maturity.

Wonder as you wander.

t3h p05t, 4 j00

---

I am... alive.

"...and if I want to call you Bitch-Lick Michelle, I will!"

twitch

A rattling of the skull.

"because I am the reason you are still breathing! Don't you understand me?"

I am... breathing.

*shudder_

"Don't give customers looks that make them want anything but sex and empty wallets! You whores, you listen to me!!"

An odd tic of the neck and shoulder and eye and jaw betraying a particularly dangerous breed of madness, recognizable only to those possessed by it.

I am... alive, still.

Twitch - ing, AH!

"Let them fuck you even if your brains fall out" it's a kind of "if you have to suck six men at once" state of mind where you "and fist some broad at the same time while" latch onto one corner of existence "they shove your cub's muzzle up your pussy" and let some... thing take you "you will cum as much as they do or I will shove a hook in your clit and"

SHRIEK AND SCREAM!! silence

my cub... What have I done to him? for him

"rip you like salmon, cunt! You bring in the dough tonight, or your son loses any chance of ever being the man I need so I can make him fuck you on display! Am I understood?! Pearl! Epic Pearl! Annestra Epic Pearl Haven Nikilovna, nod your head if you understand me!!"

twitch

"Good." He's turning away. "Now, I-glk! Khaaa!!"

---

She stares, and wonders. It entertains her to observe how much blood flows when a man's carotid artery is ripped in two. And when he swallows his own blood through a hole in his neck. And when he drowns and tears at himself, trying to put it all together before he suffocates and blacks out immediately prior to dying. It also entertains her to watch the faces of her cohorts as she fails to express... anything... while the last remnants of this bout of this particular madness cease.

"Come with Mommy, Rose." She held his hand as the young boy walked with her out of the harem. Residual twitches left crimson sprays along the walls of the main area, customers assaulting her and her child and running for their lives with equal alacrity, but none scored a hit as godless speed ripped through them, candlesticks and steak knives from wherever she could feel them seeking sheathes of flesh and invariably finding them.

"Stop crying!" I screamed at the creature in front of me. "You stupid whore, stop crying! God damn it, do none of you idiots have any class anymore?" The girl looked up at my twisted snarl with tears soaking her furred cheeks, one of which was swelling and hopefully bruised.

She was a vixen; gray-furred, blue eyes, short, slightly overweight, and sporting a scar that slashed down her back where her father had tried to knife her. She lay nude and leaking tears onto the carpet of the dirty motel I had taken her to. I think her name was Cherry Flavor; not the one on her driver's license, that's for sure.

I turned away, allowing myself to feel anger. I had learned that it was better this way, when the urges took me; better to vent upon a hapless churl than upon myself. At least this way, I didn't hate myself afterwards. Yes, it had been decades, living with the madness that I didn't understand. I remembered when I first met Glen, believing that meant it would all go away... but no. While he meant everything to me, nothing had cured the evil pit that lurked within me and that held sway when the cycle of succorlessness reached its zenith and I still had not properly progressed my plans.

Until some years ago, I would lock the door to my room and tear at myself, teeth and claws rending slashes in my thighs and biceps, but my children told me of their concerns one night. They told me that even Aura, magically the weakest, could feel the size of the containment field I had to put up to block the magic that ripped through the house on the nights my madness took me. They didn't know what it was, but they were concerned. I can't remember the excuse I made; something about overflows, or experiments, or something. Whatever it was, it didn't work on Silvir in the least, and I had the serendipity to realize this before he did. He was simply too sensitive to magical flows.

So I stood there, panting, my erection throbbing at my crotch as I glared over my shoulder at the wretch on the floor. These women... no. These weren't women. These were whores. Yes, there were women working the same job, but there was a difference. The females I chose for these nights were whores, and regardless of the tactics I used, would never be anything else.

I could remember the first girl very well. She had been a woman. Strutting down the street, forty years old, I made a conscious decision to pick up a prostitute. Her name was Thunder Lips. I protected myself in every way I knew how, casting magic she had probably never heard of. She was thirty, but not aging poorly. Buxom, well-rounded, and an expert sweet-talker, she read me like a book. I paid her, I fucked her (because that's the only word that can be used for something like that), she fucked me, and I paid her the rest. I did my best, as my own kind of humanitarian. I tried to ask what her interests were, I tried to delve into her history, and she would not have any of it. She left the cheap motel - the same one I was in now - and I found her body three days later in a gutter, broken, bruised, and bloody.

Many times after I realized that Teva was still alive, I wondered if she knew I was doing this. She had known about my madness and embraced it, because she was subject to her own, of a different type. As many times as she locked me in a grip like a vise to protect me from myself, I followed behind her on dark nights, making sure that that was not the night she found an abandoned mulcher, or lay her leg over train tracks at the right time, or jumped in front of a car. There were nights when both of us would be taken, and those would be frightening.

"Teva," I would tell her, fighting to keep my claws from shredding yet another comforter on the bed.

"Yes?" she would answer from her position in the open window sill. It always felt darker and colder on these nights, even in summer.

"Where's Diam?"

"Very asleep."

"And Aura?"

"The same."

"And Silvir?"

"He's at a friend's house."

"I don't know how you see these coming."

"Women run on longer fuses, Siber."

And then our eyes would finally meet. "Step out of the window, Teva."

"Which way, love?"

"Towards me." I would stand. "Come away from that." By this time, a trickle of blood would have started down my naked thigh and my hand would be trembling.

She would look down. "Make me."

Those were fights to keep men alive, once they started. We would have already moved the antique furniture out of the room, because my first action was usually to lock the door and throw her against a wall, which she would let me do. From there, it was a frenzy as she tried to make me hurt her instead of me, or tried to break through the door or windows and slam down to earth, or as I took out my inhuman anger on her and she slashed me again and again, depending upon whether our love dictated a realization of the evil wishes we each experienced or a denial of them.

I don't know what the neighbors thought of the amplitude of the magic field we had to set up beforehand so that we didn't break the house down, but the first time it happened to both of us at once like that, the police were called. We had to reign in our sanity, I repairing wounds while she applied make-up to the both of us and smoothed our hair, and meet them without snarling, then prove to them the children were safely asleep. It was lucky that they were not magically proficient and never brought an expert to verify the claims; otherwise, we'd both be on the run for murdering police officers.

Thunder Lips didn't cry when I hurt her, and didn't care when I hurt myself. After her, though... For example: Cherry Flavor hadn't seen anything yet. I wasn't even bleeding. All I had done was throw her to the ground and make her swear she had made an effort at some point in her life under duress of my killing her if she couldn't. Yet, she was weeping like a baby. Kids these days made choices before thinking. They had no motivation.

"Sir?" she asked me. I had made her call me "Sir."

"What?" I barked. She flinched, and I rolled my eyes in frustration.

"There is a girl... she just left with her cub, from one of the gentlemen's clubs... they call her Epic Pearl... it was all over the gossip circles, that she killed the owner and some of the patrons when she left, and she took her cub with her... they call him Rose Hip-"

"They call him what?" My hand ripped along my arm. Fur fell to the ground as I grimaced giddily from the pain.

"To train him, Sir! Please don't hurt me! They take the cubs at that place and they train the boys to be submissive so they'll... do things."

"Keep talking." I had heard of the place, but always assumed it wasn't my job to make any changes there. Yes, it was horrible, but despite my power and my episodes with these prostitutes, I couldn't think of a good way to not be seen at a gentlemen's club by someone I knew. With the whores, I could disguise myself and magic myself off the street without thinking about it. If anyone of class came by, though... that was a different story entirely. They would notice something was awry.

Normally, police would take care of a situation like that. Three policemen had already died, apparently of natural causes, after expressing a desire to fix the problem. The rest were on a short leash, either by their families or their balls.

"That's... all I know. She killed him - tore his throat out - and left holding Rose's hand."

"Cisors?"

"Yes, Sir. Both of them."

"Did she have any other children?"

"None I know of, Sir."

I was clothed in twenty seconds and threw fifteen hundred dollars at her feet as I walked out. "For the love of God, try to make something useful of yourself." Usually, I would give a speech about how that money could feed her for a long time while she tried to find a real job, could even buy her clothes to try to get a job in, could get her many things as long as she wasn't stupid with it. This time, I was too angry and besides, nothing had ever come of it.

"Thank you," she whispered as the door slammed.

There was a squirrel I had a history with who had something of a past with the slave trade. The girl of whom Flavor had spoken, along with the other men and women in the gentlemen's club, would all be from the low end of the sex slave market, meaning they were all highly trained and exceedingly beautiful. Sex slaves who actually made it into society - the property of millionaires and billionaires - could make furs of either gender swell, sweat, and faint.

Niche was one of my early successes. Raiden and I had met him in high school, and while Raiden was the original catalyst, it took both of us and our families to ensure he was saved as a human being. He was one of the exceedingly rare intelligent, runaway slaves. Raiden cut a deal with him when he saw him on the side of a highway, we erased all traces of his past save his personality, physique, and DNA, and, much like I was doing with Lioen now, turned him into a normal member of society.

Let's be clear. I have nothing against the sex slave trade. It is a reasonable place of business, where property is bought and sold. It's a difficult concept, but that property is, in my mind, one hundred percent accessory and one hundred percent employee. Before I developed that idea fully, I had already helped Niche, who had come from a bad breeding ground that Teva ended up shutting down, anyway. Slaves are to be treated as human beings when the idea surfaces, and they are to be expected to carry out requested services. They are trained to be disease resistant and fully self-analyzing, in addition to having seasonal check-ups from trained professionals.

As with everything, though, there is a dirtier side to it. There are people who lobby against it with protests and molotov cocktails. There are gangs hired by slave masters to silence abolitionist ringleaders. There are traders who shoot defective merchandise. And there are gentlemen's clubs with filthy owners and flea-bitten patrons. The Opaque Ocean was one of those, and the owner had recently been found as part of a massacre in his own place of business with a whore, her cub, and the front half of his throat missing, if my source was telling me the truth.

I called Niche.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Niche. It's Siber."

His voice was brighter and more energetic than I wanted it to be. I had to shift miens to match it, feeling guilty for not having called him in so long. "Siber! Why don't I have your number in my phone? Jeez, it's been a long time! How are you? How are the kids?"

"They're wonderful, as usual. Business thriving?"

"Mostly. Not as many people buying gas cars, but we're just in a transition phase. It'll be a year or so before we get thaumatic engines to the point that they're useful. Life going well for you? Cured cancer yet?"

I flashed a wry grin at the receiver. "Yeah, right. You know I do commercial genetics; we're still trying to replicate the troubadours from the Sapiens." The troubadours were, to put it both crassly and very simply, a race of furry, midget sex slaves with animal brains. Made wonderful pets for the Sapien world Glen was usually in. The analogous pygmies were pretty cute, but were more pets than sex slaves, over here.

"Weren't you the one who initiated the Cross-Over Act? Just go get some."

I laughed. "I know, I know. I'll just step over into a world most of our universe doesn't believe in and bring something that's not supposed to exist. I'm sure the thaumatic and chemical boundaries won't mind."

He chuckled long and loud. "Of course, of course. So what's up?"

"Well, I hate to ask a favor of you after so long not keeping in touch, but I need one."

He snorted into the phone. "Don't give me that crap, Siber. You know I'd have given you my first-born if you had asked in time."

"Psh, whatever. Anyway. There's a rogue gentlman's entertainer out here where I live, and I have no experience at all with that kind of person. I'm trying to start something, and she could be a key part. Could you help me keep a tab on her and figure her out?"

There was a short silence during which I could almost hear his calculations and pinprick of indignity that I had called him because of his past, before his voice, chipper as ever, chimed back in. "Sure. You still in the same place? I'm free this weekend."

"Yeah, I'm a pretty sedentary guy."

He sighed. "Wolves."

"Hush." I smiled gratefully. "Thanks. This means a lot to me, Niche."

"What did I tell you about crap?"

"Bleah."

"Before I get there, though, exactly how rogue is she?"

"She tore out her owner's throat and killed a number of others while she walked out with her son. I just got the information today; I can only assume the authorities haven't managed to find them yet."

"Violent type, then."

"Just a little."

"I'll see you for lunch on Saturday. Want me to bring Karin? She and Silvir are about the same age."

I thought about Lioen. Well, Niche would find out, anyway. My level of trust went from Glen to Teva to Raiden to Niche to my children, and everything beyond that was very far down the chain. "Sure, if she has time. It'll be good to see her. What about Alex and the missus?"

"He's in college and she's in Saudi Arabia. Some sort of ruins."

"Oh. Guess we shouldn't bother her, then." Never interrupt an archaeologist in the midst of her work.

"Hell no," he laughed. "All right, all's well, then. See you soon."

"See you, Niche." I grinned as I hung up the phone. It would be good to see him again. My episode over, I walked home whistling.

Rose Hip had a difficult past. He had been born and raised in captivity as an illegal sex slave. At age six, he experienced intercourse, and cried in his mother's arms for a day while her tears dampened his fur. At age nine, he was subjected to high doses of testosterone, bulking out his small frame and throwing his unprepared mind into a rush of wild emotions that frequently caused him to try to seduce his mother into having sex with him. When it started to get out of hand, his thaumaturgically-talented mother vixen began pumping him with anti-drug spells, trying to control the growth and hormonal activity. She was not mentally stable either, though, and so, as he was subjected again and again to rape and had his raging psyche taken advantage of time and time again, the dosage she had given him twisted his brain, permanently.

Despite what Cherry Flavor had said, Rose Hip was not a cisor. He was a mouse, and a large one, standing at five-four and a hundred forty pounds at age twelve due to a rigorous training program and diet to supplement the effect of the steroids and growth hormone. He had whipped countless objects from shelves and lacerated people's legs and backs with his failure to acclimate to his unnaturally long and muscular tail. He was popular among patrons for the tremendous volume of seed he could produce from balls that were not only oversized from drugs, but naturally enhanced by his rodential heritage. They also liked him for the way he moaned, and that was the most noticeable and perhaps concealing effect of the brain damage. He had every stereotypically female psychological characteristic imaginable, save that he didn't cry. It was as though all the tears that he could ever cry had been leeched out of him by the pain of that first night. He moved like a woman, cared like a woman, screamed like a woman, and held grudges like a woman. He could hold a grudge for decades, and he knew that for a fact shortly after he had passed his first.

His father was missing, he was told, but had been a violent, black hare. With a white scar down one white eye and a sunken brown one. Unmistakable, and weak to drinking, his mother said. Kept a revolver in his left shirt pocket. The sixth chamber was always left empty, his mother said. A piece of the glass from the picture frame that had gone on her photo with him was sharpened and kept in the top drawer under a set of black lingerie, his mother said. If necessary, there was a vial of cyanide in the bottom drawer of a different chest sewn into decorative protrusions on a matching black bustier. Cyanide dissolves completely in water and cheap alcohol. His mother said.

Sometimes, she thought she saw this man at the window and broke it with her fists and forehead. Rose wondered why she was kept at the Ocean, when costs like that built as they did.

The boy could get men and women in heat with the movement of his hips on a stage, and when he mastered control of his tail, had pulled mistresses over the edge with a touch and a rub while he spun and circled, wearing loincloths and arm braces to make him the picture of tribal sexuality, his endowments tantalizingly sillhouetted beneath the simple cloth. It was those endowments that had most piqued his curiosity during his unnatural puberty, and it had started during a training session.

Bleeding from the back and shoulders, he was performing autofellatio for the master and a small contingent of special customers and trying not to shudder from the lashes coming from behind that his mother gave him for fear of the spikes being driven further into her feet. It was a talent the master insisted he learn, as a solo act. Aided by his longish muzzle, it was not nearly the problem for him that it would have been for most human beings, but that did not mean he relished being forced to do it. It was not the exhibition or the lack of privacy; it was that he and his mother were locked in this evil tableau, and unable to escape.

Licking at the shaft, long for a preteen, he pushed his tongue around the tip, delicately exploring as he bobbed slowly up and down. The hole there was intriguing to him, given the very different natures of the two substances it had issued in his lifetime, and he toyed with it, hiding the activity behind his lips as he continued his assigned art, until suddenly, that thick, strong muscle in his mouth slipped into his shaft, sending a rush of pleasure from the tip to his balls and back up his spine, making him shudder visibly.

The lash came down hard as his mother groaned in pain, eliciting a girlish gasp from him. He immediately smoothed out his movements and continued, now more eagerly, now wanting to see exactly how far he could go with this. The feeling was exquisite, and he learned to turn his shudders of excitement into sensual archings of his back as he plunged deeper, deeper into that sensitive tube, every flexing of his young groin muscles pulling him deeper and the friction driving him wild. He delved farther, farther down with every pulse of his head, until the touch of his tongue on a thin but seemingly impenetrable membrane around his balls sent him over the edge and the clenching of his sack pushed his organ back out with an explosive load of seed. By now, he knew that what people most wanted to see was him gag just a little, drool a little of it back onto him, and then clean it up. For the average customer. Some wanted to see him paint his face white.

He guessed wrong that time.

His mother shrieked and tore his back open with the lash while the patrons laughed.

Later, after his mother had licked his wounds clean and pretended to cry over him, he was alone for a time while she met a customer. Their room was comparatively lush, with a queen-size bed, two dressers, a writing desk (sans stationery, of course), and a full-length, gilded mirror. The carpet was a soft, peach color, the bedding a matching orange cream and white, and the walls a royal, deep orange color. He was surrounded by contrast. It wasn't so much that the room was soft while his life was harsh. It was more that the room had been provided for him by the same man who held him captive.

So far, he had never acted out, not having any direction to which he might put his frustrations. Obviously, he targeted the master. The master was the end source of all pain. The master, though, kept his mother around, and so was the sole source of all comfort. The master was the source of everything, and the sum total of everything was wrong. He needed to find a way away from the master. But for now... he had discovered something new, and wonderful.

Alone, he unclothed himself and sat on the bed, carefully placing the egg he had kept for a midnight snack if he wanted it on the bedside table. He always kept a midnight snack from dinner. As soon as he began thinking about what he had done that day, he felt his member grow and stiffen as his balls began softly churning, contracting and relaxing in response to the various stimuli. He was proud of those balls, after seeing other men. They didn't hinder him when he walked, but he knew they were larger and more productive than most others'. Sure, there was the occasional bull or mastiff, but he was a kid, and for the most part, he knew that.

He felt those balls now, delicately pushing at the round orbs within the smooth, fuzzy sack, each roughly the size of the egg on his table, and marvelled at how they felt when they churned at the touch, sliding along the fabric of the comforter and rolling gently between his thighs. His member, a proud six inches, stood straight and throbbing now in his lap. Hesitantly, he lowered a hand to it and slowly, carefully, pushed on the opening with one finger.

The member dilated willingly and took the digit, quickly dampening it with a salty fluid like that he produced before cumming, lubricating it. He pushed up to the first knuckle, lost in sensation, feeling how the flesh expanded to accomadate what it was given, all the way until he could go no further. It wasn't painful at all. It wasn't especially pleasurable either, except in the newness of the experience. What was pleasurable was when he twisted the finger around, the feel of something warm inside there, and he felt an urge to contract in his groin and gave in. His member pulled strongly at his finger and, afraid, he quickly withdrew with a shudder that ran through the whole of his body, making a quick shluck as the slit closed again.

Swallowing nervously and licking his young lips, he prepared two fingers for entry and repeated the process. The penis took them just as easily, the shaft slick and loosening readily as he went, and once again, the urge to "swallow" made itself known, and he gave in, ready for what would happen. He let the motion pull his other balled fingers in, like it seemed it wanted to, until the flesh was stretched absurdly around his fist. Oddly, the pink skin remained opaque, regardless of how thin it should have been. It also seemed to lengthen to make sure the whole fist could fit in, and then sucked for more, and he let it, until his hand was fully inside his sack and again, he could feel that thin, impenetrable membrane between his hand and testicles, protecting them.

Lost in the experience, he pulled the hand out, gasping involuntarily at the unexpected stimulation and sitting completely paralyzed for a few moments so he wouldn't climax. He pushed in again with a similar result, then pulled out, and was met with an orgasm he had never experienced before, leaving a respectable puddle of semen on the comforter and breaking into a thin, agitated sweat. But it would be hours before his mother returned, and he wasn't supposed to be called out on a weeknight to perform. He would be fine.

Finally, he turned his wary, curious eyes to the egg on his bedside table. His member, though it had gone momentarily flaccid after the eruption, came quickly back to attention as he considered why he had brought the egg, rather than anything else. He would miss his midnight snack, but... this would certainly be an easier test than a handful of lettuce.

Forming a lap again, he held his granite colored hard-on in one hand and used the other to push the egg's smaller tip gently, gently into his hole. He breathed shallowly, scared of what he was doing, as scared as most kids are when they first masterbate. As expected, the hole widened and took the offering, and the cool sensation coming from inside Rose's penis sent shivers down his spine, and he sucked air through his teeth as, in a series of contractions from those same muscles as before, the egg was pulled, intact, into his scrotum. It now looked as though he had three balls, and he smiled at the thought. Thinking back, he wondered if an egg was a bad idea, because it might break. It should be okay, though, he thought, because his claws hadn't caused him any pain just a moment ago.

He felt the egg through his scrotum, and as he did, he watched his testicles churn again. This was nothing unusual, except that he felt like he knew for certain that a different substance was being produced than just semen. The egg softened slowly over the course of two or three minutes while Rose's wild excitement kept him hard the entire time, his hands exploring softly and keeping track of the egg until finally, it fell apart into a gooey mess. Another minute later, his hormones peaked, but his stomach felt fuller. When he thought about it later, he knew it meant that some had gone to semen while most had been nutrition, but that wasn't his concern. Now, he needed release.

Still shivering, he lowered his head again, eyes closed, to his pulsating, needy member and quickly engulfed it, simultaneously sliding his tongue down into it again, enjoying the feel of his whiskers on his thighs without duress from his master and pushing his tongue, somewhat harder this time, into that fleshy chamber that had just consumed the egg. He could taste the egg in there, and drew what he could of its sweet goodness into his mouth, the feel of his tongue slurping up and down the inside of his shaft sending him into a euphoria until he was wriggling his tongue just for that, quiet, wet sounds combining with his breathing to give the room a strangely peaceful feel. Moments later, he burst, and getting lost in the now-sweet taste of his semen, swallowed the whole, larger-than-usual load.

His eyelids fluttered open delicately for a brief moment to see if his mother had returned, then closed again. He lay back and revelled in the afterglow, feeling each pulse of his heartbeat in the relaxing of his stiff member as it thmp... thmp... thmped back to flaccidity. When his mother came in in a hurricane of tossed hair, blood, and heaving panting, she saw his peaceful face, different from its usual stoic frustration, and growled deep in her throat while her eyes brimmed with tears. She beat a fist against her shoulder in horrid wrath, bit herself in the arm to keep from howling, and threw herself against a wall to cry until morning for being such a wretch to bring such a creature into the world and allow him to be raised like this. The next day, she would walk and talk like a normal human being until her lusty post began, and in the small hours of the morning, when she got back, she would be the same as she was now, drenching her face with tears as she tore her hair out and never slept.

Three nights later, Rose Hip acted out. A man came into the room with his mother, and he was hurting her as they went. He threw her in front of the young mouse, mercilessly beat her down to her knees, facing away from him, and then unbuckled his belt and wrenched his undershorts down, exposing a half-erect, throbbing member. Leaning over and holding his mother down with one hand, the ferret demanded that Rose finish getting him ready before he "plowed this bitch." A dark and sinister look in his black eyes, Rose moved forward, swaying his hips as usual, and gracefully took his place at his mother's feet, facing her assailant's cock.

He nursed it to rigidity quickly while the man grunted like a pig, then got out of the way to let him ram home, his mother crying out in faked agony. He knew it was fake, but only because she could ignore the pain now. He was still hurting her, though.

Rose moved around behind the ferret, looking at the long, ill-kept tail that thrashed uselessly from his spine. He had experimented with his own tail, feeding its entire length into his member and balls as the phallus doubled and then tripled eagerly in length, the acids not attacking his own flesh, before pulling it out for the loudest orgasm he had yet experienced. It earned him and his mother each twenty lashes the next day and venomous, evil words from the master, but he knew that he had no limits with this new talent.

Not having thought this all the way through, he took the enraptured ferret's tail gently in his hands and began stroking it, acclimating the creature to his motions. His hands were delicate, and his sensitive fingers knew perfectly how to flow across the muscle to make the man feel better having this sex than he ever had before. As he touched, he used his own tail, almost completely prehensile by this point due to his conscious control of it, to unclothe himself. It disgusted him that this man before him had left his shirt and pants on for sex. It was wrong.

Finally ready, he fed the very tip of the tail into his member, the long, fluffy fur collapsing easily as it went. The man didn't notice, and Rose's eyes were as ice. He moved slowly, massaging and touching and stroking before letting a single, peristaltic contraction pull through him. He shuddered almost imperceptibly, his eyes closed in barely-contained ecstasy and righteous glee, and then pulled in another few inches. It wasn't long before a decent half of the length was in there, and then the ferret came to climax with a roar.

The customer immediately noticed that most of his tail felt wet and it may have begun burning from the acids. He yanked it out, making Rose lurch and moan sweetly with unexpected pleasure, and rounded on the boy, inspecting the length carefully. Somehow, the hair that Rose was sure had been eaten off had regrown. His mother met his eyes. She had fixed it.

"You little acid-trip!" the mustelid growled before beating the boy across the face with a heavy hand. "You stay the fuck away from this tail with I don't know what the fuck you did, but touch me again and you will wish you had never been born. Am I understood, fuck-tart?"

Rose nodded. "Yes, Sir."

He got a slap across the jaw. "I didn't give you permission to speak. Now this woman's gonna blow me, so you just get over there!!" he yelled as he threw the boy across the room and into a wall. The mouse blinked heavily and fell into blackness.

When Rose woke up, his mother was gone and the ferret was asleep on the bed, soft sounds of breathing filling the air and giving sick meaning to the scents of blood, wine, and musk. His head hurt, but it didn't matter. He remembered, vaguely, his mother being thrown out of the room and the ferret taking the bed for himself to sleep on. The ferret was helpless. No one would ever know how he had gone.

Rose got quietly on the bed and carefully used the glass shard to cut off the man's clothes, knowing by the strength of the alcohol and the whisky dick he had had as he barged into the room that this would not wake up his new prey. He set the glass on the bedside table and without hesitation, used his thoughts to bring himself to full erection, still nude from before. He knelt by the ferret's feet, not daring to approach the head, and guided them smoothly into his ready organ. It expanded willingly to take in this meal, though not easily. It took some time for the hole and an almost painfully stretched feeling for which Rose had been unprepared to dilate sufficiently, but once it had, the brown, ugly feet went in with no trouble at all.

The mouse began pulsing his hips forward and aiding the peristaltic contractions as much as he could, quickly moving to his prey's knees, sending his feet into the lightly acidic pool of his ballsack. He held onto the creature's legs with his hands, occasionally sliding them back to his phallus and feeling the outline of the body now captive within. It was a strain on him, but his enhanced musculature helped him, and though he was panting by the time he reached the hips and that long tail, he knew he could make it.

At this point, his mother walked in the room, though he didn't notice despite his expansive ears, and saw what he could not. In the dim light of a single lamp, his skin had turned to a dark, bloody red color tainted with black that reflected his name, and unnatural, jet-orange flames burned on his head, all through his tail, and in his infernal eyes. Her son was a demon.

Unconcerned, she sat by a wall and fell asleep, her brain having clicked differently than usual that night, probably due to the shock of seeing her son cock-vore a man who had raped her just hours ago. He was still going.

By this time, he was sweating, and the sweat drops and saliva that had fallen from his panting tongue were glistening on the tremendous mass of gray flesh beneath him in which resided the majority of his victim. His exploring hands, delicate as antennae, rubbed around in that slick mixture, massaging again the tail, but this time behind a wall of flesh. He pressed somewhat harder, knowing when to admire a set of traps, and the bands of muscle on this ferret were nothing to be ashamed of. All of that physical strength, carrying mental dysfunction... it would be remedied, and fed to him.

His own muscles were burning from strain and he didn't know whether he'd be able to sit or stand properly the next day, but behind him on the bed, he could feel his stretched balls still producing what was needed to break down this tremendous meal. As the member, by now well over a foot thick and three feet long, had reached the lower part of the man's breast, it was clamping down heavily on his chest, restricting air flow. The steady movement of the ferret's breath and the beat of his heart inside the boy's skin fed Rose's enthusiasm as his sexual energies built with every pulse. His eyes were worried and his vision was blurred, but he believed in himself. This man would not hurt his mother again.

Abruptly, the creature awoke, and his writhing activated the pleasure nerves along the inside of Rose's shaft anew, causing him to buck his hips forward too excitedly and almost facilitate release as the meal slammed into his hips. The man flailed wildly at the bed, not understanding what was happening and unable to rotate his arms around to identify what was threatening his life and making his feet burn with a searing flame. A few inches slipped back out, making Rose shiver with fear and pleasure alike. His eyes widened and he latched onto the man's shoulders, pushing him back in, but it wouldn't be fast enough, even as the man's breath was squeezed from his lungs. Noticing this and getting desperate, he struck down hard on his victim's spasming back inside his member, pushing down hard where his abdomen would be and collapsing his diaphragm while the man tried to scream and air rushed out of his lungs, which were now never to inflate again as the strong flesh, overinflated both from mutation and steroid abuse, slammed down as Rose gripped hard with his groin muscles, grabbing the man's shoulders again as the white eyes bulged and began to die. Gritting his teeth and clenching his eyes, Rose fought the waves of plasure as this creature struggled within him until those struggles ceased. He took a few deep breaths as the rippling motions volunarily continued, and then resumed his work.

Once he had jammed the man's arms down by his sides, it was a pleasing sight to watch the head disappear into his elephantine member as the tail sank slowly in beside it, gently guided by those muscular rhythms and resultant ripples down the shaft. The deed was done, and now the ferret was pushed the rest of the way down the shaft without Rose having to consciously work, until his balls, when he looked back on them, were the size of a man curled into the fetal position. He knew he could not eat the whole meal, but he hoped that by the time tomorrow came, the evidence would be easy to destroy.

He maneuvered himself so he could lay on his back, too tired even to masterbate while the tremendous sack lay there, not even close to losing form while the dead ferret's face pressed against the flesh. It made Rose smile, to see that face past the legs he had to spread wide around his sack. He had eaten this man, he knew. He could eat any man this way, and he knew how to. Get them drunk. Collapse their airways. It was simple. Thinking, he looked over to his mother, who appeared to be peacefully asleep. He could protect her, now, if a man hurt her again. He wanted to, even if, in a way, he also wanted to hurt her like they did, but he didn't understand those thoughts fully. He couldn't stop the hurting, but if he set up the room every night just the right way, in case a man came into the room again... he could have his revenge.

These two were now loose on the streets. Four men and a woman had vanished from that place of business with no trace. Not even the magical signature most cock-voring necessarily left behind was there; it was a natural process, not one made by magic. The semen-like mess they became was carefully thinned and degraded by his mother and sent down the drains. That part of it that she didn't consume, that is. Because the victims left behind their tightly-packed wallets and purse, the master didn't complain.

Now, though, the master couldn't complain.

A woman who had forgone reality and morality, fed by hate, madness, and doting, twisted devotion to her son, and that son, who had never learned morality and wanted only to make his mother his mate and murder his father, were free from the place of business they had been a part of for so long. They could not possibly secure work, with their mental states, but they needed food.

It became dangerous for any man or woman to walk alone at night in the city, but that was what I planned to do.