# The Forest of the Noonday Sun

Author: Aux Chiens
Tags: Anal, Bligh, Cervine, Deer, Elk, Forcedshifting, Human, Impregnation, M/M, M/M/M, Male, Mind erasure, Musk, Oral, Piss, Pregnancy, Pregnant, Stag, Transformation, Watersports, body, fluids, gross, hart, mpreg, strange, urine, weird

The Forest of
the Noonday Sun
           Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungallèd
play;
For some must
watch, while some must sleep:
So runs the world
away._________ William
Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III, Scene
ii            West of Asheville the Appalachians
rise wild, cutting and jagged amidst luxuriant, thickly wooded forests, and on
either side of the highway out that way - headed to Tennessee up into the
dismal stretches of the Virginian panhandle toward the coalfields of West
Virginia - they seem to gore the sky, great granite tusks from an unthinkable
beast long dead in epochs unfathomable to man.
            It always made James
McCall feel small, even someone like he, mountain-born and doomed to
mountain-die...small, for the mountains are beautiful but they exact something
from you when you see them. They demand a price - a cost and an obeisance for
gazing upon their grandeur. Older than you, more patient than you - for you, as
James was that day, are a mere tourist upon the Earth: their Earth. And they,
unlike you, have learned to wait.            Yet there he was - down the
highway he drove, the comforting drone of his Wrangler's engine and the fresh
Autumn air. It was not too cold, not yet, that precious frigidity of the
highlands in the Fall. Past him, in a continuous blur, were the mountains,
crowned and feathered with incandescence, like the lower slopes had burst
aflame, phoenix-like, as a last gasp before the winter.            A few days ago he was in
Florida, and it was still hot down there. First week of October and it was a
totally different climate, different place, mentally and geographically...he
hated it; he would never go back. The only reason he was there at all was
because his grandmother, Mamaw, had died, at her age having had quite enough of
the unpredictable North Carolina winters and moved from Durham to Saint
Petersburg for more predictable Florida winters instead - eight years later
last Tuesday she was dead in her sleep, Papaw sleeping in death three years
before her and waiting on her in Heaven. And that little house she lived in,
with its ugly Norfolk Island pine out front, in was emptied by his relatives -
all his cousins, aunts, uncles, all to see this woman get buried in a state she
was not born in.
            But his family was always like that: rootless,
shiftless, going wherever the wind took them.            Before he left Florida - for
good, he vowed - he had the Wrangler looked at by a guy in Tampa who had an
accent he heard nowhere else in Florida and nowhere else for several states
northward. He'd tuned his Jeep so it ran like he didn't believe, better than it
had in years.            "Gonna take it out
camping," James'd said to him, idle chatter.            "Better be careful up
yonder," the mechanic said, tossing James his keys back, a skewed grin on
his face. "Ain't tellin what yew find in em woods."             And then he grinned - and
James swore his teeth were way too sharp, like an animal's fangs...            He caught himself shuddering
at the memory - he was glad he was out of Florida, he was glad he was back in
his state, even several hours from Charlotte he was still, here, home.            This trip was to clear his
head of the whole ordeal, and it was an ordeal, of being in Florida, seeing
people in his family he never cared for, burying his grandmother, the
oppressive heat even in the midst of the Fall down there - and that mechanic
who had been so nice and excellent with his car until he'd smiled with those
awful, awful teeth... But enough of that shit, all of it - he was here, he was
going to have fun, and do what he loved doing most: hunting for hidden things.
            James had the look of a happy hippy, which he
had, after all, cultivated with a full beard and moustache and long,
near-straight, and near to his shoulders dark brown hair tucked into a woolen
cap for the weather. He was slender, he had mother's dark eyes and dark brown hair. For this
trip he wore a flannel, loose on him, and an undershirt, some jeans, and boots,
nothing showy, only worn to get the job done.            The drive took him up, further
and further into the mountains. The narrow road was bracketed by a thin gravel
siding and past that the trees loomed. It was old growth, trees that had been
alive when his White ancestors came to these shores - and the forest itself was
far, far older than that. The Appalachian slopes had been dark with forests since
some dim antediluvian age...yet now it was sliced up, cut down, crisscrossed by
roads and interstates. But these were paltry ropes stretched across a
slumbering giant - and with asphalt dissolving into chunks into the gravel,
grass growing through in tufts, it seemed the ropes were fraying: the giant
slept uneasy.            And here he was, driving up
the slopes. The peaks above grew jagged, ancient rock finally worn to see the
air. The trees loomed as ancient relics, remnants from an unremembered past - everything
as the latest incarnation of an unbroken strand of life, things that had grown
and crawled and ran on this land, birthing and dying in eons long before
humanity. The Sun itself, starting to wane in the late afternoon, seemed to
wobble unsteady in the sky, and shine too bright, then not bright enough...            ...and then he would blink -
hard, twice - and back to normal it came.            He shook his head - driving
fatigue, highway hypnosis, how long had he been on the road, anyway? Didn't
matter - he'd sleep good tonight.            The approach to where he was
headed - into Macon County through the town of Franklin, where an elderly great
uncle of his had shot a man over a pittance owed to him for moonshine - was
easy enough, and not soon after he was there, his destination: Nantahala
National Forest.            As he slowed down and drove
through the winding roads and hills to the campsite he was struck, as one is
struck hard like a blow to the head, with the unfolding and unending
kaleidoscope of Autumnal colors, all around him, what he had seen from the road
now achingly intense and vivid enveloping his vision.            He checked in at the ranger
station, and the woman he spoke with - plump, glasses, called him honey
- had given him an odd look when he mentioned which campsite he was headed to.            "Ain't nobody been up
there for years and years," she said. "We had to shut it down on
account of nobody was going up that way."            James furrowed his eyebrows at
her, but he hid a smile. "Why? That don't seem right." But he knew
full well why.            "People would come up
there and say couldn't nobody get no--" And then she paused, and laughed to
herself, shaking her head. "Couldn't nobody get no sleep, they'd be tellin
us they couldn't sleep and having bad dreams and all this... " She
paused, and the hum and rattle of James' waiting Wrangler seemed uncomfortably
loud in the sudden silence.            James nodded at her.
"Gotta say - seems a little weird, but - I'll be fine."            The woman tilted her head
away, conceding the point. "You know how to get into contact with a ranger
if ya have any trouble now."            "I do indeed."            Then with a final smile, she
motioned off to the distant campsite: "Well lemme know how your night is,
y'hear?"            "I will indeed,
ma'am."            And with that, he drove on.            He made it at last to where he
would be spending the night, the old campsite, that had been leveled off next
to a creek. Overgrown now, reedy saplings as tall as he was springing up in the
shadows of the trees, but still with enough room to set up his tent.             As soon as he dropped out of
his Wrangler, stretching, his muscles too taut from the long car ride... he
breathed in the air. He had experienced it, like the view, from a distance -
but now, looking about him, the rolling hills leading exquisitely to a mountain
before him, the gentle babble of the creek, the felt it, he felt the air
actually clean his lungs.            "Alright--" he
murmured with satisfaction.            It took him no time at all to
fetch his tent, set down his thermos and his camera, and dig into the bear-proof
canister which held his dinner, breakfast, and lunch for the next day and a
half - all sandwiches, ham and mustard - he would eat a quick snack before he
could set up the tent and write in his journal. He ate light when he was
working, what he considered his real line of work - why he was here.            The Sun was wavering, and its
setting would start soon, the Autumn evening would be coming on and turn even
colder, he would lose daylight, and he needed to write.            He opened his journal, the pen
in the spiral spine ready for him - and turned to where he had left off.            The last time he had been able
to take off work - call center, Wells Fargo, unglamorous but paid the bills and
left him enough to travel and drink decently on - he had gone to the other end
of North Carolina, in the Great Dismal Swamp, searching for ghosts there, and
he had seen strange lights that seemed to float on the cypresses but nothing
concrete, nothing that he could turn in as proof of the paranormal or
supernatural. This - and magic and witchcraft and cryptids, spooks that went
bump in the night, so the cliché went - he took on as articles of faith, but
which others, outside of the fringes on the Internet, needed convincing.
            So convince them, he would. He was determined
to find something groundbreaking, shocking, incontrovertible - if not this trip
then another, and another, he would never give up the search.            He paused, a fleeting moment,
as he remembered that mechanic's face, his grin, those teeth. 
            Might Bligh - might he have been some
sort of cryptid? Something that walked amongst the teeming crowd in Tampa
unnoticed, in a masquerade with humanity? And if so - what was he? Normal
enough to be a fucking mechanic, but--?            What if he didn't have to
haunt strange and remote places to find what he was looking for? What if
they were all around him, all around everyone, and no one, least of all he,
actually knew?            He hesitated - he thought to
make a note about it but shook his head to himself, not at the moment, he had
to focus on where he was now.            Up here on this particular
campsite was a popular urban legend which was based in fact: it was never used
because campers would feel an unease when they slept here, often reported
nightmares and strange visions and a general feeling that they shouldn't be
there at all, people quit going there to the point that the office in Franklin
ended up closing it, reopening only just two years ago from an unexpected
budget boost.            That was the rumor anyway -
the woman at the ranger station had repeated it because she had probably heard
it enough times. It seemed silly, not to say actually theatrical, the stuff of
campfire lore, and yet it was all true - and seeing where James was now, a
place almost palpably lonely and untouched...            James stayed his pen - he
glanced up and around him, seated where he was next to his tent. It was true,
he felt like an intruder here, an interloper... he had suspected the feeling -
that feeling of unbelonging, if such a word for such an abstract emotion
even existed - that others felt was a classic symptom of being haunted, but he
had only read it, academically, he had no experience with it.            Now he did.            He took a deep breath - trying
to stave off the creep, wordless, that he did not belong there...when his eyes
drifted to the treeline, the old campsite giving way to a wall of woods: dark
and thick, shadows swallowing up the nearby creek. If he was the interloper, he
was gonna see just what he was interloping into.            In the early evening light the
forest was already dusky, a place of silhouettes and near-stillness: there was
the burble of the creek, the whooping wail of the mourning dove, the rustle of
an unseen animal on its blind path up the hills, into the mountains that now
James could not see for the towering trees.            To accompany the feeling of -
how else to describe it, perhaps, wrongness, unwarranted and inchoate solitude,
the feeling that he was being watched, there was an odd fixation - to
stare back, to watch the shadows and the stillness in the forest. 
            For what, he did not know: but that was why he
was out here, after all, to find out what. His camera with him, he began to
walk.            He followed the old path, easy
at first, but then higher - how long, he couldn't be sure. The forest was all
around him, massive hickory trees whose trunks had fattened mightily over
untold years and decades, the colors of the forest swirling around him,
crunching underfoot and rattling where the bunches were still affixed to
branches high above. The sunlight, now dying fast, haloed the canopy above,
rich red light pouring in shafts all the way down to the forest floor.            He was flushed by the time
he'd nearly reached the next crest, sweat trickling down his back and sticking
his flannel to his skin, woolen cap hot on his head, camera in hand. He huffed,
breathing deep of the air, grinning at the dimming light. The eerie feeling was
all around him, watched and watchful, but now it made him smile, then grin,
then laugh, at how immersively spooky these October woods were.            "That - that's
some good shit."            Dusk would be coming soon, and
he was tired, still not altogether whole from the long trip here, there was no
sense in freaking himself out so soon and so suddenly. Eight years at this, at
least seriously - at twenty-seven he should have known better and have been a
little more jaded, but the thrill was always fresh.            Twilight was all around him
now, lovely violent sky above, sunlight dimming to thin shafts through the
darkening forest...with it came a flit of worry about getting back down to the
campsite before night fell at last. Yet as the thought hit him it was driven
away: he smelled something. Something strange.            He inhaled deeply his nose -
and his mouth, he swore - was assaulted by a plethora of smells, the acrid
redolence of the Autumn season, all of it, woodsmoke and crisp air and spices,
the faint whiff of hazelnut and the juice of the pumpkin, what one tackily
associates with the Samhain season in the commercialized vivified zombie of the
European's pagan roots.
            He took in several breaths of it, hypnotized.
            Where was the smell coming from?            ...woodsmoke, burnt hickory, the
poetic odor of the campfire, and spices, so many spices, that peppered the air
- dark smells, smells of the pagan, the smells of the witch's coven and the
Halloween ghost story.            The hill he was on, he saw
now, was not quite a hill: its sides were too sharp, and it curved around in a
most unnatural fashion, still clear even with a hundred years of trees growing
upon it. 
            He hustled up the final few steps, now with the
sunset catching strange lights swooping up the far edge as he came to the
crest, dropping down low to avoid being seen by - wait - what was that? 
            There was a wide circular mound, the center
hollowed out, and in the hollow there was...            ...his eyes adjusted to the
dark, where, blurry, becoming clearer, there looked to be in the very center of
the lull a herd of deer around a smooth stone, bonfire burning bright at its
base.
            Or, maybe, no, that wasn't it, it was a circle
of people wearing animal masks.            But no - not that, either. 
            What - what was he seeing?            He focused on one of these
not-deer, amongst his other five fellows, and saw how his muscles bunched and
shifted in ways no animal should move...it rose, standing up, and in the
flickering firelight James saw it had hands - four-fingered, thick and
gnarled, and tipped in short, curving, sharpened nails, not like a hand at all
but a clawed hoof, surrounded by fur that crept up to its shoulders,
which were shaggy with the same.            Almost upright did it lumber,
proportions wrong for an deer and twice as wrong for a human - limbs all the
wrong lengths, bushy hoof-like feet where the toned, muscled, furry legs
terminated, below a small, tufted tail.         Between the hirsute head and
shoulders and the bestial bottom, was smooth, human-like flesh, crisscrossed
with veiny, sinewy muscles, a gymnast's body, were it a man. A muzzled face
twisted down as it stood higher, crowned by - yes, there was no mistaking it
now - by antlers, magnificently wide, like bone, or ivory, stretching from
either side of his head.            In the firelight the beast
cast a long, uncanny shadow, drawn out to monstrous proportions up the side of
the hill, flickering and darting as the fire popped and crackled.            "Oh--" James murmured
into the night. "Oh - oh my god--!"            For so how long - for so, so
long - James had been chasing this.            This.            Proof, empirical, impossible
to disprove, that cryptids were real, that all the weirdness - the ghosts, the
unexplained events, the people who vanished without a trace - that it was real,
that the world we lived in was a façade for something deeper and darker.            "Jesus--" he
whispered. "Jesus - Christ."            He watched them, he watched
this - this herd of creatures, not quite deer, but not quite human, yet
something overlapping all three, something truly monstrous, but neither twisted
nor ugly but transcendent in a beauty so pure it was, like the strange way
their bodies seemed to be made, a deformity, unto itself.            For James, all the abnormal,
the supernatural, paranormal, lived behind glass: visible only through a spotty
video or blurry photograph, on the farthest shore of a gulf dividing the world
of the quotidian, the mundane.            This was
his world, this was his quest - and here it was, here, he had succeeded.            He was watching it - these
strange creatures moving, moving rhythmically, around the fire, the bonfire
that danced impious near the stone - he was watching it happen for him,
right in front of his eyes.            "Oh - fuck--!"            This was it, this was his big
break, nobody would ever laugh at him or question his sanity or think he was
wasting his time, ever again. 
            Proof - he had it! 
            All he had to do was take pictures, stalk these
creatures close, but careful, so careful, not to disturb them, as they circled
round their fire, sometimes on all fours and sometimes upright, circling -
circling, circling, around the bonfire that was lit by the smooth stone.            He stood watching them, again,
having taken only a few steps forward.            Round and round they went -
the six of them, silent, trotting and then walking upright in a rhythmic
pattern that James detected at once... these were no mere cryptids, no random
weird animals, these seemed to be - intelligent.            "Wha--?"            No sooner had he thought it,
and said it, then the group of not-deer stopped - stopped and rose, all of
them, their hairy muzzles thrown back, bellowing into the night.            James' bowels turned to ice at
the sound - colder, colder than the night already, chill and gripping in the
Appalachian October.            The camera was still in hand
but he had yet to take any pictures, too distracted, too agitated, but at the
sound they made he stifled a cry of fear, and dropped it, to the ground - the
sound of the lens cracking rang out, a shattering echo.            The sound had been the most
eldritch noise he had ever heard another animal in his entire life make - it
contained within it something so primally mournful, sorrowful, grieving, an
ineffable, cosmic sadness...a call, James realized, though he could not
know why, to one recently passed on.            The mere vibrations it made in
the air, perfumed with the smells of what he now realized was being burnt in
the fire, the smells of Autumn that engorged his nose and filled his head with
strange and fleeting synesthesia - the mere act of it hitting his ears made
James want to cry, to mourn, to grieve with these misshapen half-human things
that he had, not minutes ago, just discovered.            James' breaths were heavy, his
body immobile and paralyzed with fear, as he watched - out from the crawling
shadows of the centuries-old hickories a new beast appeared, alike the others
in visage but obviously older, shaggier, his movements were slow and patient -
in his mouth was carried an object, and James strained to see what it was...            ... a woven, complicated thing,
of rustic craftsmanship, made of wood, a nest, nearly, of briars, and laden
with a great pile of hazelnuts inside a small hollow in the middle from which
arose a single large antler-point, the whole of it wrapped with maple leaves.            This beast, the not-deer, held
this thing, which the others bowed to, as though in a fetish-devotion - and
then, out of his mouth, dropped it into the fire.            A great crackling hiss
erupted, sparks flew from the embers of the fire, and out poured from it a vast
cloud of dark, obscuring smoke, a pillar billowing up into the starlit sky.            His hands shook - and then his
body shook, more than mere shiver from the cold - something was wrong, James
could feel it, something was very wrong, he was suddenly and with no warning at
all torn into by dread, a sensation that everything he saw, felt, smelt, was
some wrenching nightmare that leered at him in the waking world.            He tried to step back - but
his foot caught the fallen camera, and down he came, hard on his ass, to the
ground.            He shouted out in pain, and
like the sound of his lens breaking it echoed, over the sound of oncoming
night, cutting into the final knell of a new, lowing cry of the creatures some
distance before him.            They stopped - all of them,
all six and their elder too, looked at him, turned their cervid faces and looked
at him.            In the firelight, their
eyeshine glowed ghoulishly, pairs of eyes fixed on him in the half-lit
darkness.            Panic set in - he remembered
the time he was in Yellowstone, hunting Bigfoot, and there was a bear roaming
near his tent and he was certain he was going to be mauled, and the same fear,
fight-or-flight, crashed into him.            He scrambled up - and slipped
again, faceplanting to the cold grass.            There was a noise behind him,
all seven of them, a bugle that started, first with one, then another, then a
third, by and by until all of them were making the noise together - a clarion,
an announcement.            James rose, slowly, never more
bewildered in his life - his mind raced. 
            What were these things? Stags - deer -
prehistoric creatures, evolved into more modern shapes? Hybrids, with humans - somehow?
And what he had just witnessed... a ceremony, a ritual...            ... and then the wind turned, a
rattling breath through the canopy, and the dark smoke twisted and expanded,
rushing toward him - James was suddenly in thick fog, fumes burning his eyes -
the shapes around him soon reduced to wraithlike figures, attenuated, ghostly.            He held up his shirtsleeve,
trying to cover his face, but not before he swallowed a mouthful of smoke,
burning down into his lungs, and he gave a rough gasp, futile and sputtering.
He hacked, the reflexive inhale burning his throat and sending him into a
coughing fit, on his knees in the grass, eyes ablaze - he staggered to his
feet, certain the ghostly figures in the clearing were all staring directly at
him, animal eyes luminous in even through the smoke, like spotlights fixed on
him.            He stumbled away from the
clearing and the stone and the fire and those things, and ran - eyes burning so
he could hardly see, ears hearing nothing but his own hammering heartbeat and
the rasp of his breath, every motion around him in this fearful blind delirium
thinking the beasts were giving chase, looming, out of the dark, in the smoke
just behind him...
            Eventually his terror spent itself, leaving him
panting and drenched in cold sweat, aware of the dull ache of his muscles from
the sudden expenditure. His breath was loud in the cold, a desperate pant that
seemed like it must be audible across the entire forest, one that he couldn't
begin to control.            He looked about him.
            There was nothing coming after him.            The shadows were just of
trees, the rustling was just the wind.            A look over his shoulder saw
no deer-people, the fire put out, the smoke vanished into the night - where had
it all gone?            No - he was still coughing,
that smoke was certainly in his lungs and had scorched them because he had
breathed in too much... that, all of it, had been no illusion, no drunk backwoods
hayseeds dressed in animal masks.            That had been - that had been--            He didn't know what it
had been.            He hardly knew how he found
the campsite again, and he was dazed and staggering in the aftermath - flesh
near crawling off his body in shivering tremors. It was all he had in him to
clamber in the driver's seat of his Wrangler, amidst the broken vagaries of
trying to leave, to go to a hospital because he could barely breathe, wheezing,
straining, his lungs still feeling as though the peculiar smoke had blackened
it.            There was a vain struggle for
his key - keys - where were his keys?            But the strain was at least
too much - he collapsed onto the steering wheel, unconscious.
            Unconscious - but still able to dream.            The dream was fitful - there
he was alone, a dirt path, he could smell the fresh Autumn rain. And then he
looked up - there was his grandmother, newly dead, turning to him in a hilly
cemetery somewhere that the dirt path led to, mountains beyond it full of mist
and fog. She was shaking her head - slowly, disapprovingly, knowingly, as if
he, James, had failed her, had failed her as her grandson. Shapes loomed from
the trees, tombstones shifting seamlessly into forest, clawed hands and hooved
feet in disarray, shapes neither human nor animal climbing from the forest to
surround him. He wanted to cry out, to demand what was happening, and ask where
he was, but a dread welled up and roared inside his still-dreaming skull - the
faint unease when he was awake was now all-consuming, it was so potent and
drilling that he surely would die of it: the elk-creatures meeting his gaze
finally, eyes brilliant yellow and boring into his skull.            Lucidity came back to him,
slowly, very slowly, fragmentary pieces of awakening, and James tore his way
back to waking like surfacing from a lake, dreams shattered into fragments of
incoherent sensation.            It was still dark outside -
how many hours had he passed out for? And why-?            His drowsy thoughts were
destroyed in his own head as he felt something between his legs, under his ass.            Something gelatinous. Something
slimy.            He thought for a second that
he'd eaten some bad food, as if the sandwiches he had picked had spoilt unaware
to him, and he shit himself in the night - he dry-heaved in immediate
revulsion, and he moved, gingerly, to open the driver's side door, too-aware of
the liquescent mess in his underwear every time he moved.            But then the smell hit him.            It was a heavy, numinously
woodsy scent, blossoming thickly in the too-humid air inside his Jeep. It
stirred the still-forming memories of last night, the bizarre ritual on the
hill, the...things - the things he'd seen, fuller, more realized, than the paltry
faintness of the scents through the air only some hours ago.            His thighs were wet with the
stuff, leaking in fluid trails from his ass, soaking through his underwear, and
he unzipped his jeans to swipe his fingers through it, and bring it to his
nose, sniffing.            Rich - amniotic - musk,
almost rancid, in its animal reek...            ... before his sleep-fuzzy brain
could catch up to what his body was doing he'd opened his mouth, tongue swiping
across his slimy fingers. The flavor burst over his tongue, a thousand times
more potent, and he groaned, shoving his fingers in his mouth, his tongue
laving over them in a needfulness he had never felt before, as though he were a
newborn discovering milk for the first time.            His mind went blank - utterly,
completely blank. There was nothing in his head, nothing rational - for an
instant, nothing human.            He did not know how he fell
out of his Wrangler, how he crawled away from it, how he found himself facedown
on the ground, ass in the air, legs tangled in his sodden underwear, nearly
clawing his skin in his eagerness.            His consciousness, robbed with
the first thunderstrike of the taste, the first taste of himself, returned, slowly, his surroundings melding back into his
awareness - the forest, a newly appeared Moon shining down on him, strange
prints all around his Jeep, hand and hoof, flattened into the grass... the airish
breezes that blew from nowhere...            ... he found a messy tendril of
slime from the furrow of his ass and slurped it up, moaning around his fingers,
drooling as he rutted back against his other hand, two fingers jammed to the
knuckle in his slick, dripping ass.            There were - he felt it, he
felt it almost painfully - bloated swells inside him, a pair aching glands just
behind his asshole, like he'd grown new prostates, and when he curled his
fingers around their bulk and squeezed they splat hot musk squirting across his
knuckles, drooling down his balls.            Some rational part of his mind
telling him this wasn't normal, this was something serious and frankly terrible
- that he should leave, that he could still get in his Wrangler, even with his
ass squelching on the seat, a hospital, a doctor, he needed help - he needed
help...            He should leave.            He didn't want to.            Too consumed, too eaten,
already, by his heat - a piece of meat in the jaws of the forest.            Wonder, he remembered from his
writings was part of terror, and part of terror, wonder. He licked his fingers
again, he smelt his own blossoming odor, again, and his terror at his own body,
his own ­changed body, was matched, equalized, by a fascination... by wonder.            Immediately he thought of
those inhuman, abhuman things in the woods.            A kinship. A sameness. No
longer intruder - guest? This - felt right.            But why?            He had to stay. He had to go
further.            James' whole body ached, that
liquid - musk, he understood -
rapidly pooling in his underwear, soaking through his pants so it looked like
he'd pissed himself. The reek was stronger, heavy spice, overripe blackberry,
venison... his asshole was flushed and leaking, flesh burning hot.            His undershirt stuck to his
skin, soaked dark by sweat, his flannel long since discarded in an action he
did not remember.            He was going - up, he thought,
maybe, uphill nearly on all fours, hands clawing the undergrowth like he was
just another one of those beasts he'd seen, following the game trail that he
hoped - feared - was not just a game trail.            His scent trail must have been
miles long, announcing to every tree, every dead flower, every creature of the
wood that his was a heat aching to be filled.            It wasn't long - there was a
crashing in the underbrush behind him, and James turned just in time to see one
of the things burst onto the path, hands and hooves tamping the dirt as it
swung around to face him.            James groaned out, a pathetic
noise, in relief. He wasn't going crazy, or if he was, the universe had gone
crazy too - he vacillated between knowing, thinking, seeing, and a waking
unconsciousness, an inexorable descent into bestial instinct.            One of the beasts had appeared
before him, out of the hickories.            It snorted, breath billowing
out in clouds of steam, chipped antlers a messy palmate branching covering most
of its face, wild and asymmetrical. Its hands were the same as the prints he'd
seen: humanoid hands, for all that they went on all fours, nails dark and thick
and shining, chartreuse with trampled grass.            From the vantage of being so
far away, before, James could not have appreciated the unholy beauty that was
the creature
itself, an imperfect admixture of deer and man:            Its head was like that of a
great buck, eyes aglow as they caught the moonlight, with those formidable, but
oddly asymmetric, antlers to match - what had to have been near three yards
across. He was near a head taller than James who was six feet already,
shoulders and forearms shaggy with hoary, brownish fur, messy with twigs and
dirt.          A tightly toned mass of
leathery skin, near-human, in the way the muscles seemed to ripple with its
slow, steady movement, made up its abdomen, showing four small teats. It walked
on bent legs, terminating in strong, black hooves. A breath of steam poured
forth from its muzzle into the night air.            But what glinted most luridly
in the moonlight, and caught James' eye, was the thing's grotesque, erect
phallus - wholly animal and wholly monstrous, swollen, sharp tip aimed at the
ground, tip constantly dribbling watery slime.            For a moment - just a moment -
his stomach revolted, all his senses returned to him, all the horror of the
situation he was in hitting him clearly. The grotesque drip of the beast's
repulsive cock, so unnatural - or all too natural - it made him gag on nothing,
the thought of desiring the beast like something from the nightmare of
some depraved degenerate, churning sickeningly in his stomach.
            Some inner voice screamed at him that he was in
danger - of what sort he could not think or know - and that he should run, he
should tear away from this awful monster who clearly had unwholesome,
nauseating designs on him - but he could not.            His mind became cloudy again,
and the beast drew nearer. The swells inside him expelled a near-fountain of
juices, matched with a near-painful pang inside him, the winding of a muscle
pulled too tight and just starting to yield.            All he wished to see, all he
wished to feel, was that cock - beautiful, sensual, perfectly designed cock,
inside him, mounting him, destroying him, all to pleasure this phantom-figure
of bestial sex.            He craved it - he craved this
beast.            In a frenzy he tore off his
sweat-soaked undershirt, loudly ripping the fabric - he clawed off his jeans
that were lined with flannel and soaked to the thread with the musk he was
producing, sticky down his hairy legs.            James was naked, naked as this
beast was, he was a part of the forest, he was the very woods itself.            The beast inhaled deeply,
nostrils flaring as it soaked up James' scent, and its cock twitched, slapping
up across its underbelly, erupting in a gush of rank precum as though it were
pissing - a seconds-long stream of fertile ooze splattering the ground.            Now James realized he was
drooling: mouth agape, spit streaming into his beard. He was snuffling too, a
wet sucking from his nose and mouth, trying to catch the beast's scent over the
overwhelming musk of his own heat - mere seconds passed when, with a roar, the
thing dove at him, knocking onto his back, with its muzzle digging into his
ass.            An animal bleat-scream of
euphoria tore from James' throat as its tongue speared into his hole, leaving
him panting, bleary-eyed, and whining - he clenched his anus around the
creature's tongue, each motion sending a messy slurry of drool and juices
squirting from his ass, soaking the long, tapered muzzle.            The creature grabbed his
thighs, a guttural noise of dominance resonating in its throat as he opened
wide his maw. James was being torn into, a broad tongue folding over itself in
greasy furls as the beast lapped up his reeking heat-scent. Its claws dug into
the flesh of his thighs and he moaned, shudders wracking his body. He
mindlessly rutted back against its muzzle, mind awash in bestial pleasure, and
when he opened his mouth what came out was an animal paean, brother to the
beast's own bellows.            Its head twisted slow,
magnificent antlers asway, its eyes noctilucent in a stray shaft of moonlight,
burning, brilliant green-yellow fire reflecting back into James' vision as it
voraciously, greedily, devoured the musk he was producing. And then it kept
moving, dark again, the wet slurp of its motions clear in the night, the twist
of its tongue lapping deep in his ass, teasing out squirt after squirt of slimy
musk from his convulsing body, the afterimage of those gleaming eyes burned
into his retina.            James shuddered, back arching,
a dizzy explosion of pleasure from inside, ass squelching noisomely, panting
like an animal. Heat swarmed over him, toes to crown, like crashing waves of
water, pleasure surging and ebbing. It wasn't until he tasted thick salt on his
tongue he realized he'd cum, having sprayed a load in a dribbling line up his
chest, droplets tangled in his hair and in his beard, drooling down his cheek.            The beast pulled back, muzzle
tethered with cords of slime back to James' ass, hanging so long in the chill
air that when they snapped the impact was cold: lines of icy fluid splattering
back across the feverish flesh of his ass.            Its head rose, breath steaming
in the air, and leaned forward, gnarled hands pressing hot across James'
stomach, chest, shoulders, until it was on top of him, cords of drool spilling
over its dark lips and winding through its matted, frothy fur, spilling in
syrupy lines across James' face, pouring into his open mouth.            He panted, arching up - pinned
by the creature's immense weight - and pressed his mouth to the great beast's
muzzle, a feral kiss, his own musk mixed with the sharper, acrid taste of its
saliva.            His hand came to near one of beast's
eyes, pressing tenderly against its face - the kiss, the exchange of tongues
between the two, slowed, becoming less insistent, less hurried... James'
breathing became less labored, his lips cherishing the taste, however putrid,
of his newfound lover. They twisted around each other, the beast's tongue
lapping over his shoulder, James' lips dragging through dirty fur, inhaling
deep the dense odor of the fur.            But this space of time - what
James could feel was actually turning into malformed, hideous love - was not to
last. The smell, the taste - it was too irresistible, and a need inside him
rose, violent, immediate.            The weight of its cock bore
down on him, unsheathed against his bare belly, burning hot against the chill
air.            James moaned into the creature's
mouth, his tongue deep into its muzzle as he rocked up against it, hands
reaching for its slimy length.            It was slick, nearly slipping
from his hands, but he grasped it at last, its heat like a burning brand
pressed against him, red-hot. With a powerful vibration, a cry of perfect
pleasure from the beast, out spurt a single gush, a wash of watery ooze, so
potent its fumes almost hurt to inhale, acrid and pungent. Yellowish pre
splashed up James' stomach and chest, matted his hair to his skin and poured in
rivers over his sides.            At once he broke off the kiss
- his ass ached, his hole clenching then throwing itself open, each convulsion
in his rectum blasting his musk-juices - he cried out to the beast, futilely
wordless but utterly enslaved: he needed it in him - he needed to be bred.            He nudged the beast back,
sliding up slightly that they could make eye contact - what passed for eye
contact in the half darkness. He groaned out his wish, he presented himself
like an animal, lifted his legs into the air, ready to be taken.            The beast bellowed out a call
of triumph, grabbing him roughly, near-throwing him over to get a better aim
for its cock to James' hole - now he was sobbing into the forest floor, a
torrid volcanism of unrestrained emotions.            The beast entered him,
spearing him like the piece of meat that, in his plummeting depravity, he was
so desirous of becoming.            And then - everything went
white, his whole being now a blinding synesthesia of pleasure, so intense that
for an instant he was certain that he would die this way.            His internal muscles spasmed
uncontrollably, slurping, sucking, hungrily on the beast's cock. Each spasmodic
clench sent a squirt of juice spraying down the beast's length, easing the way
for more to push inside. It was a pillar inside him, inhumanly thick, but it
slipped into his heat-soaked guts with ease - the shaft filled him, slid
frighteningly deep inside him.            Even then his body was simply
too small a vessel: the final length of its cock remained outside, steaming in
the chill air, as it ground its cockhead against some internal barrier within
him. The creature thrust, breath like a bellows across his shoulders and neck,
drool splattering down his back.            Tears streaked his cheeks, his
nose was snotty, his spit spilled over his lips - there, face-down on the
ground, twigs stuck in his beard, grass in his mouth, petrichor and the dusty
taste of crushed dead leaves dimmed the overwhelming reek of their mating -
there, second by second, was James becoming less, still less, a human.            His very flesh reshaped itself
as the beast fucked him, animal drives taken on a life of their own: he could
feel, a transporting euphoria, the as-yet shallow transformation sunk down to
his bones.            The heat, his heat, twisted
inside him like a living thing, the coils of a snake churning in his guts,
heartbeat bounding under his skin - he sobbed into the churned-up carpet of
grass and leaves even as he kept rutting back against the beast's shaft,
desperate for more, for all of it, beating his hips back against its stomach,
meeting each brutal thrust with one of his own.            Something like an old muscle
ache, a newfound locus of pain, throbbed inside him, and each of the beast's
thrusts rammed against it, against some twisted knot of muscle inside him, an
exquisite agony that brought fresh tears to his eyes, a rippling pleasure
radiating out afterward.            And then - the beast stopped.            In his consumed rapture he had
not noticed the open flood of semen that had erupted into him, had not heard
the victorious trumpet from the creature's muzzle - but he did feel, and felt
miserably, with bleakest sorrow, the thing withdraw, the slurping sound of the
cock leaving his ass final proof that the mating was over, that his ass had
been used for its prime, sole purpose.            James groaned - loud, a cry of
despair.            The withdrawal of the beast's
cock had left an insistent, obtrusive need that pained him - an imagined wound
inside his guts that throbbed, vicious, incessant. His asshole was clenching,
pulsing, as though there were a primitive consciousness attached to it,
starving, famished, consumed with lust, even as he writhed on the ground.            He had been taken, but it was
not enough.            He was not sated.            He had been fucked - but not
bred.            James' body sang with a fever
that the beast's semen, dripping slow from his abused asshole, stoked as though
it were a raging flame, burning him, melting him, remaking his very flesh - he
watched, eyes wet, lungs sucking in air, as dark fur burned up across his
forearms, prickling as it grew through his skin.            His balls bloomed with the
same hair, and his penis stood at attention yet again, lengthening, slimming,
tapering, taking on - although he could not see it - a hue of deeper red,
scarlet, moist and slippery.            An abrupt, brief, but
excruciating agony made his hands, and then his feet, seizure, nails shifting
under his skin, the clear keratin growing thicker, cloudy-dark - the old growth
snapped off, leaving him with ragged-edged claws, as above and so below, hands
and feet, obsidian, near-radiant in the darkness.The hair across his thighs and
ass grew with the same bloom, new fur pushing up from his sodden skin, already
tangled in tufts down the backs of his thighs - a new tail, bursting from a
descended coccyx, skin dripping messily where it emerged, appeared just above
his anus.            All of this to his amazement,
cries of swept joy emanating out of him, his ability to use language, human
language, annihilated with his first rutting.            But a seizing cramp attacked
his stomach, his bowels, and he curled into a fetal position, the cries of
happiness morphing, as he was, into cries of bewilderment.            He could feel - things inside
him opening, shifting, new passages forming, the whole of his design becoming
freshly anew.            The image of the beast's cock
invaded his brain, filled his vision in violent hallucination, so strong, so
large, so virile, so - fertile.            Again he cried out, weak, a
susurrus in the still Autumn night, his vocal cords strained now, strange now,
he sounded - different, he sounded - in his quiet supplication to nothing, like
one of the beasts.            Hearing himself this way let
the fever break and in its wake, singing in his veins, every heartbeat, came
the need to breed.            Where had the beast gone? He
needed him - he needed that dick, he needed that power, this new emptiness in
his new organs filled, to the brim, with life-giving fluid.            On all fours he dropped, and
he began to crawl.            Maybe, maybe the monster would
come back, maybe it would fuck him again, and he sniffed the air, helpless,
trying to detect where it could have gone. Perhaps it was with his herd - the
whole herd could take him, then, one after the other. And if not them - some
hiker, human cock too small, too puny, disgusting in its inferior design but it
would do, anything, anything at all, to fill the aching emptiness inside him.            He could not say how long or
how far he went, a dazed shamble on all fours, bashing near-blind against
trees, whining and bleating, the moonlight his only guide.            James was desperate, the heat
in his ass at an intense peak, its constant drool of musk sopping his new fur -
his breathing became labored as his despair grew and grew.            He could not take it anymore -
thick tears came to his face as the musk began to flow in larger and larger
amounts, his arousal, his heat, controlling everything he did...            ... from the corner of his
vision he saw a solitary white pine amidst the thick growth of older, larger
trees - there was a burst of activity in his febrile brain, a solution,
ingenious and awful.            He approached it still on all
fours, and leaned into it, ass-first - his hole clenched and opened and he
shuddered at the touch, the rough flaky bark scraping his assflesh, the very
touch so sensitive and delicate that sparks flew up in his mind's eye.            Yes - yes, this was what he
needed to do.            James took his rear end, his
new tail up, and moved it, up and down, down and up, against the shaggy bark of
the pine tree, letting it scrape roughly against his fertile, drippy ass.            Faster and faster he did it,
harder, harder, pressing into the trunk so that his cheeks were splayed and
near wrapped around it, more and more, the sensation of feeling so exultant he
did not last long. His first orgasm in his new, evolved form, built and then
erupted, spraying cum that started as normally human and ended, in mere
seconds, as yellowish, in tandem with a new slow churn of musk out of his hole.
            The tree was marked - he would come back to it
later. Others would follow.            A lassitude overtook him and
he stumbled forward, crashing to the ground, where he lay in a post-orgasmic
cloud for - for how long?            He knew so little, his sense
of time was nonexistent.            It was night when he set out,
and it was still night when he rose, slowly, very slowly, and continued his
blind journey to find the rest of the herd, and night yet still, when he
emerged out of the densest heart of those woods, and into the clearing.            The way was guarded with two
boulders, the ground underneath toothy with rocks, spidery lines of lichen
along innumerable cracks. And as if the tableau had been waiting for him all
along, there were two of the deer monsters in the clearing, bleating and
hollering at each other.            The pair of men-deer were at
opposite ends of the clearing, their hands and hooves at the ready on rock.
Their argument - or so it seemed - was concluded by the first giving a loud
grunt, answered by a repeated, concurring noise from the second.            And then - the way of nature,
the way of the woods, the way of all animals this way - they charged towards
each other, antlers lowered.            They met with a crash, bodies
rebounding from the force of the impact, and they shifted and swung around, met
again with a crash - horns locked together.            They bellowed, awful, territorial,
as they fought, one angling its head down, the other angling up, sending their
antlers in a stalemated scrape together.            And now one snarled, straining
forward, a clawed hand raised in bestial supremacy, shoving, and like that the
two rose into their hind legs, hands clasped together as they butted heads,
breath wheezing through their throats so that their whole bodies became
wreathed in fog.            James was mesmerized by them -
their gorgeous, relentless masculinity, the strength that was so raw and naked
and displayed with such savage disdain for modesty and inhibition.            He breathed a cloudy vapor
that fumed from his mouth in increasing puffs.            He could not look away -
swelling in his chest, an attraction, a desire, so ferocious it felt as though
his heart would be rent asunder, a gory disaster in his chest cavity.            The both of them were
half-hard, the swell of their knobbled cockheads jutting from their sheaths,
wobbling, jostling, powerfully, wetly, with every stray movement of their
bodies.            James wanted them - he wanted
them both, to be mated to them in the mystic forest tradition that was stark
and nameless and eternal as the mountains themselves.            Without thinking he let out a
long groan, digging his fingers into his anus, meeting a fresh dose of musk to
dribble over his knuckles, and he arched his back, spearing himself in an
obsessive desire - too hard, his vision whiting, blurring, a camera out of
focus, around the edges. His own shuddering cry was indistinguishable from the
bugling roars of the fighting beasts.            One of the creatures twisted,
distracted by the display, and the other took advantage, hooves shifting under
the flurry of churned up grass - they toppled, the one on top bellowing
triumphant.            James' eyes slid back to the
pair, body trembling, shaking, with a carnal lust that waxed grotesque in a
slow burning across his skin, in his body.            Before they had even settled
James was lurching forward, crawling on his hands and knees, desperate,
anxious, to feel their strength, to become joined with them - his asshole
clenched, wet ooze spilling down the back of his balls, before it opened wide
like a hungry mouth.            They were still fighting,
antlers scraping with an ear-shattering din, but they fell deaf on James' ears:
too focused, too ravenous, for anything but their cocks, drawn up tight against
their bodies, so fat and heavy and fertile, the taut flesh of their balls
rippling with each impact.            He tumbled into them,
sprawling them sideways across the trampled grass, green smears across their
fur and his skin alike - their fingers brushed his flank and he moaned, eyes
rolling back into his head simply from the touch: he moved into it, bearing
down, guiding the clawed fingers to his ass, moist and hungry.            They were both unsheathing,
their beautiful, bestial cocks leaving slimy smears where they smacked against
his thighs and belly, and finally - finally - one of them jerked up, the victor
after all, spearing into him effortlessly. The stretch of his aching flesh was
so right James went boneless, dead weight sinking down onto the length of cock
until he was pressed against its fat sheath, the whole of it still stiffening
and lengthening inside him, the heavy drag turning into a sharper, fuller
motion as the beast pulled him back, thrusting hard into him, snarling and
bleating against his neck.            The loser ground against his
front, cock dribbling up his stomach, and James gave it a glassy-eyed stare,
mouth slack, hands loosely circling its shaft, tugging it needfully to a full
erection as its challenger pounded into his aching hole.            The penis lengthened, longer,
fuller, but it did not seem to come forth all the way - and shortly he
discovered way. It chubbed, merely halfway, and from it poured a steady stream
of acrid, near-clear yellowish fluid that, in the moonlight, nearly sparkled.
It splashed onto James' face, on his neck, then down his back - the scent was
noisome, a hideously aromatic acridity, a near-physical force...            ... and James relished it.            He was being marked - he was
becoming a part of their tribe, true family, true kin.            Even as he stank of the
thing's piss, James bowed forward, pressing his lips to its muzzle, breath
puffing out in bursts with each thrust, the other monster swallowing down his
sounds as it began to kiss back, its tongue, thick, welcoming, lapped into his
panting, drooling mouth, hips jerking under James as it began thrusting against
his hands.            The other beast snarled,
twisting James' head around, breaking the kiss, and shoved its muzzle into his
face, tongue lapping from cheek to jaw before it, too, plunged its tongue into
his panting mouth.            And now the first beast
rutted, the wet slap of its balls meeting his ass, musk spilling down onto the
lap of the second beast below them, coating its unsheathing cock as James
pumped it up and down, reeking bursts of animal pre gushing from the tip,
splattering in an oily film across his belly and chest.            The beast ground against him,
snarling more - and like before, James was simply too small... the final inches
of the beast's unsheathed cock ground between his cheeks, the knobbled tip
rammed deep into his guts.            But this time James ground
back, bearing down on the shaft, aiming for the twisted knot of muscle deep
inside him. The beast's frenzied thrusts rammed against it again and again,
spittle flecking his shoulders, gurgling streams of pre flooding down his ass,
erupting in gushes as he tried desperately to take, entirely, the beast's cock.            James saw stars - above him
the moonlight seemed to bend and waver in his vision, he was transported; he
was no longer a part of this world or this existence - it was though he was
dead.            In this limitless moment, he
could not feel, erupting, branching, out of his head, pure bone, his own set of
antlers - could not see them gleam uncanny in the shafts of light from the
Moon, and could not, also, see his two companion beasts pause in their respect
ministrations to nuzzle at them, to bellow deep and proud that their new member
had attained physical parity to them at last.            The growth of his antlers,
devoid of the fresh velvet that would make him closer to a true deer in the
wild, but still dripping with blood from his abraded scalp, the skin hanging
off in small clumps, at last stopped - and they were magnificent, a pointed,
spiked symphony of ivory.            The sight of him like this
made the creatures' lust all the worse, and the one fucking him found itself in
a paroxysm of newfound pleasure, as within James himself, a new passage had
opened up, now violated, the beast's cockhead rammed straight up into his very
core, bidding him open further - its dick slammed between his cheeks, bloated
sheath flesh pressed in against his asshole.            Back to consciousness James
returned - his eyes rolled back in his head, wildly fucking himself on the
beast's cock, gasping at fur and flesh below him, determined, his own cravings
screaming at him, lost in the sensation, clawed hands on his hips and
shoulders, a muzzle pressing against his lips at the same time another laved
across his chest, lapping and nipping at his nipples.            Another seconds-long gush of
watery preseed, spraying up across his chest, trickled between them as the
victor fucked him, the steady crack of each thrust a drumbeat in James' head,
counterpart to the racing hum that was his heartbeat.            James bleated, bellowing out a
cry - an animal noise, his throat warped already, unable to make cogent human
sounds.            He sobbed, he convulsed around
the beast's cock, spilling his paltry load across the fur of the beast below
him, clenching to add friction, make each driving thrust hit him with the force
of a blow, the clenching throat deep inside him savoring each spurt of feral
precome until his belly began to gurgle nearly sloshing with each motion.            The two beasts grunted at each
other - an understanding, a communication - and the second monster lurched
forward, cock a burning brand from hips to chest...in a smooth motion it jerked
back, sliding through James' loose fist until the tip was under his balls, and
his next jerk backwards buried the both of their cocks in him.            James tipped his head back, a
scream that would not bear sound, hands clenching, digging into the fur below
him so hard he probably broke skin.            His heat-engorged asshole was
so yielding, swallowing up the twin cocks - the stretch unimaginable, but to
his altered body so easy, two wrist-thick cocks swallowed up inside him to the
sheath even as the beasts squabbled and fought, James between them thinking
only of the both of them breeding him, taking him again and again.            The beast below him bellowed
in triumph, its bleat echoing in James' ears, its cock throbbing inside him. 
            The clearing was filled with the wet slap of
their sheaths kissing his gaping asshole, again and again, body stretched
beyond what would be breaking for anyone else - syrupy lines of their yellowed
pre and his own musk-juices smeared under them, drawing out on each withdrawal
only to splatter across his haunches when they slammed back inside, knobbled
cockheads jamming into the clenching tunnel inside him. His asshole was not
merely just a second mouth, but hungry, suckling, second throat: swallowing and
swallowing, drinking down the beasts' fertile precum and only letting a thin
stream spill back out from his guts.            They used him - he allowed
them the privilege, the right. He was aware, subtly, the faintest sensation, as
a fly upon the skin, of his teats opening, a slow dribble of milk dripping onto
the ground - then two more, then two more again, until the ground below him was
rich with the liquescent cream of his...yes, that was what it was, his maternal offerings.
            James' eyes rolled back into his skull,
whuffing and drooling as he convulsed, asshole clamping and squirting around
their cocks as they hammered inside him, again and again, tongues lapped at his
skin, drooling down his shoulders, across his chest, teeth existing as points
of pressure against his overheated skin, fur thickening down the back of his
neck. Froth built between them, ooze, grimy bubbles speckling their fur,
soaking down to their skin as they mated as feral animals.            The victor in the duel before
orgasmed first, thrusts becoming short slaps, its knobbled cockhead never quite
pulling from his devouring hole - James' ass - as it ground its sheath, each
sharp thrust jolting James forward. 
            The beast bellowed, its body tensing, cock
twitching and shifting inside him just before it erupted, shooting with such
power that it stung - hot, impossibly potent bursts of feral semen burst inside
him, gurgling inside his aching womb, swallowed and held safe in its
destination. The beast came and came, unloading explosively until the pressure
ached, an ocean of thick stag issue inside him. The beast finally pulled back,
a single squirt of its load escaping with it, gushing in an opaque yellow-white
rope down the twin shafts lodged inside him.            The second beast, cock sliding
through his stretched passages made its final few thrusts, churning the load
already spilling inside him before it came with its own roar, hosing down the
walls of his womb with its bestial load until it churned and sloshed, gurgling
inside with each fresh pump, flesh aching and stretched.
            His clenching new cervix hungrily drank down
its issue as it pulled back, only smears left on its shaft as it spilled out,
the final dribbles grey-yellow in the moonlight, spilling across its underbelly
as its cock slipped between James' thighs. He was splattered with pre, oozing
from his gaping ass and churned into thick froth, but his body swallowed their
loads hungrily, issue a heavy wet weight deep inside him, sloshing and gurgling
nearly with each breath.            James slumped forward, heat
for the first time ebbing - not sated, not yet, but its fire guttering for the
first time since he'd woke. His milk did not cease its flow,  but slowed, at last.            His body was trembling,
exhausted, and he fell - not into sleep, precisely, but a restless kind of
waking dream, aware of his body sprawled on the matted grass, of the
deer-beasts who bred him leaving, and then, slowly, of luminous eyes appearing
at the edges of the clearing: the herd coming to him, drawing ranks around him.

            He must have dreamed the watching, glimmering,
gemstone-luminious eyes, because he opened his own eyes when he woke - perhaps it was just the sounds of their
approach: the clatter of hooves on stone and fallen leaves, the softer tread on
grass, the soft, paper-leather sound of their clawed hands curling over rocks,
trees, as they gathered around him, ringing the clearing...seven, yes, a small
number, an endangered species.            When he woke the Moon was
almost directly overhead, turning the clearing into a study in light and
shadow, the very faintest tinge of color, grey at the edges. 
            And standing before him, slowly emerging from
the shadows, was the final beast he'd seen in the ritual: the one holding the
wreath. His horns, lit by the moonlight, seemed to curl into existence,
revealed as distinct from the thicket of crisscrossing branches behind his
head: the yellow-brown bone nearly ivory in the moonlight, and slowly unfolding
into the light.             The eldest of the beasts; the
ancient patriarch of this tribe of animal beasts, an elk of Pliocene
proportions, so vast had James stood on two legs - had he still found it
natural to stand on two legs - his head would have been level with its own, horns
cracking the sky, blotting out stars and cutting the Moon into two crescents.            When he'd seen the old stag
before, in the ritual, it had seemed alien, almost deformed in its white-furred
gait - now it seemed simply nigh-divine, the ascendantly paramount of the herd,
the eldest, the master, the one who demanded service, the one who needed not
fights or bellows to prove himself. 
            James was eager - eager, so eagar, his anus
afire - to serve him.            The beast's cock was vaster
yet still than the animal lengths that hung from the herd around him: the size
of James' leg, even the thin tapered tip fatter than his fist. James swayed,
everything else whirling around him as he sunk forward, beneath the grand
beast's bulk, lapping at the filthy fur around its unsheathing cock, sucking
down mouthfuls of gritty old musk. It was so heavy, so hard, a treetrunk when
it twitched and slapped against his side, nearly enough to send him sprawling
on the ground. 
            And sprawl on the ground he did: hands planted
in the muddy mess he'd made in his last mating, hooves spread wide, grinding
his ass back against the length of its cock, overwhelmed mind thinking only of
the heat spanning from his tail to his shoulders and needing it sunk inside
him, needing his body speared through by that, the utter pinnacle of these
stag-things' warped masculinity, that grand stag's erect length a profane
natural god in its own right, speaking of some neolithic fertility ritual: the
act itself, fucking, mating, mother to a new species into the world.
            His nipples swelled, bloated grotesquely - a
torrent of milk spilled out, onto the ground, out of him, out of James, future
mother to a new race, fresh progeny.            His ass was grossly distended,
a thick ring of heat-engorged flesh, supple and oozing as he rutted against the
beast's underbelly, knocking its shaft against his puffy flesh and sliding up
until he captured the tip between his cheeks - its watery pre flooding across
his back and licking down his sides, pouring like rain to the ground below.           Even
then it was a struggle, the tapered cockhead scraping through his ring,
spreading flesh in thick slabs, so solid James nearly didn't have the strength
in his heat-weakened limbs to push himself backwards.            James shoved himself
desperately backwards, nearly hanging limp from the spire of its cock, the
grand beast's hooves unmoving around him - his elder legs were like unto
pillars fixing the ground to the sky, so magnificent and perfect and masculine
was this creature's form. 
            The broken ring of James' ass smeared onto the
length of its cock, twinges of pain breaking through even the euphoric hunger
of heat. 
            Each burst of pre felt like it was pissing
inside him: long, shuddering gushes of watery slime pouring inside him,
pressure growing until it squirted from his asshole and painted their
respective haunches, the shaggy fur of the beast's underbelly hanging down in
long tassels, soaked to James' skin, wiping back and forth to coat him fully in
its own precum. 
            James had a hungry mouth inside him that the
elder beast battered against, the muscle blooming open like a flower in an
obscenely wet gush, the fertile issue from his prior suitors drooling out
around the patriach's shaft, oozing in grimy tendrils to the ground.            His muscles gaped around its
cockhead, wetly suckling like a babe from a teat. Each flex of its cock rippled
through his body, its urethra flexing open like a kiss against the deepest
recesses of his being, bidding his new teats, having sprouted from his flesh,
to pour out milk, yet more milk, heavy cream, deliciously aromatic of wood,
grass, fresh verdure in the dead of Autumn. 
            James' womb ached from the sheer volume of the
patriarch's gift, wetly gurgling and churning with each new blast of pre,
bursting inside him and gushing out around the patriarch beast's cock: watery
fluid streaming in burning rivers down his insides, building up in sloshing
reservoirs and erupting from his ass in messy runnels, splattering the ground
beneath with his milk, and churning into tarry mud as he forced himself back on
the grand stag's cock, his new uterus nearly filled completely by the beast's
solid cockflesh.            He arched against the beast,
taking on a new obsession, until the beast finally rutted back against him,
implacable flesh boring deep inside him, gushes of pre gurgling inside him and
pouring back out, upwelling around his achingly used body. 
            James groaned, nearly collapsing bonelessly
from the single thrust. The beast bellowed, head tipped up as if to drink from
the Moon overhead, and its cock convulsed, each pulse nearly painful as its
tissue swelled and receded inside him.            The first gush was nearly a
half-second later, a scalding rush of heat inside him burning his core. James
panted, a feral whine bleating from his mouth, stuttered and trembling as the
beast filled him with its issue. His body gurgled, drinking muscles
overwhelmed, rubbery and aching against the implacable pillar of the beast's
cock. Seed filled him in pulses, flesh bloating and distending as his womb was
filled beyond capacity, his body appearing nearly pregnant already before his
hungry cervix stretched and parted, a solid gush of grimy off-white cum
erupting from his ass and splattering across the beast's haunches, each new
gush inside him met after seconds by a eruption between their bodies, the
patriarch's load already so much more than all three of the other beasts
combined, sluicing down his furred legs and webbing in messy tendrils between
them, and still the beast's ejaculation went on and on until the ground beneath
them was churned and sloppy, soil rich and dark with the beast's excess.            The final pulses kicked deep
directly inside James' womb, and, exhausted, he slumped, nigh-gelatinous, off
the beast's cock, falling to a pile into the rich mud below - a wet slurp
echoed from inside him as he fell to the ground, ass gaping, cervix deep inside
him slowly pursing closed, a messy noise of semen squirting across his inner
walls until his aching uterus slowly sealed shut in a final frothy gush of
bestial cum, sticking the fur of his tail to his ass cheeks. His asshole
followed seconds later, a pair of painful slabs as they ground against each
other, musk still squirting across his cheeks, forming runnels through the mass
of come coating his lower body, new fur matted flat to his skin.            He was dimly aware of hooves
on the ground next to him, a thick layer of semen flooding over top the
churned-up mud, and of hands, claws, grasping his sides and arms, slowly
shifting his delirium-stricken body. 
            His eyes slipped closed, only catching snatches
of beast-like faces lit by moonlight in flickers as he was jolted, before he
was finally laid down in a pile of fall leaves, which became nearly glued to
his bare skin as he stirred, approaching sleep. 
            A furry body curled around him, muscles strong
against his aching flesh, and as its warmth soaked into his bones James slipped
fully into sleep.            Ambiently, in the night, he
heard more noises, and felt bodies shift around him. 
            Inquisitive claws dragged around his flushed
ass, peeling away crusted layers of semen, pushing inside his hole, James
groaned aloud, twisting to the side to give the beast better access, groaning
in his half-slumber as the beasts lapped at his ass, coaxing fresh musk even as
he dreamed.
            The lapse in time became complete - it was no
longer a matter of waking, dreaming, and breeding, but an impenetrable
surreality that he was disallowed, forever, for the rest of his mortal life,
from comprehending.            The days passed in a haze - he
would wake, crusted with issue, skin tacky and fur matted, and presented
himself to more deer, the precious: mounted a half-dozen times, each cock
feeding the hunger inside him, even though he knew by now he was thoroughly
bred. 
            He was filled until it drooled down his thighs,
fed bark and berries on platters of leaves, munched them on his omnivorous
human teeth - the same actions, the same cycle, went on until dusk, and then
again, repeated and permuted, day after day for a full week, perhaps, before the haze of his heat
even began to ebb.            The breeding had taken, he
knew even before he began to show - his purpose, his mutation, his change, for
the good of an endangered and deleteriously small herd. 
            He would be a mother.
            It was like a second heart inside him, a
pulsing core of new life: a new fawn for the herd, the first in a time that
would remain, for humans, for the world that James had forcibly abandoned,
immemorial, for the semen of the patriarch dwarfed and embarrassed - if such a
thing could be possible - the seed of the other herd, and so it was that he was
impregnated, immediately, impossibly, with the last of whom his musk-laden rear
had craved.
            How many seasons had the creatures held that
ritual, baying up at some feral god? Waiting for him - for someone like him,
for James. This was the inescapable,
the complete, the utter truth: his arrival - fate or chance, it was inevitable,
inexorable either way.
            He was always going to end up like this,
somehow. 
            He chased after the beasts, the cryptids, the
unknown, and eventually the unknown caught him - and now he was amongst them.            Now, soon, he would be heavy
with child, or rather fawn - it would quicken in the night as the Autumn drew
on to Winter, it would rouse him from his slumber.
            Sleepily, in the nightvision that had possessed
his eyes with his evolution, he would grip his hands over his stretched belly,
bigger by the day knowing that the fawn of the patriarch that had bred him was
nestled there, that it would come out of his musk-slicked ass and be unsteady
on its feet before he would lick it with his still-human tongue, and love it,
as his own, daughter or son. 
            And he would bellow, softly, to not the wake
the other slumbering members of the herd - how perfect, how happy he was, his
belly bulging and swollen with a new a life inside him.
            Some mornings he would awake, sick and weak -
he would vomit, and cry out, but the herd was there, to lick him tenderly, to
bring him obscure herbs to calm his upset stomach as the fawn grew and grew
inside his belly, bigger, bigger every day.
            There would be months to go, he knew, before
Spring, before he could birth this beautiful new creation to the world and
raise it with love - then, he knew, somehow, would come the heat, once more,
the craving and the need and the expulsions of his delicious, spiced, meaty
musk...he would be ready for the herd, bred over and over again until it took. 
            He would beckon with an animal bugle from his
ever-human lips the patriarch, the eldest and the wisest and the greyest, as
new mate, as new companion, and be rewarded with thick, rich, delicious,
ever-fertile seed, inside him, his body now built to keep it all, and swell
with progeny, season after season after season.            Here he was, his new life, his
new family - as his human had been, going where the mysterious wind had taken
them, so too had taken him...and he would never leave it.
            He was nature - he was a part of a herd of
uncharted, unknowable creatures.
            He was
now what he had always been seeking.

Source: https://sofurry.com/view/867754