{"sf1_id":871223,"sf2_id":null,"title":"Rat Prince: Act III","author":"Aux Chiens","words":2963,"posted_at":"2015-06-09T03:08:00.000Z","tags":["Balls","Body Horror","Cock Growth","Cum","Death","Ejaculation","Extreme","Florida","Horror","Human","Rat","Snuff","Tail","Tail Growth","Transformation","arson","blood","gross","murder","saliva","semen","spit","teen","teeth","testicles"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/871223-rat-prince-act-iii","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/view/871223","image_url":"https://www.sofurryfiles.com/std/thumb?page=871223\u0026ext=.jpg","description":"","content":"Rat PrinceAct III\nShould you a Rat to madness\ntease\nWhy ev'n a Rat may plague you..._________ \nSamuel\nTaylor Coleridge, \"Recantation\"\n            \"Hampton...\"\n            Cameron was sure it was him,\nthe thick-rimmed glasses set in the owl-like face, eyebrows meeting over his\nnose in profound puzzlement as to what he was seeing, what he was smelling - yes,\nthat was him, Hampton, that was his room-mate, his best friend since Fourth Grade,\nthat stupid son of a bitch that was always choosing girls over him, bros before hoes, worthless fucking\nkissass.\n            \"Hey - Hampton.\"\n            \"C-Cam? Is that--?\"\n            \"Shut the door - Hampton.\"\n\n            It hurt his throat to talk,\nsome dire malfunction in his vocal cords made his new voice come out strained\nand strangled, and he saw that the noise that carried Hampton's name on it,\nalien and threatening, startled him - the bag already in the door, his hand\nover his mouth and nose, Hampton jerked backward, slightly, just slightly\nenough to slam the door shut behind him, and Cameron knew what his eyes would\nbe focusing on, the single gleaming eye that radiated phosphorescently in the\nfading light of the evening, there in their foyer.\n            \"F-fuck - fuck what the fuck is--\"\n            \"Hampton...\" He said that word again, that word that had curious,\nbarely tangible meaning that was evaporating from his brain, the memories\nbetween them dying relentlessly. \"Hampton.\"\n\n            \"C-Cameron? What - what\nthe fuck is that smell?!\"\n            Lucidity returned to him in a\nshallow wave: \"Shut the fuck up,\nHampton.\"\n            The bag fell off Hampton's\nshoulder with a thud, and there was an angry shifting of feet as he drew nearer\naway from the door- cautiously, in the dim light, the greyness that Cameron\ncould now see perfectly in.\n            \"God dammit Cam, I'm not\nplaying, turn on a fucking light! What the hell are you doing?\"\n            Cameron wanted to answer - his\nmouth hung open like he was going to answer, his brain nominally firing along\nthe necessary neurons to answer...\n            ...but he did not.\n            In the time it took for him to\nbecome this, now - in the time it took for little fucking rodent Cameron to\nbecome a rat - something was shook\nloose, something was remembered.\n            His life had been a sliver of\nnothing in humanity, nothing long and certainly nothing profound - yet who was\nthere always to make it seem like it was? \n            \"I...\"\n            He could not find the words,\nnot yet - for one, and only one, pressed against the mess of thought.\n            \"Hampton.\"\n            \"Yes, that's my fucking\nname, Cam, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?\"\n            A question:\n            Who had meant so much to him\nbecause everyone who used to was dead, or a piece of  who, now, was always evasive and always\nelusive because he was constantly plowing some bitch he didn't love, and who - who had left him alone, like this, to\nsuffer, to die, and be reborn yes but still, still so much pain, still  so much loneliness but who would never, ever,\nlet him cling, like he wanted to, in the dreams he told nobody about, the two\nof them, perfect, Cam and Ham like\nthe old days?\n            An answer:\n            \"Hamp...ton...\"\n            He heard a futile flicking of\nthe light-switch, and the exasperated yell: \n            \"Man, fuck you Cam, okay? Fuck you, fucking\nhouse smells like something died in here and you're playing games? Where the fuck - are you? You know how many times Jimmy\nJohn's called me looking for your punkass?\"\n            Cameron made a noise - an\nanimal noise, something closer to his heart, his new heart, and his old heart\ntoo, all of which, at           Hampton's\nwords, set off an unrestricted, unexpected chain reaction...and broke it.\n            They were mere yards apart and\nHampton could not see him though he could certainly smell him, the nauseating\nzombified miasmatic cataclysm of every foul stench the Earth should keep hid -\nthey were mere yards apart and Hampton could not see him and so it was easy, so\neasy, for Cameron to rush at him, knock him down, in rage, rage he had never\nfelt in his life, rage that completed his entire\nlife, the life he had though he and Hampton shared together, accidentally,\nincidentally, two boys who should have never have ended up like this.\n            It was easy - it was too easy.\n            All Cameron had to do was\nslash Hampton's throat with his claws, right through the flesh, a knife through\nwarm butter, once, twice, it was like swatting at a fly, the way a cat plays\nwith a toy, a cat, a pussy, pussy, kitty cat, and the ribbons of skin,\nblood, cartilage, sinew, it all flew away, left and right and right and left\nthere on the floor of their foyer, it splattered the walls where he had feasted\non his own rancid cum, it pooled beneath where he had lain earlier that night,\nand the smell, the iron-bitter smell of blood, briefly, with each dig, shot\ninto his nose, overpowered his own stink, the stink of his home, again, again,\nagain...\n            It was over so soon - it was\nover too soon.\n            He looked down at what he had\ndone - the lifeless eyes that stared into nothing, the faint gurgling death-rattle\nof wind breathing into a ruined respiratory system, the throat dug into like a\nfresh predator's kill.\n            He blinked.\n            For a second there was real\nfear, real regret, behind the ghoulish phosphorescence of his animal eyeshine. \n            He retreated back, off of the\ncorpse, the still-warm corpse that he made, the body of his best friend, Brett\nHampton - his clawed hand went to its cheek and lifted the head, lifeless,\nunresponsive, the eyes staring ahead, unblinkling.\n            With a cry he dropped\nHampton's head to twist to one side, back to the floor.\n            What had he done?\n            His humanity was still there,\nstill barely there, an oil that floated atop the water of the animal, creature,\nmonster that he was now, the skimming froth that crusted over his existence -\nhis humanity demanded to be made known, his humanity reminded him that he had\ndone something so unutterably terrible there was no escaping his new fate.\n            Hampton was dead.\n            He had killed him.\n            This was it, the break, the\nfinal outrage, what would divorce him from the world he was birthed into\nagainst his will and ripped from the same way - the livid murder of his only\nfriend left, the only human left to care for and about him, even if it was\nbegrudging, even if was the casual way straight boys are defined to express\ncompassion for one another.\n            Cameron's breath became ragged\nas he stood up - his tail stiffen, twitched, fell to the floor with a dull thump,\nhis penis firm inside the obtrusively sheath he had developed, the\nfar-too-plump testicles wobbling in place with the sudden movement.\n            He looked down at the mangled\nthing that had been Hampton, Brett Hampton, his best friend, a human, just as\nhe was, once.\n            He stared - and stared, and\nstared.\n            And then he bolted away.\n            What happened next passed like\nthe memory one has of a dream that occurs unexpectedly in mid-day, when the\nlight hits the eye in such a way that some peculiar recollection is made -\nonly, instead of a waking lucidity, Cameron could not break the fugue-state he\nhad entered, the crawling chaos of his dying humanity, morality, coming off in\npieces and breaking off in bits of broken reality.\n            There was the throwing open of\nthe closet door where they kept the lighter fluid for his Zippo - the orgasmic,\nejaculatory motions of it leaving the plastic bottle, up, a liquescent arc,\nlike cum fired from a penis, because in the crash and ruin of Cameron's brain\nall he could think about, relate to, was semen, slime, sexual fluid.\n            It moved in slow-motion and\nthen no motion at all, a blurred greyness, a waking dream that begged him in a\nlanguage his brain could no longer tolerate to awake, awake, but he could not,\nno, and he would not - and so the bottle shook, and so the bottle moved, until\nit was empty, a wet mass of flammability on the ground beneath him.\n            He stopped what he was doing -\nthe memory, the suggestion, it had become too much for him, that salient idea\nof fluid, liquid, sex, simply being reminded of it and now he had to act on it,\nhe had to open his mouth and bare those sharpened incisors that he was not born\nwith to the darkness, take his clawed hands...and grip the unyielding pillar of\nmoist meat that passed for his penis.\n            The bottle of lighter fluid\ndropped to his feet and made a small splash - he did not see it.\n            He used both hands, both hands\nnow around his penis, larger, far larger and more rigid than what it had been\nin the days that he had been fully human, days that were passing into oblivion\nso rapidly it was as though he had never been one at all - that, with each\nstroke in the slick surface that swelled, as though delighted, in his hand,\neach high-pitched grunt as pleasure shot to his deforming brain, his very\nexistence was being destroyed.\n            He had been born, Cameron\nOliver.\n            And then this...\n            ...and then the rest of his life.\n            Nothing else mattered.\n            The last truly cogent words\nthat he spoke, other than snippets of slurred, reedy speech that barely counted\nas communication, for the rest of life, were so pithy, so perfect, it almost -\ngiven any other situation than this.\n            \"N-nothing - fucking - matters - cuz I'm a fucking--\" \n            Then was the final word, the\nnew baptism, the new régime, alpha and omega for who he now was:\n            \"--rat.\"\n            His blind orgasm made him lose\nbalance and he convulsed backwards so that his cum which shot like a geyser, went\nup, up and over, an arc, splattered down to his face and he held his mouth open\nto catch it, magical elixir, water-of-life...\n            The darkness was still around\nhim.\n            It was so quiet.\n            He sat on his tail, dazed, the\nletdown and the afterglow, the soft descent to being a junkie - all, finished.\n            He was not lucid - he was not\nwell - he was sick, and he had nowhere to go...\n            He stood up, although even in\nhis own house, he still had nowhere to go - before crying out, doubling over, a\nhand shooting to his stomach.\n            It seized his belly - his slender\nframe suddenly, violently, seizing, inverting,\na searing pang of hunger accompanying it, and he opened his mouth, the\nivory-like teeth that he had grown, the rat's jaws that he now possessed, in a\nvain motion, like vomiting, that came from an extreme famishment that he was\nsure would kill him were it not sated.\n            A desperate look over his\nshoulder - Hampton? Meat? Human--?\n            He groaned, his new, reedy,\nnasal-inflected voice piercing the night air.\n            No - not raw flesh - his stomach would not tolerate it, nothing solid,\nnothing he would need to chew...liquid - liquid.\n            He knew he would go now.        \n            He knew how to make the hunger\nstop.\n            He knew where he was wanted - a rat like him.\n            He found his Zippo, he lit it,\nhe ripped open the door, thrown off its hinges, and shot across the road, no\ncars to illuminate him, no lights to cast a shadow - he dove into the darkness\nand merged with it, it was as though he never existed in the real world at all.\n            And although that part of\nTampa is still Tampa - still the endless yawn of suburbia where one can get\nlost and very feasibly never return, swallowed by the sprawl - it is still a\ncommunity, a neighborhood, and people talk: the gossip at the local gas stations\nover mediocre coffee and the dreary November mornings outside the elementary\nschool with darling children dropped off from SUVs, were all abuzz with hushed,\nswapped secrets and raised eyebrows at hearsay and tall tales. \n            People talked. \n            People talked for months about\nthe duplex that burnt to the ground in an ashen heap that was made a black,\nsmoldering mess with the uncharacteristically chilly November rains. They\ntalked about how the fire was set deliberately, so the arson forensics found, and\nthey talked about how it was started without question by the vanished Cameron\nOliver, age eighteen, a loner whose Millennial teenage sanity finally snapped\nsomewhere, somehow. They talked about how he killed his best friend, Brett Hampton,\nwhose bored face with the big eyes and thick hipster glasses was paired with\nthe cute, sincere, innocent-looking Cameron on every major area paper and\nrepeated obnoxiously on BayNews9.\n            People talked plenty.\n            This, for the people who did\nnot inquire deeper, was certain, or at least certain enough that one could,\neven much later, do some archive searching and piece together a narrative:\ncrazed kid, murderous rampage, arson, disappearance, massive police search,\nstill never found - haunting, tragic, but regrettably in today's America, not\nat all shocking - there were mass guesses in the places on the Internet where\nsearchers after the weird and unexplainable like to gather, but nothing,\nabsolutely nothing, concrete.\n            Even less concrete, the stuff\nof dark neighborhood rumor, what was talked about then, and talked about for\nmonths and then years afterward - even less concrete was the stuff that never\nmade the papers, never made the segments on the local news, but which cancelled\nHalloween for little trick-or-treaters for years to come, and made the children\ntremble with a new, scarier, realer boogeyman hushed at them by overbearing\nparents.\n            Some people had it on their\nown good authority that they saw, loping across the road, a strange, misshapen,\nnear-human form - something that walked, limped, on two legs but had a tail, something that tore out of\nthe burning duplex, and vanished into the nature reserve that provided a\ntasteful oasis and ratcheted land value. Something strange,\nsomething...monstrous.\n            They\nsaid the police didn't search hard enough - they should have looked in there,\nwhere the jungle was too thick and the shrubbery too bunched together, where\nthe trees were too tall. \n            Though they did not say it they\nwere unused to a Florida so pure, these immigrants, these non-natives, white\nskin and brown skin and black skin it did not matter, they were all immigrants\nand did not belong there.\n            They did not like unmastered Florida,\nFlorida as it used to be even in a small dose and were probably, actually,\nafraid of it: Florida, the real Florida, the Florida that the Spaniards mistook\nin religious ecstasy for Eden, the Florida that Crackers settled and fought and\nloved and died in...they did not want that, they wanted the convenient, breezy,\nbalmy Florida, eruptively paved over with bitumen vomited from belching steel\nmachines, and lit with a parade of Starbucks signs.\n            Good for them.\n            They did not want - and who would? - the truth, the truth\nbehind the rumor, the curtain pulled back, just this once.\n            For Cameron Oliver was sating\nhis hunger - for Cameron Oliver had found his place.\n            He was kneeling, in the\ndarkness he could see perfectly in, the moonlight that was brighter now,\nboosted from the feeble crescent it had been however many nights it had been\nbefore catching his new eyes and making them shine, making them burn, ghostly\nfire amidst the enrobing canopy - kneeling for the penis of the great rat-like\nthing that had brought him to this point, genuflecting, worshipping, sipping\nthe inconsequent squirts of arousal that splashed his tongue as ichor from the bleeding\nvein of a god, ambrosia at the table of a deity.\n            It reeked, it stunk, this\nmasterpiece of monstrous evolution, damp but warm, fertile and virile, full of\npreternatural vigor - a penis much larger than his, belonging to the beast that\nhad turned him.\n            He smeared it, the cock that\ndwarfed even his, around his face, the parts that had fur on them and the parts\nthat would always be cursed by paltry human flesh, and he reveled in it,\nintoxicated by it, the stink, the everlasting stench that never did but smelled\nlike death, like what humans knew to be death and yet for his kind, his\nendangered kind that comprised only himself and the thing that had turned him,\nit was life.\n            He knew who it was in the same\nbreath that he knew who he was - and\nhe knew what the old stories meant, he knew what the shadows that had crawled\nacross him all these years meant, why his mother hated him, why his father\ndisappeared.\n            Looking up at the beast, the\nwan moonlight, the eyeshine down at him, he grinned, slowly, dementedly, devoid\nof all things but bestial drive - and mated love.\n            Came the voice that had caused\nhim so much trauma all those nights ago, drifting on the November air:\n            \"Welcome - my son.\"\n            And then Cameron's voice, the\nsame:\n            \"Thank you - daddy.\""}