{"sf1_id":875282,"sf2_id":null,"title":"Hecho En Florida","author":"Aux Chiens","words":6757,"posted_at":"2015-06-19T06:42:00.000Z","tags":["Cock Growth","Cum","Donkey","Flare","Florida","Sheath","Tail Growth","Transformation","Xaie","cigar","creepypasta","erection","hooves","mystery","semen","spooky","tobacco"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/875282-hecho-en-florida","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/view/875282","image_url":"https://www.sofurryfiles.com/std/thumb?page=875282\u0026ext=.jpg","description":"","content":"Hecho\nEn Florida\n\nHe would say that God had given him a tail to keep the flies off, but that he\nwould sooner have had no tail and no flies._________ George\nOrwell, Animal Farm\n            Anyone who has travelled that part of I-4 from Tampa to\nOrlando - a well-worn trip, it's the quickest way to get to Disneyworld, after\nall - has heard the same thing, the same joke, the same comment, in any number\nof ways: there ain't nuthin out there.\n            This is one of the truisms of\nthe American life: along that stretch of highway it becomes uncharacteristically\nlonesome, empty, and the discussion becomes why this is so, how odd it is in\nmechanized, brutalized Florida that suddenly the land goes flat, treed - and green. \n            After the Summer rains...\n            There are two seasons in\nFlorida: dry, and rainy. This is not unusual for some parts of the American\nSouth but it is most pronounced in Florida, it makes the culture and the\ntemperament of its people fundamentally different - it's one theory why so much\nweird shit goes on in Florida, because everyone who lives there has become\ndazed into a tropical stupor, what Odysseus must have experienced with the\nEaters of the Lotus.\n            Maybe.\n            The only thing that can be\nsaid for certain is that with the Summer rains that color - the green - becomes almost blinding, a green\nthat hurts the eye, a green that should not exist on Earth, that surpasses the visible\nspectrum of what humans know to be green...a green that lives, that slavers, that\nwatches you as you watch it, from the safety of a moving car.\n            There are various\nexplanations: too swampy, too sandy, too expensive, and then of course some\nnegligible conspiracy that the Disney Company owns far more than it lets on and\nthat the coup pulled in the 1960's was only the tip of an awful iceberg - there\nprobably is some definite, naturalistic explanation why nothing gets built out\nthere, even if there isn't one for why the dark trees become so impenetrable,\nfurtively seeming to stare at the desperate shine of the headlights on the\nhighway.\n            A long time ago - it is 2015,\nhowever, and how long is a long time ago,\nanyhow? - there were rumors that all kinds of strange things went on in that\npart of Florida, stranger in the exaggerated bullshit that often plagues the\nAmerican perception of its peninsular state. \n            There's the persistent story that\nkeeps getting passed around the Internet about how the I-4, as part of the\nEisenhower Interstate System, was built over leylines, and if you do a certain\nritual a certain way while driving - some nonsense about a drop of blood and\nanointing oil and water from a fountain mixed in a shot glass and thrown out\nthe window - you'll end up seeing stores by the side of the road that have no\nearthly business being there, selling items you won't find anywhere else and\nwhere the proprietor can be paid only in metal coin.\n            There are ghost cars that come\nout from the shoulder of the road, and drove for miles following you, and then\ntheir headlights would go out, and they'd disappear, as if they were never\nthere at all - earnest young men and women at gas stations who would ask to be\ndriven somewhere, but when they got there, vanished into nothing, right there\nin the passenger seat...\n            And there was that one story,\ntoo, that something truly horrid had been discovered at Disneyworld by a group\nof employees, and they had all gone absolutely mad, and kidnapped their\nsupervisor and drove to where you can see that huge metal pylon with the Mickey\nMouse ears now, and locked her in the car and set it on fire and joined hands\nto watch her burn alive inside of it - all, each of them, in their mascot\ncostumes, Mickey and Minnie and Goofy and Donald. There exists - so ends the\ntale - a picture of this, a picture they took together, black and white,\nsometime in the late 1970's from the looks of it, and in the background is the\ncar, burning, a great cloud of smoke rising from it and into the Florida\nsky...somehow Disney got hold of this information, and they hushed the whole\nthing up, because it would shed terrible light on something truly heinous they\nmeant to keep hidden. All that's left, so they say - is the picture.\n            This is, of course, all\nhearsay and rumor - the stuff that makes good conversation for a road trip. A\nroad trip, say - from Tampa to Orlando.\n            Some years ago there was a\nstory that gripped Tampa Bay all throughout the late Fall and early Winter -\nsome kid named Oliver had murdered his best friend and then burnt the house\ndown the two of them shared together and then escaped, vanished, despite a\nmanhunt that was documented daily by a local press famished for something\ninteresting that wasn't Rick Scott-related. It was a sensational story and a\nperfect scandal, completely burying another case similar to it, the\ndisappearance of a twenty-three year old Lakeland man, also without a trace,\nnamed Gilbert King.\n            There are reasons for this,\nexcellent and logical reasons - the Oliver story was far more sensational, far\nmore spectacular, involved actual murder and terrified a whole community...Gilbert\nKing was your average (if could be called that) Florida missing person. From\nJuly to August there was mild interest by the media, with little snippets in\nthe papers thereafter, but after the murder of Brett Hampton by Cameron Oliver\nin Rocky Creek there was simply no room.\n            Gilbert King simply\ndisappeared and was never heard from again, and there are no real details to\nput together how or why this happened - one day he was, the next he was not. They\nfound his van, in a culvert off a backroad, the windshield smashed and the\nairbag deployed, but they never found him, a cable repairman who had a sister,\nparents, a probably decent future. He had a life, and then one day, that life,\nfrom the face of the Earth, seemed to be no more.\n            Even though he still very much\nis.\n            After the Summer rains...\n            The day it happened, raindrops\nglinted in Gilbert' eyes and he wiped them with the back of his arm, using the\nother to clean the moisture off of the screen of his phone which he put in his\npocket - he wasn't really sure where he was, the GPS told him this was the\nplace, the address that was given to him to come out here and fix this man's\ncable.\n            He was dressed smartly and\nprofessionally for his chosen career path, black work pants and work boots, a\nhat with the flashy blue-and-gold stripes and star logo on it, and on the\nsimple rugged button-down, right breast, was embroidered his name: Gilbert.            The office had warned him\nthis would be out of the way even though it was off the I-4, off an exit,\nthrough some town, then down a backroad and then another backload, they apparently hadn't heard much from that\nparticular customer since 2002 or thereabouts - a long time to be satisfied\nwith your cable and your Internet.\n            Nearby to the turn-off to find\nthe customer's house he had passed a handsome farm with a large,\nantique-looking stable - but it did not have a sign out front and looked,\nalthough seemingly well-cared for, like it was not being used. He had trained\nhis eyes on it until it was out of sight - something about it did not sit well\nwith him, how there were no horses or cows in a large open meadow, for in\nFlorida it's a well-known fact that you can let cows graze on property and pay\nless taxes as a result, but there were...three donkeys instead, just standing there, standing there and seeming to\nwatch him, their heads moving in unison as he passed by, watching him, never\nletting him out of his sight until he finally drove away...\n            Now that he was here, there\nwas a faint late morning drizzle around him that did not cast up a mist, but\nwhich clung to the air like a swarm of liquid gnats, immobile with no wind in\nthe immersive, rank, amniotic smell of damp Earth, so with the absent birdsong\nand muted insect-noises it gave where Gilbert was - at the end of a long\ndriveway leading to a stately, hurricane-proof brick house that looked\nunusually old for the area - a sense of eeriness that he did not like.\n            It was though he was - with\nthis, and with the farm he saw, the oddly-staring donkeys, the number of cars\nthat he had passed by dropping off to zero - it was though he was really, actually\nalone out here.\n            This is the paradox of that\npart of Florida: you are surrounded by civilization, you are in the midst of\nthe one of the most densely populated parts of North America...and yet you often\nfind yourself dangerously, lethally alone.\n            The driveway was paved with\nbrick like the streets of Ybor and it was lined on either side by a dense\ncluster of trees - what kind Gilbert couldn't tell, but they were old, they\nwere big, they definitely had been there a long time. The property was hewn in\nby this forest, the lawn which seemed like it hadn't been mowed in a few weeks\na flat island amidst the green...\n            ...green. Too green. Weirdly\ngreen.\n            Gilbert tried to shake the\nfeeling - this feeling and all the rest that he had, creeping on him now - as\nhe retrieved his toolbox from the back of his van and set off for the customer\nthat had not, for whatever reason, sent out a service request since Bush was\nstill president. He had a job to do and he meant to do it, no time to think\nabout silly stuff now.\n            He was a handsome fellow, with\na stubble beard and chocolate brown hair that was trimmed neatly to look\nprofessional, tall enough to command a presence in the room but with a gentle\naspect to his demeanour that still made him approachable. This was his chosen\ncareer and he enjoyed it enough to not want to quit - there were vague dreams,\nhe thought to himself as he neared the front door, about opening a brewery, or\ndoing something wild like moving to Ybor and working for a cigar-factory, becoming\na torcedor, his passion for a good beer\nor a fine cigar were just hobbies now, but maybe one day, if he got rich or\ndaring enough...\n            Gilbert shook his head - just\na daydream, little else.\n            He pressed his finger to the\ndoorbell, a small plastic button framed in woefully tarnished brass, and his\nhand dropped to his side as he shivered against a chill that came to him even\nin the humid, muggy early Florida July - the whole thing was an instinctual\naction that dulled the realization no sound had been made at all, so that a\nshort length passed before he raised an eyebrow and pressed it again.\n            Again, nothing.\n            \"Thing must be\nbroken,\" he muttered to himself as he set his toolbox down - he rapped\nwith his knuckles against the large, white door, paint peeling in places, but\ndone in some antique style that gave it a stately appeal.\n            Still nothing.\n            It was then Gilbert looked up\nand about him at the house he stood before - he had been ambiently aware the\nhouse needed a bit of touching-up, but now up close it actually seemed like it\nwas an early state of dilapidation, as though no one had bothered with home\nimprovement in several years.\n            \"Good Lord,\" Gilbert\nwondered aloud - but again he shook his head, trying to concentrate, and again\nhe knocked, louder, more forceful this time.\n            He waited - he knocked again.\n            The same result.\n            From somewhere, the only\nsound, aside from the nigh-imperceptible patter of tiny rain droplets, was the\ndistant roll of far-off thunder.\n            Tired of standing in Summer\ndrizzle, getting wet, waiting on something to happen, Gilbert acted on a rare\nimpulse - he grasped the brass door handle and pushed.\n            To his surprise - the door\nopened.\n            It creaked on its hinges, a\nhigh whine that echoed into the grand parlor it led into - darklit, barely\nillumed through the large bay windows by the overcast sky above him. Squinting\nin the half-darkness stepped over the threshold cautiously, toolbox in hand.\n            It was almost cliché in its\nappearance: to his immediate left was a faded landscape painting, a tasteful\nNorth Florida scene with Spanish moss hanging from oak trees, hung in a massive\ncarved oak frame, near the landing of a flight of stairs which had a banister\nso thick you could actually slide\ndown it. To his right, overlooked by a mirror that was starting to corrode but\nset in an ornate frame, was a vast open room, dotted with furniture - a chair,\na sofa, another chair, what looked like a baby grand piano against the wall\nbetween the two spacious windows, a coffee table on which a small box set - but\nall covered in white sheets, so that they looked like awaiting ghosts, paused\nin their haunting rounds, embarrassed to be seen.\n            The smell was immediate and\nunmistakable, a mustiness that hung in the room, air that had not circulated,\nalthough it was not as dusty as Gilbert thought it should have been - there was\nsomething latent, too, an acridity underneath it all, and Gilbert came to\nrecognize it as being stale cigar smoke from a poorly ventilated room.\n            The whole effect was that of a\nstereotypical haunted house, something from a cartoon, a children's Halloween\nspecial, and Gilbert wanted to chuckle at it, and prepare for the inevitable\nfake-ghoul to pop out and scare him and his co-workers would have a good\nlaugh...but he couldn't.\n            He was given the creeping\nsensation this was no joke, there was no humor or set-up in this, that this was\ndeliberate by a series of odd coincidences.\n            It was too still, too shadowy...\n            Gilbert didn't like it in\nhere.\n            And he was alone. \n            \"This is the part where I\nend up on a meat hook, right?\" He said it as a small joke to himself, trying\nto make himself feel better - and then, louder, calling out: \"Hello? Gilbert\nKing, US Cable, customer service check - anyone home?\"\n            No answer.\n            The smell of the place was\ngetting to him: that cloud of ghastly must, a kind of toxic stuffiness - an old\nhouse that nobody had taken care of for...how long? \n            He paused to scan his\nsurroundings more closely:\n            Everything was neat and\norderly for an abandoned house - if this place was abandoned, because he detected a faint...tension, perhaps, an\nexpectation, as if the owners had meant to come back, that this was temporary,\nthere was no sadness or melancholy or aching like there is in lonely,\npreviously occupied spaces.            Gilbert\nwas no poet, but he still had the instinct even if he didn't have the words:\n            This was still a home.\n            A home with no one in it.\n            He reached for a nearby switch\nand flicked it - nothing happened. Again, again, click-flick-flick-click, but - nothing.\n            Gilbert exhaled, wrinkling his\nnose as a fresh waft of dank must reached his nose - had this been just some\nkind of bored practical joke? \n            \"Is the customer\nhome?\" he called out again. And then, despite the absurdity of the\nquestion: \"If this is a bad time, we can always reschedule!\"\n            He wasn't sure what he had\nbeen expecting - bit no one answered him, his voice had been absorbed into the\nroom.\n            \"What the Hell...?\" he\nmurmured. \"Who calls in a service order and isn't even home?\"\n            He frowned, setting his\ntoolbox down by the doorway and taking a few steps forward - trying to make\nsense of his surroundings. \n            Tired of standing, and still\nresidually damp from the outside, he sat down, gingerly, into one of the\ncovered chairs, the sheet that covered it folding in to accommodate his body.\nHe lifted his arm to look below and study it - no displaced dust had come up\nfrom it, which meant that the sheet had been put there far more recently than\nhe had at first believed.\n            He shook his head, feeling\ndiscomfited and dissatisfied...this job was getting stranger by the minute.\n            Even though stranger things -\nnot to say stranger places - had happened in his experience, none of them had\nfully prepared him for what looked to be a set-piece for a haunted house in the\nmiddle of nowhere, with no one home and looking like no one having been home for however long it had been.\n            He thought of getting his\nphone out and calling the office to let them know what exactly was going on -\nor, rather, not going on - and his\nfingers made it to the top of his pocket...\n            ...when his eyes rested on the\nbox on the covered coffee table.\n            It was strictly against all\nkinds of protocol - there's a stereotype about handymen stealing and disrupting\nthings in somebody's home when their not home - but a peculiar curiosity seized\nhim, and he lifted his eye to smell the musty air once more.\n            There, again, it was: the\naddictively foul smell of the burnt cigar, at the very end of a deep breath\nthrough his nostrils.\n            \"I wonder...\" he\nmurmured again - reaching for the box.\n            It was a plain cardboard box,\nnothing at all special about it, a creamy ivory color, with the top bigger than\nthe bottom like what Valentine's chocolates come in. \n            Slowly, cautiously - there was\na fleeting notion, a thread from the earlier suspicion this was all some\npractical joke, that something would fly out at him if he opened it - he lifted\nthe lid.\n            \"Huh.\"\n            Just as he thought, the box\nwas full of cigars - large and evidently rolled by a skillful torcedor, although unmarked, with no\nseal or label.\n            \"Hmm...\"\n            The box itself was unmarked, with no indication what brand of tobacco it\nwas, nor who made it, nor where it came from - originally it seemed to have\nheld twelve, but three were missing, for a total of nine still there.\n            Holding the box still in hand,\nGilbert, with a raised eyebrow, considered the evidence: perhaps the absent\nowner of the house, whoever he or she happened to be, was importing tobacco\nfrom somewhere, rolling their own, a dry run for starting a new cigar outfit in\ncentral Florida - they had departed for the moment, leaving this in their\nhaste.\n            The connoisseur in him made\nthe curiosity from earlier become irresistible - he had to know what sort of\ntobacco would be so precious and rare that it be hand-rolled on site.\n            He hesitated, looking around\nhim once more, leaning back to see out the window that there was no one coming\n- and then, shrugging: \"Well, no harm no foul...\"\n            Acting from muscle memory, he\nreached into his pocket he obtain his lighter, an expensive flip-top\nbutane-burner his sister had gotten him for Christmas last year, before taking\na cigar from the box which he replaced back on the table - on instinct, held it\nfast to his nose, inhaling deeply, shutting his eyes to concentrate on the\nsmell...his eyes opened again, pleasantly surprised.\n            \"Cubans!\" he\nexclaimed.\n            He had smelt it only one other\ntime - he remembered it well: at a friend's housewarming party two years\nbefore, he had a group of other men had gone outside to the patio where they\nwere promised a surprise: H. Uppman, Hecho\nen Cuba, the brand of cigar that Kennedy smoked, strictly illegal and\nabsolutely delicious...a victimless underworld crime committed in secrecy in the\nOrlando suburbs.\n            Here, the smell was identical -\nGilbert's olfactory memory had always impressed his friends - and there was no\nmistaking it: these were genuine Cubans, premium quality contraband.\n            His eyes lit up - how careless\nof the owners of the house, wherever they were, to have left it here, probably\nin an unmarked box to escape attention from someone who didn't know what they\nwere looking for. \n            \"Wait a second...\" he\nsaid to himself, a smile coming to his face. \"Now it makes sense.\"\n            The house was a cover. Whoever\nowned it, whoever feigned to live in it, was using it to roll cigars, imported\nCuban tobacco - probably to sell it on the black market...or, Gilbert wondered, to\nsimply enjoy them in their own time and in their own privacy.\n            But it left him with a\ndilemma: there was clearly no one home, someone had called him out here by what\nwas seeming with greater certainty by the minute to have been a mistake, and\nhere he had, an unprecedented opportunity, a chance to sample a cigar made from\narguably the finest tobacco in the world.\n            Gilbert mentally weighed his\noptions, as he weighed the cigar in his fingers - the lighter had been, after\nall, in his lap, at the ready.\n            A roll of thunder from outside\n- closer this time, the storm would be near him soon and it would be wise to\nstay here, at least for a little while.\n            And so he smiled, a little\nsardonic, to himself: \"Welp, call me all the way out here for nothing -\ndon't mind if I do.\"\n            Into his fingers at the\ncustomary downward angle popped the cigar, into his hand came the lighter - the\ntop flipped, the flame brightened to life, and then with the tobacco lit\nevenly, Gilbert made the requisite staccato of puffs to start his smoke.\n            He leaned back in the chair -\nan armchair, probably an antique though it was still covered by the white\ncotton sheet and he couldn't really tell - puffing, slower now, on the\nabsconded cigar. \n            Gilbert had felt the familiar\nbuzz from the nicotine before, but now, staring straight ahead, out of one of\nthe bay windows where the gloomy Summer's day oozed into the room, he...felt\ndifferent.\n            That precious odor - that\nimmediate, sharp, pungency of the lit cigar, the burning tobacco - was blown\ninto a cloud that filled his nose, and soon filled his head...as it reached his\nlungs, he was consumed by a pleasurable lassitude, his mind melted into an\nimpenetrable cloud of sweet lethargy, and he grunted out a long, satisfied\nsigh. \n            How long was Gilbert in that\nchair, puffing the cigar, savoring the smell, the flavor, forgetting utterly he\nwas still working, and that he had stolen this from some unseen owner?\n            ...he did not care. \n            The thought occurred to him\nand it passed from with a flippant little laugh.\n            He felt a stirring, a sudden\nfullness, in his groin - he fumbled with his belt and his zipper, his head still\na dazed cloud of apathy, far past caring that he was still on the clock.\n            His hand dove into his\nunderwear and pressed against his penis, down, further down, to his balls,\ngiving them a healthy, fulfilling scratch. \n            But consciousness - or what\npassed for consciousness - returned to him in small waves, as he realized, his\nhand at his testicles, his legs spread in a grotesque display of laziness and\nsloth, that they felt...\n            ...bigger.\n            A passing spell of panic - the\nlit cigar dropped from his mouth, to the floor, still burning, as he cupped his\ntesticles in his hand, pulling them out of his underwear, wild-eyed, to check,\nstarting to shake his head in disbelief.\n            The tobacco must have been\ntainted, he thought to himself - yes, this was just a hallucination, something\nin the cigar was acting on his brain, this wasn't real, still really bad, but\nat least it wasn't--\n            He threw his head back, his\nwhole groin enveloped in a delight that bedeviled him, it washed away his\nanxiety but it thickened the fuzziness, the growing delirium. \n            The flesh of his fingers could\nfeel the weight, could sense, with his eyes closed, how his testicles swelled,\nand then bloated, an unyielding pressure that grew, bigger, still yet bigger, until...\n            ...his eyes flew open, a groan\nof pain escaping him.\n            The back of his hands could\nfeel his penis begin to warm, from the inside, a heat that built until it was\ntoo hot to touch - Gilbert threw his hands back, a clumsy motion made clumsier\nwhen he struck himself in the face. \n            He made a surprised noise -\n\"Gyah!\" - losing his\nbalance, falling out of the chair, thudding to the floor.\n            The heat from his penis\ndissipated into a dull iciness that tingled all his body's nerves at once, his\nvery flesh become a noxious pinprick, every inch of skin vexed with the\ninsidious sensation of being numb, and yet still sensitive, a purgatory he\ncould not escape from.\n            His balls, still\nnormal-looking despite their swollen size, became darker - he could not see it,\nhis eyes shut too tight against enfeebled paralysis - brown, then black,\ntoughening until they resembled a fine leather, hanging off of him freakishly,\nwobbling, jostling, with every moment of his blind writhing there on the\nhardwood. \n            There was a pulling, tugging\nsensation centered inside his penis, which manifested as a dull ache, a turgescence\nthat made it grow, bigger, longer, fatter, but subtly, very subtly, almost as\nthough there was some inner mechanism to keep the differences furtive to the\nnaked eye.\n            Now that Gilbert could see it\n- still awash as he was in his multitude of transient feelings.\n            His ears felt as though a\nthousand ants were marching across their delicate surface, and Gilbert clawed\nuselessly at them, as they grew, longer, longer, more pointed, the skin\ntoughening, like his testicles, into a leather...blooming with soft, flattened fur.\n            And now in his undone pants,\nGilbert felt something - a sharp, hyperfocused needling, starting as an\nirritating, incessant itch, just above his anus...his eyes flew open as it became\npainful, then excruciating, and then unbearable, desperately flipping over and\ntearing down his pants to expose the spot to the air, feeling around in vain -\nit waxed, already damaged, into a focused pinprick, before its dreadful release,\na shooting-out, skin and blood dripping in viscera, as his tailbone grew, and\nthen grew again, and though he could not see it the bone became enrobed with\nflesh, rough hide, plumed on the end. \n            He screamed.\n            An animal scream.\n            A bray.\n            The smell of the still-burning\ncigar wafted into his nostrils, which flared, flared too large, because now his\nnose was too large, it was growing, moving, cartilage multiplying at a rate\nthat defied medical logic - a deformity on his face, slow and hideous in tandem\nwith his warped, spasmodic screams that quavered in his human timbre but second\nby second sounded more and more animal.\n\n            At last his nose and face\npushed out, out, still larger with the bone, nerves, sinew, all attached to\nit...Gilbert was in agony that defied mere words, that rang out from his\ndarkening lips in peal after peal of pain, his skin stiffening uncomfortably\nuntil it became hide, and washed over with mass-sprout of fur from new\nfollicles.\n            His head - now unrecognizable,\nwholly bestial, the head of a donkey - jerked up, his spine snapping, curving,\nbody mass reaching a critical weight that tore open his shirt down the middle,\nbuttons scattering to the hardwood. And then and he heard it, he heard it in his\nenlarged, twitching, swiveling ears, the twisting, the breaking, the reshaping,\nof his own skeleton, the upright\nposture of his former human self degraded, debased, inch by inch, into animal,\nquadruped...jackass.\n            His brain pounded with the\nnotion, mind afire, an extreme compulsion he did not understand and yet\nunderstood at once: a beast of burden, a jackass, a donkey - his skin was hide,\nand the hide was furry, the color of overcast skies, the thundercrash that came\nnearby and the flash of lightning that blinked in the windows, it was all\norchestra and terror to him, because this was him, this was what he was\nbecoming, inexorably, no longer human, but equine.\n            The pulling, tugging sensation\nin the shaft of his penis renewed and returned, and as he continued to bray,\nwrithing, crashing blindly, desperately about the room, slipping awkwardly out\nof his useless pants and flinging the tatters of his shirt everywhere - he\ncould feel, full-bore, his penis stretch, and lengthen, and lengthen again, a\nfloppy, rubbery mass, larger and larger, and thicken, toughen, like the skin on\nhis belly and his arms...he could not see it, but the uniformly pink human flesh\nwas becoming mottled, black, the color and pattern of a barnyard animal,\nswelling in the middle, graced with the characteristic ring.\n            The rest of his body rippled\ninto the pattern of his newfound mutation, the immutable chain reaction caused\nby some arcane taint in the tobacco that he had smoked - fingers fusing, a\nsting of protest their last sense to the world before becoming one, solid,\nkeratinized hoof, his feet still in\nhis boots shuffling out to follow, the toes merging, the flesh dying, hardening,\nto become all nail, the way of the domestic equid. \n            Gilbert tried to cry out, he\ntried to call for help, but he was alone, alone in this forsaken house where no\none would hear him, miles from anyone who could aid him - he tried to cry out\nbut all that came forth, all the sound he make, all he could do, was the\ndissonant, hiccupping, ear-shattering hee-haw\nof the donkey.\n            Hearing his own voice - his\nnew, changed voice - gave him pause, as much pause as he was allowed...he heard\nhis lungs, stronger and larger in his barrel chest, the result of invisible\nchanges that had progressed apace inside him, he heard them inflate, deflate,\npowerful, fearsome in its superiority to its human parallel.\n            And his heart, the same -\nbeating in his chest, sending new blood to every part of his novel form...\n            ...he smelled the cigar, still\nsmoldering, his donkey nose sensitive to it, every fine detail to the scent of\ntobacco scorched inside its roll.\n            His ears parted, twitching, as\nhe laid motionless, on his side, the cigar too far for him to reach with his\nlegs - his hooves.\n            But still...still it was too\nmuch.\n            The smell was too much.\n            His new power as a beast was too much.\n            Gilbert felt his penis, a slab\nof meat far larger, like the rest of him, than anything he could dream of as\nhuman - Gilbert felt his penis stiffen, stiffen hard.\n            His body was subsumed with\npleasure yet again - mere seconds passed before he felt drowned, again,\nimpossible feelings of sexual contentment, intrusive thoughts in his already\nmalforming brain of cocks like his, long and massive and flaring at the end,\nenormous and powerful and virile and fertile,\nthat they could make armies of little foals...\n            Animal instincts took over -\nhis back hoof came to his turgid penis and stroked it, gently, the hoof meeting\nthe hot, aroused flesh and sending sparks of ecstasy to his confused brain. He\nblinked, inhaling deep from the nearby cigar, and with deliberate, rapid\nstrokes uses his back hoof to slide against his penis, faster, faster, it felt\nso good, his new penis, his bigger\npenis, and the thoughts of even bigger ones, owned by donkeys larger than he,\nletting it fall out and walk around, naked and unadorned, free, finally free--\n            Gilbert thought no longer: his\nback hoof kicked in a frenzy, and he felt the tip of his cock flare, hard, his lips peeled back in a\nhigh-pitched whinnying bray, and in passing seconds he felt his engorged\ntesticles churn mightily, delivering their bounty to his shaft where, in a\ntremendous geyser-fountain, it poured out, spewing, a gush of thick, yellowish,\ngelatinous cum, again and again - there was so much of it, it was as though the\norgasm would last a heavenly eternity, his flared cock the symbol of a new life\nof raw, jealous power, all to the shrieking tune of his hee-haw, haaaw...\n            At last, at long last, the\nviolent paroxysm that had rocked him subsided. His tongue protruded from his\nmuzzle, tasting the floor, eyes open and wild.\n            There in his afterglow, his\nhuman brain ruined into a state of near-intelligence from which he would never\nrecover, blissful and euphoric but confused - it was shattered, and shattered\nimmediately, with a sound above his head.\n            His ears pivoted, a new\ninstinct, to focus on the source of the noise:\n            Creak, creak - wooden\nplanks above him giving way to the weight of feet, footfalls in a pattern, one\nafter the other after the other - creak,\ncreak, and then a hollow footstep, another,\ncloser, closer, until...\n            ...there was someone coming down\nthe steps.\n            Gilbert found himself\nscrambling to get up from where he was, but he stumbled, forward, and with\nanother braying cry, weaker this time, slipped forward to the floor - he was\nfar, far too unused to using his new legs, all four of them, from only his\nprevious two.\n            He had nowhere to go - his\nheart raced, he shook, unable to truly fathom what was happening.\n            But then he heard a voice:\n            \"What is all this noise? I go to take a rest\nand--\" It was cool, clipped, the voice of a Cuban patrician, with just a\nhint of an educated Spaniard accent behind it - an old accent, out of place in\nthe Twenty-First Century, and it climaxed with a throaty laugh. \"So it's\nyou! Answered the decoy, Gilbert--\"\n            Gilbert meekly turned, he\ntried to answer - he could understand the man's words, the bare phonemes that\ncomprised them, but he could not fully comprehend it, the logic necessary to do\nso burnt away with his transformation.\n            There at the landing stood a\ntall, handsome-looking middle-aged gentlemen, with a fitted white button-down\nthat was tucked into khakis and undone at the top to give him a relaxed,\neffortless demeanour - his hair was ruffled and his eyes seemed tired, as\nthough awoken, as he had just explained, from a nap.\n            \"My, my! Already taken\nthe bait, have we?\"\n            Gilbert tilted his head,\nletting out a confused snuff - the man, strangely, seemed to understand him.\n            \"And so the change is\ncomplete, also...hmm...\" The man circled around to stand before him, where he\nfolded his arms. \"My name is Ignacio de Gaspar - my ancestor was the\nfamous pirate - you know, Gasparilla\n- or rather...\" He smirked. \"...so I am told. My father's house here does\nnot offer much in the way of - anything, really. But it is in the family and so\nit shall stay, along with his last wishes that the ancient family business of\nburro-breeding continue--\" \n            He stopped, his dark eyes glancing\ndown to the gooey pile of yellowish semen on the floorboards.\n            \"I see - what a mess\nyou've made here!\" the man exclaimed.\n            Gilbert tried to look away,\nswinging his tail in what he realized was shame - but the man patted his flank,\nchuckling, leaning down, one eye closed, as though to focus.\n            \"Most impressive yield, however - most of you boys that come out\nhere never manage that much on your first try.\" He craned his neck to\ngander at Gilbert's still-floppy penis, hanging lewdly beneath him. \"Ah - yes indeed, you will truly make a fine\nstud.\" He laughed - a cruel, sophisticated sound - and Gilbert lowered his\nhead, feeling his body quiver in fresh fear. \"Now - Gilbert, wasn't it?\nLet us go - just a short trip. You can meet the rest of your herd.\"\n            He felt the man's hand press\nagainst his neck and he was led this way, by his oddly maneless neck that\nmarked his origins as not having equine parentage but something else, something\ncaptured, a donkey descended from nothing because he was a human descended into\na donkey - he was led by his neck, gently, firmly, out a side door and into an\nawaiting trailer that had been hidden behind the brick façade of the house, and\nthen up a ramp, all while unused to his hooves and wobbly in his walk but he\nmade it, the man saw to that.\n            The man, Ignacio, turned and\nleft him in the trailer, Gilbert waiting, terrified still, unsure how to act -\nhe turned and looked at him in the eye, and there was a kindness as well as a\ncruelty there.\n            \"A short trip,\" he\nrepeated. \"You will like it there...\" He squinted at him, then\nchuckled. \"I can see you are a afraid from that look in your eyes...\"\nHe smiled, devilishly charming. \"Do not be. You will enjoy it - I promise.\"\n            The trailer door shut -\nGilbert saw light only through the slit windows.\n            A car engine was started,\nthere was a hesitant pull as the antique truck lurched forward, Gilbert's\ntrailer in tow - Gilbert clopped over to the slit-windows, straining to see\nwhere he was, his half-human mind alert but, still, barely comprehending.\n            Ignacio was right - just a\nshort trip, up the road, and then there was the farm he had passed - he barely\nremembered it now, but there it was, the farm his human self had noticed, and\nhow odd it was that there were no people there, just donkeys...but now, the\nhandsome svelte Cuban man was there and so was he, Gilbert, another donkey,\nwith him.\n            The door of the trailer was\nopened and he widened his curious donkey eyes to the scene - the vast field,\nrainy, moist, the smell of the damp soil and the rank herbaceousness of manure\ncoming to him as a clarion, an unmistakable call, joined with a final,\nskyrending roll of Florida thunder...this was his new home.\n            There was the other three\ndonkeys that he had seen as he had driven by - they would be his brothers, he\nknew, he somehow knew, they would be his family, and now that Gilbert was upclose\nto them and not driving from the road he could finally see why: they, as he,\ndid not have manes.\n            His simple equine heart sang\nat the thought.\n            They nodded at him - he nodded\nback.\n            It was so green out here, as\nhe clopped forward, his hooves still unsteady and his gait still wobbly but his\neyes drank it, in wonder - innocent wonder, the wonder of an animal that does\nnot understand its surroundings - at the green, the green of the trees and of\nthe grass, a radiant green, a green from the antediluvian epochs of Florida,\nfrom before Florida was Florida at all, but from origins of the Earth itself...\n            After the Summer rains...\n            There are many strange things\nthat happen in Florida - in that part of Florida, especially. \n            Ain't nuthin out there - that's what they say...but if you look hard\nenough, you might be able to find something.\n            Or something might find you."}