# Rat Prince: Act III

Author: Aux Chiens
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

Rat PrinceAct III
Should you a Rat to madness
tease
Why ev'n a Rat may plague you..._________ 
Samuel
Taylor Coleridge, "Recantation"
            "Hampton..."
            Cameron was sure it was him,
the thick-rimmed glasses set in the owl-like face, eyebrows meeting over his
nose in profound puzzlement as to what he was seeing, what he was smelling - yes,
that was him, Hampton, that was his room-mate, his best friend since Fourth Grade,
that stupid son of a bitch that was always choosing girls over him, bros before hoes, worthless fucking
kissass.
            "Hey - Hampton."
            "C-Cam? Is that--?"
            "Shut the door - Hampton."

            It hurt his throat to talk,
some dire malfunction in his vocal cords made his new voice come out strained
and strangled, and he saw that the noise that carried Hampton's name on it,
alien and threatening, startled him - the bag already in the door, his hand
over his mouth and nose, Hampton jerked backward, slightly, just slightly
enough to slam the door shut behind him, and Cameron knew what his eyes would
be focusing on, the single gleaming eye that radiated phosphorescently in the
fading light of the evening, there in their foyer.
            "F-fuck - fuck what the fuck is--"
            "Hampton..." He said that word again, that word that had curious,
barely tangible meaning that was evaporating from his brain, the memories
between them dying relentlessly. "Hampton."

            "C-Cameron? What - what
the fuck is that smell?!"
            Lucidity returned to him in a
shallow wave: "Shut the fuck up,
Hampton."
            The bag fell off Hampton's
shoulder with a thud, and there was an angry shifting of feet as he drew nearer
away from the door- cautiously, in the dim light, the greyness that Cameron
could now see perfectly in.
            "God dammit Cam, I'm not
playing, turn on a fucking light! What the hell are you doing?"
            Cameron wanted to answer - his
mouth hung open like he was going to answer, his brain nominally firing along
the necessary neurons to answer...
            ...but he did not.
            In the time it took for him to
become this, now - in the time it took for little fucking rodent Cameron to
become a rat - something was shook
loose, something was remembered.
            His life had been a sliver of
nothing in humanity, nothing long and certainly nothing profound - yet who was
there always to make it seem like it was? 
            "I..."
            He could not find the words,
not yet - for one, and only one, pressed against the mess of thought.
            "Hampton."
            "Yes, that's my fucking
name, Cam, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?"
            A question:
            Who had meant so much to him
because everyone who used to was dead, or a piece of  who, now, was always evasive and always
elusive because he was constantly plowing some bitch he didn't love, and who - who had left him alone, like this, to
suffer, to die, and be reborn yes but still, still so much pain, still  so much loneliness but who would never, ever,
let him cling, like he wanted to, in the dreams he told nobody about, the two
of them, perfect, Cam and Ham like
the old days?
            An answer:
            "Hamp...ton..."
            He heard a futile flicking of
the light-switch, and the exasperated yell: 
            "Man, fuck you Cam, okay? Fuck you, fucking
house smells like something died in here and you're playing games? Where the fuck - are you? You know how many times Jimmy
John's called me looking for your punkass?"
            Cameron made a noise - an
animal noise, something closer to his heart, his new heart, and his old heart
too, all of which, at           Hampton's
words, set off an unrestricted, unexpected chain reaction...and broke it.
            They were mere yards apart and
Hampton could not see him though he could certainly smell him, the nauseating
zombified miasmatic cataclysm of every foul stench the Earth should keep hid -
they were mere yards apart and Hampton could not see him and so it was easy, so
easy, for Cameron to rush at him, knock him down, in rage, rage he had never
felt in his life, rage that completed his entire
life, the life he had though he and Hampton shared together, accidentally,
incidentally, two boys who should have never have ended up like this.
            It was easy - it was too easy.
            All Cameron had to do was
slash Hampton's throat with his claws, right through the flesh, a knife through
warm butter, once, twice, it was like swatting at a fly, the way a cat plays
with a toy, a cat, a pussy, pussy, kitty cat, and the ribbons of skin,
blood, cartilage, sinew, it all flew away, left and right and right and left
there on the floor of their foyer, it splattered the walls where he had feasted
on his own rancid cum, it pooled beneath where he had lain earlier that night,
and the smell, the iron-bitter smell of blood, briefly, with each dig, shot
into his nose, overpowered his own stink, the stink of his home, again, again,
again...
            It was over so soon - it was
over too soon.
            He looked down at what he had
done - the lifeless eyes that stared into nothing, the faint gurgling death-rattle
of wind breathing into a ruined respiratory system, the throat dug into like a
fresh predator's kill.
            He blinked.
            For a second there was real
fear, real regret, behind the ghoulish phosphorescence of his animal eyeshine. 
            He retreated back, off of the
corpse, the still-warm corpse that he made, the body of his best friend, Brett
Hampton - his clawed hand went to its cheek and lifted the head, lifeless,
unresponsive, the eyes staring ahead, unblinkling.
            With a cry he dropped
Hampton's head to twist to one side, back to the floor.
            What had he done?
            His humanity was still there,
still barely there, an oil that floated atop the water of the animal, creature,
monster that he was now, the skimming froth that crusted over his existence -
his humanity demanded to be made known, his humanity reminded him that he had
done something so unutterably terrible there was no escaping his new fate.
            Hampton was dead.
            He had killed him.
            This was it, the break, the
final outrage, what would divorce him from the world he was birthed into
against his will and ripped from the same way - the livid murder of his only
friend left, the only human left to care for and about him, even if it was
begrudging, even if was the casual way straight boys are defined to express
compassion for one another.
            Cameron's breath became ragged
as he stood up - his tail stiffen, twitched, fell to the floor with a dull thump,
his penis firm inside the obtrusively sheath he had developed, the
far-too-plump testicles wobbling in place with the sudden movement.
            He looked down at the mangled
thing that had been Hampton, Brett Hampton, his best friend, a human, just as
he was, once.
            He stared - and stared, and
stared.
            And then he bolted away.
            What happened next passed like
the memory one has of a dream that occurs unexpectedly in mid-day, when the
light hits the eye in such a way that some peculiar recollection is made -
only, instead of a waking lucidity, Cameron could not break the fugue-state he
had entered, the crawling chaos of his dying humanity, morality, coming off in
pieces and breaking off in bits of broken reality.
            There was the throwing open of
the closet door where they kept the lighter fluid for his Zippo - the orgasmic,
ejaculatory motions of it leaving the plastic bottle, up, a liquescent arc,
like cum fired from a penis, because in the crash and ruin of Cameron's brain
all he could think about, relate to, was semen, slime, sexual fluid.
            It moved in slow-motion and
then no motion at all, a blurred greyness, a waking dream that begged him in a
language his brain could no longer tolerate to awake, awake, but he could not,
no, and he would not - and so the bottle shook, and so the bottle moved, until
it was empty, a wet mass of flammability on the ground beneath him.
            He stopped what he was doing -
the memory, the suggestion, it had become too much for him, that salient idea
of fluid, liquid, sex, simply being reminded of it and now he had to act on it,
he had to open his mouth and bare those sharpened incisors that he was not born
with to the darkness, take his clawed hands...and grip the unyielding pillar of
moist meat that passed for his penis.
            The bottle of lighter fluid
dropped to his feet and made a small splash - he did not see it.
            He used both hands, both hands
now around his penis, larger, far larger and more rigid than what it had been
in the days that he had been fully human, days that were passing into oblivion
so rapidly it was as though he had never been one at all - that, with each
stroke in the slick surface that swelled, as though delighted, in his hand,
each high-pitched grunt as pleasure shot to his deforming brain, his very
existence was being destroyed.
            He had been born, Cameron
Oliver.
            And then this...
            ...and then the rest of his life.
            Nothing else mattered.
            The last truly cogent words
that he spoke, other than snippets of slurred, reedy speech that barely counted
as communication, for the rest of life, were so pithy, so perfect, it almost -
given any other situation than this.
            "N-nothing - fucking - matters - cuz I'm a fucking--" 
            Then was the final word, the
new baptism, the new régime, alpha and omega for who he now was:
            "--rat."
            His blind orgasm made him lose
balance and he convulsed backwards so that his cum which shot like a geyser, went
up, up and over, an arc, splattered down to his face and he held his mouth open
to catch it, magical elixir, water-of-life...
            The darkness was still around
him.
            It was so quiet.
            He sat on his tail, dazed, the
letdown and the afterglow, the soft descent to being a junkie - all, finished.
            He was not lucid - he was not
well - he was sick, and he had nowhere to go...
            He stood up, although even in
his own house, he still had nowhere to go - before crying out, doubling over, a
hand shooting to his stomach.
            It seized his belly - his slender
frame suddenly, violently, seizing, inverting,
a searing pang of hunger accompanying it, and he opened his mouth, the
ivory-like teeth that he had grown, the rat's jaws that he now possessed, in a
vain motion, like vomiting, that came from an extreme famishment that he was
sure would kill him were it not sated.
            A desperate look over his
shoulder - Hampton? Meat? Human--?
            He groaned, his new, reedy,
nasal-inflected voice piercing the night air.
            No - not raw flesh - his stomach would not tolerate it, nothing solid,
nothing he would need to chew...liquid - liquid.
            He knew he would go now.        
            He knew how to make the hunger
stop.
            He knew where he was wanted - a rat like him.
            He found his Zippo, he lit it,
he ripped open the door, thrown off its hinges, and shot across the road, no
cars to illuminate him, no lights to cast a shadow - he dove into the darkness
and merged with it, it was as though he never existed in the real world at all.
            And although that part of
Tampa is still Tampa - still the endless yawn of suburbia where one can get
lost and very feasibly never return, swallowed by the sprawl - it is still a
community, a neighborhood, and people talk: the gossip at the local gas stations
over mediocre coffee and the dreary November mornings outside the elementary
school with darling children dropped off from SUVs, were all abuzz with hushed,
swapped secrets and raised eyebrows at hearsay and tall tales. 
            People talked. 
            People talked for months about
the duplex that burnt to the ground in an ashen heap that was made a black,
smoldering mess with the uncharacteristically chilly November rains. They
talked about how the fire was set deliberately, so the arson forensics found, and
they talked about how it was started without question by the vanished Cameron
Oliver, age eighteen, a loner whose Millennial teenage sanity finally snapped
somewhere, somehow. They talked about how he killed his best friend, Brett Hampton,
whose bored face with the big eyes and thick hipster glasses was paired with
the cute, sincere, innocent-looking Cameron on every major area paper and
repeated obnoxiously on BayNews9.
            People talked plenty.
            This, for the people who did
not inquire deeper, was certain, or at least certain enough that one could,
even much later, do some archive searching and piece together a narrative:
crazed kid, murderous rampage, arson, disappearance, massive police search,
still never found - haunting, tragic, but regrettably in today's America, not
at all shocking - there were mass guesses in the places on the Internet where
searchers after the weird and unexplainable like to gather, but nothing,
absolutely nothing, concrete.
            Even less concrete, the stuff
of dark neighborhood rumor, what was talked about then, and talked about for
months and then years afterward - even less concrete was the stuff that never
made the papers, never made the segments on the local news, but which cancelled
Halloween for little trick-or-treaters for years to come, and made the children
tremble with a new, scarier, realer boogeyman hushed at them by overbearing
parents.
            Some people had it on their
own good authority that they saw, loping across the road, a strange, misshapen,
near-human form - something that walked, limped, on two legs but had a tail, something that tore out of
the burning duplex, and vanished into the nature reserve that provided a
tasteful oasis and ratcheted land value. Something strange,
something...monstrous.
            They
said the police didn't search hard enough - they should have looked in there,
where the jungle was too thick and the shrubbery too bunched together, where
the trees were too tall. 
            Though they did not say it they
were unused to a Florida so pure, these immigrants, these non-natives, white
skin and brown skin and black skin it did not matter, they were all immigrants
and did not belong there.
            They did not like unmastered Florida,
Florida as it used to be even in a small dose and were probably, actually,
afraid of it: Florida, the real Florida, the Florida that the Spaniards mistook
in religious ecstasy for Eden, the Florida that Crackers settled and fought and
loved and died in...they did not want that, they wanted the convenient, breezy,
balmy Florida, eruptively paved over with bitumen vomited from belching steel
machines, and lit with a parade of Starbucks signs.
            Good for them.
            They did not want - and who would? - the truth, the truth
behind the rumor, the curtain pulled back, just this once.
            For Cameron Oliver was sating
his hunger - for Cameron Oliver had found his place.
            He was kneeling, in the
darkness he could see perfectly in, the moonlight that was brighter now,
boosted from the feeble crescent it had been however many nights it had been
before catching his new eyes and making them shine, making them burn, ghostly
fire amidst the enrobing canopy - kneeling for the penis of the great rat-like
thing that had brought him to this point, genuflecting, worshipping, sipping
the inconsequent squirts of arousal that splashed his tongue as ichor from the bleeding
vein of a god, ambrosia at the table of a deity.
            It reeked, it stunk, this
masterpiece of monstrous evolution, damp but warm, fertile and virile, full of
preternatural vigor - a penis much larger than his, belonging to the beast that
had turned him.
            He smeared it, the cock that
dwarfed even his, around his face, the parts that had fur on them and the parts
that would always be cursed by paltry human flesh, and he reveled in it,
intoxicated by it, the stink, the everlasting stench that never did but smelled
like death, like what humans knew to be death and yet for his kind, his
endangered kind that comprised only himself and the thing that had turned him,
it was life.
            He knew who it was in the same
breath that he knew who he was - and
he knew what the old stories meant, he knew what the shadows that had crawled
across him all these years meant, why his mother hated him, why his father
disappeared.
            Looking up at the beast, the
wan moonlight, the eyeshine down at him, he grinned, slowly, dementedly, devoid
of all things but bestial drive - and mated love.
            Came the voice that had caused
him so much trauma all those nights ago, drifting on the November air:
            "Welcome - my son."
            And then Cameron's voice, the
same:
            "Thank you - daddy."

Source: https://sofurry.com/view/871223