FSE

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There was no way in hell that hobo could have known.

Skid Hill- that was the name that the stretch of highway had earned for itself over the years, marked by the scribbles of black streaks on the asphalt at the sharp turn overlooking a deep forested valley. Many times over the years, an unwitting motorist-turned-pilot had launched themselves over the edge and into the embrace of the swampy forest below, far enough below that there were few survivors.

Karen knew the danger of skid hill well, having been subjected to countless lectures on the subject by her parents when she began driving years ago. Time away, a career and another life beyond this simple, idyllic environs had rusted her knowledge of the familiar road. Another thing was the buzzing black rectangle demanding her attention.

The car plunged through the rusted guard rail and headlights swept from the treetops down toward muck and rock. An instant before impact, a sight flashed for less than a second but somehow long enough to convey every detail that would have caused her to scream if she were not already in the middle of doing so.

He was perched on a log without fear or surprise at the appearance of a flying car, as if he had taken a front row seat to witness the crash. He looked to be an older man somewhat past middle age with a bald head baked by the sun to a dark tan and a brown beard grown as unruly as the underbrush around him. His beard looked like a mass of tentacles, consisting of long clay encrusted locks intertwined around one another. He wore khaki shorts and a jean jacket, tattered and with multiple dirt encrusted shirts peeking through the rips.

A giant, insane smile spread across his face as he watched the falling car. His feet were bare but only marginally more grimy with clay than the rest of him. He slid his feet back and forth, toes clutching trenches into the mud and increasing in speed with pure delight until the impact.

The sculptor worked all through the night out in the muddy clay mire deep in the swamp. His toes squished, squelched and shaped the clay scultping it with his feet as he did all of his great works and the regular pottery he made. He cackled all throughout the project, the only sound to be heard in the hush that had come over the night. The swamp's denizens gave him wide berth whenever he was in such a creative mood.

Local news stations would see to it that Karen's image was plastered across every television screen far and wide. A beauty of 25, tall, skinny and willowy with long blonde locks and green eyes. Skid Hill, they lamented, had seemingly claimed another victim.

The sculptor's latest work baked out in the sun, standing on the front porch of the small rickety shack. An excellently accurate rendition of a fox in red clay, its gaze fixed across the clearing where tall wispy grass blanketed the soggy ground between the willows and oaks. It made no sounds- well, after the first day at least, and resigned to watch the fluffy white wisps and flecks of pollen drifting in still afternoon heat. In just a few days, it was time to hatch his work. With a few taps of a hammer here and there, the fox sculpture cracked and shed the clay shell in crumbling shards. Slowly the soft, pale interior revealed itself to the sunlight.

Green eyes blinked in the brightness, set in the face of a human stretched and morphed into the shape of a vulpine head. Her pale flesh was sculpted by the man and the magic in the swamp, into the shape and size of a fox. A silky blonde waterfall tossed about as she whipped her head around in bewilderment. She was crouched on all fours, arms and legs bent now in the manner of a quadruped. Fingers and toes had fused into plush fleshy paws, tipped with claws still painted blue as they had been before the crash. Her buttocks were collected into plump mounds dabbled with faint freckles. Likewise, her small perky breasts now pointed toward the ground. Her mouth opened but she managed only a fox's yip. Grinning madly again, the man bent down and affixed a headband over her, bearing a set of fluffy fox ears.

He moved around behind her and spotted the bald slit displayed between her legs, running his hand over it and trailing away a line of clear fluid which he wiped off on his jacket.

"Stay. Be a good girl," He commanded, pointing a clay-caked finger at her.

She didn't move a muscle as he disappeared into the shack. The swamp's unique clay transformed more than one thing about an individual. The mind was molded just as much as the flesh. He came out a few moments later dangling a lush fox's tail, attached to a short but thick pink buttplug with a knot at its base. She grimaced as he pushed it in place, then patted her on the rump with a series of pleasant plops, admiring the way the flesh jiggled from the impacts. He traced a finger up a trail of freckles leading up her lower back starting at the two dimples there.

"I think this is going to work out great," He said, watching her with hands on hips.

His eyes drifted up to the tree line where it met his property. There were movements there as the local foxes had seemingly taken interest in his latest project as well. One of them emerged, strolling up at a casual gait. It's nose lowered to the ground and in mere moments an erection slid out of his sheath.

"Go on, say hello to your friends," The sculptor said, adding a firm but gentle smack to her rear to help compel her off the porch.

She trotted down into the grassy lawn, met by three of the foxes. Their noses and tongues were all over her pale body, the soft flesh contracting at the ticklish sensations. The swamp foxes yipped, tails wagging with excitement. She yelped as the largest of them hugged his paws tightly around her waist. Something huge moved against her bare butt, poking about as it lined up with her dripping slit. He slid it in, soon battering her womb with thrusts that rocked her body. Her legs bowed deeper with each motion until the fox's knot finally forced its way inside anchoring the two together. Another leapt up with forepaws on her shoulders, its erection pointed directly at her face. Her mouth fell open as it shot forward.

The foxes thrust into her from both ends, bodies clenched tightly as they clung to her and pumped at an increasing pace. Her eyes rolled nearly into the back of her head when the flood of sticky warmth scoured her womb. The entire pack took turns at either end, how many she was not even capable of counting. Though the sculptor did- fifteen foxes in all, each one unloading into her one after the other. Interested in the proceedings, a couple of the pups wandered over but they were more interested in the two breasts dangling down. They nursed from her as she was fucked, tugging and stretching the hard nipples to extract her milk.

By the time it was over, she was beet red, legs quaking. The sculptor watched with satisfaction as her bare semen-soaked buttocks ambled shakily into the forest with the other foxes. He guessed correctly that the swamp foxes were about to experience a population boom in this neck of the woods. With the many passing seasons came huge litters for the pack that rarely resulted in fewer than 15 pups, all of them otherwise normal foxes with eyes the same verdant green shade of their mother's.

Karen grew fat with her constant pregnancies, kept warm through the nights by the multitude of furry bodies on and inside her. The swamp foxes prospered and would go on to range across the whole of the country.