The Morning After

By Strega 
Story Copyright (C) By: Strega
 2002 - All rights reserved.

Story not to be reprinted, or redistributed, 
without author's Permission.

If you wish to use the stories, or 
anything copyright by me, please e-mail me.
I'll also forward any mail to the author.


The morning after by Strega, Jan 4, 2002

Warning: This story contains heavy scat content. Not many vore furs, pred or prey, like that sort of thing, but I have a small interest in it and I have had several requests to include a detailed scat scene in a story. The first half of the work is sex and vore, and most any vore fur will probably not be offended. Once you reach the chapter division *****, though, it's all scat -- if that's why you want to read the story you might just skip right there.

Ripper's guts made odd little noises as he slept.

He was a brute of a beast, a wolverine on a scale to make a naturalist blanch. Three and a half feet tall at the shoulders, seven feet nose to rump, with paws as large as a man's head. Unfed and hungry, he weighed a fraction under four hundred pounds.

He weighed far more than that now.

He'd woken in his tree-fork 'nest' yesterday, and his first act had been to scan the swamp hungrily. This meadow and the attached wetlands were a popular spot for predators; there was some magic to the place that returned prey to life after consumption. As a result there was a seemingly constant supply of sentient meals, some merely wanderers ignorant of the dangers here and some curiously eager in the manner of creatures who knew that no matter how rigorous the predator's digestive tract they would walk the grass of the swamp again within hours.

He had spotted the owl on the far side of the clearing. She was maybe a quarter his size and an eighth his mass, not a filling meal but one he'd often sought for the sheer challenge of catching her. After all, she could fly, and climbing into a tree after her was an exercise in futility.

She talked to a tiger-man, and as he watched she fluttered down to argue with him -- and Ripper had leaped. He'd caught her once before just as she landed, the one time she was clumsy and vulnerable and unable to flap up out of reach.

But he leaped so hastily that he's missed his footing on the landing. His 'nest' was twenty feet up, and he landed with a mighty thump and stunned himself for a moment. By the time he recovered and lunged after his feathered victim she'd been able to hop back up into her tree with no more than a disdainful glance in his direction.

The tiger-man had not even flinched with Ripper came near, and as the wolverine fumed the cat had tried to attach a bit of paper to his forehead.

The feline had chosen exactly the wrong moment to do something humorous and irritating. In fact the tiger had been his target all along; Ripper'd been too far from the owl to surprise her and he knew he wouldn't catch the feathery morsel without a lot of luck.

A slashing swipe had swept the cat's feet from under him, and almost before the tiger could grunt his startlement Ripper had it between his wrists. The tigerman had fought violently; bones broke and blood spilled on the striped hide before the wolverine could get his jaws around the rounded head.

And then down he'd gone. Ripper had gulped him quickly, heedless of the weak struggles the wounded cat could manage. Within two minutes the striped tail followed the rest, and after a single belch the brute turned his attention to other matters.

A new creature had just entered the meadow, one the like of which he'd not seen before. Her lower parts were a four-footed cat, some long-tailed spotted thing. Attached to that was a small smooth-skinned humanoid torso. All in all she must have been two-thirds his mass -- a very big meal by his standards. At the moment he saw her, though, a second meal wasn't foremost in his thoughts.

What mattered at that moment was that she was a she. Most wolverines had only a seasonal interest in females, but he was lusty all through the year, thanks to spells cast by his wizardress lover. And now it was his mating season. His urges were further multiplied, and the first hint the ocelot-taur had of his presence was the paws that went around her 'tauric belly from behind.

He'd expected a struggle, but she'd giggled tolerantly and not even struggled when his mounting forced his tip beneath her tail rather than into her sex. There were mismatched mates; if he'd not been so lusty he might have felt the difference, but in that moment his world was reduced to wanting to violently spill his seed. He rammed himself in and bore her down beneath his weight, humping his fat belly up over her rump. Inside that swelling the tiger's struggles stilled; Ripper was far too busy to notice.

The 'taur accepted the sodomy even though he was greatly over-equipped for his species. Wolverines, like other weaselly sorts, are hung long and narrow, but again his wizardly lady had changed him. 'Thin' no longer applied to his member, and stiffened by an inner bone it had been known to cause his often-unwilling mates serious injury.

He'd come down out of the tree with already-building lust. If he had caught the owl he would have forced himself on her, but instead he'd gobbled the tiger and if anything that had only made him hornier. The cat-taur growled and moaned with him as he rode her, and in far less than his usual time he let her have all his pent-up seed. His flanks and haunches bunched and jerked as the semen gouted into her, and before it had time to properly mix with her juices his forepaws moved to pull her humanoid torso back toward his jaws.

Even now she did not struggle. She said just two words: 'No biting', and stroked his chest as he yawned to take her in. She was big enough to give him quite a fight, so he was happy to be 'nice'. His fangs were kept carefully from her tender skin as he maneuvered her head and shoulders down his throat.

Ripper's life had been defined by mages. One had made him from a man into what he was now, the third he'd met had found it amusing to make him a heavily endowed and lustful lover, and the middle mage had changed the wolverine so that his jaws, throat and belly were bizarrely distensible. The ocelot-taur's torso was broad enough that his fangs did scrape, but even that fit into his gullet, and her pelt was tough enough to survive without bloodshed.

It was not an easy meal, but gradually her ribcage vanished into his maw, her feline belly. Finally her hindpaws and tail had been all that was left, and he'd gulped them in even as his belly reached its limits.

He had started humping again as she went down, spilling his seed across her rump and belly as he ejaculated just too late to keep it in her. It dripped thickly over her tail-root and his belly and balls, then with a last gulp all that remained of her was a five-foot, twitching tail. Her humanoid torso was in his stomach with the tiger, but the ocelot-body was stretched out in his throat, hindpaws right between his collarbones.

This meal warranted more than one belch. His belly was a drum-taut furry globe and his torso was swollen to twice its usual size; the 'taur moved softly in the slippery tightness, no more resistant now than before. His ribs creaked with the burden, and he lay resting for long minutes, watching the tail shiver. Soon she ran out of air inside him, and the thing gave a spastic jerk and stilled. It was a mercy; his belly had already started to work on her delicate furless torso. The tiger who had gone down an hour before was already much softened; between the two of them he was gorged and sleepy.

Mustelines have quick, powerful bellies, but this huge meal was going to take a while to digest. The tiger alone would have been reduced to a skeleton, and that finally dissolved, in perhaps six hours. The ocelot-taur's upper parts strained his stomach and slowed that process, and her larger 'tauric half would have to wait more hours before it could follow the rest into his belly. He lay there bloated, pawing weakly at the cat-taur's lifeless tail, and pondered struggling back up his tree to the nest.

His gorged state aroused amusement in the swamp's other inhabitants. No one tried to devour him in turn, for his ability to spray skunk-like musteline stink was well known and even so fattened he would turn into a buzzsaw of claws and fangs if threatened. Instead they just watched him, the more submissive of them drifting a bit closer as though they envied the prey who'd been given a wolverine-fur coat.

He pawed again at the 'taur's tail, and the owl in the tree above couldn't stand it any more. "Here, let me help you with that." She hopped down and tucked in the tail, shoving the thing into Ripper's jaws.

She should have known better. The instant she touched him the sleepy beast's mean little eyes went wide open, and a forepaw snapped forward to trap her wing-hand against his swollen chest. She and a nearby lion-man laughed, and she tugged back with amusement curling her beak. Her other winghand gave his nose a stroke.

She kept on smiling in that avian way until his other forepaw pinned her torso to his own. A bit worried now, she made unhappy noises, but the wolverine's paws tightened on her hips and began to rub her up and down his swollen chest. The more she struggled the tighter the grip grew, until it was plain he would crush her rather than let her go. At that realization she relaxed with a gasp; after all, he was just using her as a feathery brush.

A feathery brush and masseur; be worked her up and down his chest, and her feathers picked up enough of his fur oil that she became noticeably grimy-looking and wolverine-scented. She continued to talk to the lion-man and bat at Ripper's chest, convinced of his harmlessness.

She didn't realize that a chest-rub is an arousing thing for a male accustomed to riding up over four-footed femmes. She had seen him mate twice tonight and would likely not have suspected he could be aroused so soon, so she was unsuspicious…until the wolverine's paws carried her farther down his body. She gave a little squawk as she slid over his fat belly, but even then she didn't realize what was happening.

And then the wolverine's swollen sheath pressed against her thigh. His cock was hidden so well when he was calm that only his sac and rank scent betrayed his maleness; weaselly sorts' low-slung bodies require a buried sheath so they do not catch on things. Now, though, even he was perceptibly aroused. It wasn't the first time she had felt that bulge, and she was not a stupid creature.

She gave a little gasp at the touch of sheath, bracing herself…and just as she suspected, the wolverine tugged her down hard. The impalement was no easier for her having met the brute before; each time he had caught her the mating had ended with her in his belly, and the magic that reformed prey in the swamp didn't account for little things like unnaturally stretched vulvas. Ripper's cock was as thick as a soda can, a full foot long, and though he could barely move his distended torso his forepaws forced her down onto him.

The thrust forced the air from her lungs in a screech. Only when he eased up was she able to gulp a shallow breath, only to lose that as well as his paws moved again, and again. He was fully on his back now, forepaws down past his fat belly, and the owl bounced in his lap in a parody of a willing mating. Her talons curled and her legs twitched in his grip as she instinctively tried to unseat herself from the too-large organ.

Ripper paid her stuggles no mind. He might as well not have mounted the 'taur for all the lessening of lust his matings had achieved; in this season his sexual urges were on overdrive and he could mate all day and all night. The too-taut sex around his cock was uncomfortable, dry and unwilling, but still he forced her down, relaxed, forced her down again, using her to jack himself off.

The owl gasped, pushing at his bellyfur, but there was no escape. Her air supply was rhythmically forced out of her by a cock much too large, and soon she drooped into a weary, feathered bundle, half-conscious and panting. For all the pain and her unwillingness, the coupling slowly became enjoyable, and her passage grew slick as the minutes ticked by. Were he a gentler lover he might have even coaxed her to climax, but he was fixated on his own needs and the more slick and half-willing the owl became the harder and faster he bounced her. When unfed he was more than flexible enough to curl around and lick or suck himself, but he was far too proud to stoop to those means and so she suffered for his lust.

A grunting growl, a spasmic twitch of belly, flanks and haunches. His hindpaws kicked at the air and his wet balls twitched, but only the owl felt the gush of seed deep inside her. There was somewhat less this time, but it was every bit as pleasureable for the wolverine and he stretched in shivering ecstacy.

Finally it was over, and she collapsed limply against his belly. Even now he did not release her, though his paws tugged her up off his cock. The long pink thing left her with a pneumatic sound, and she was dragged up over the slope of furry stomach. Her feathers rustled slackly against his bloated torso, and it was not until she felt the gape beneath her that she realized that even grossly fattened as he is, she was not to escape with her life.

His maw was barrel-wide beneath her, jagged-edged yet soft, and she found renewed strength to struggle as she was drawn in backfirst. Winghands scrabbled at pelt, powerful legs kicked, but more and more she found herself compressed into those jaws. Cheeks expanded to take her in, slick against her feathers, and the tongue was a smooth wet cushion against her rump.

Bit by bit she was crammed into the wolverine's muzzle, and the jaws creaked ponderously shut. Beneath her claws she could feel the ocelot-taur's hindpaws, the tail she politely pushed in for him, but now her light is cut off. She was a heavy mouthful, and the pressure of closing maw forced her inexorably into his gullet with the cat. As the world went dark, her hips were caught in his throat, and one massive, pulsing gulp dragged her down.

In moments she came to rest. She was caught in his throat, head still in his mouth but oddly canted so she couldn't bite. Stretched out next to the 'taur's hind legs, her small body was trapped so tight she could scarcely breathe. She struggled, tried to squirm a wing free, to grip something, anything to get her out of that fetid place.

And then relaxed, panting. The throat was too tight, too muscular. Though still alive, still breathing -- if barely -- she was trapped. The gullet tensed rhythmically, the wolverine sucking in long hissing breaths around the mass of feathers, fur and meat in his throat. She knew her fate now.

She knew that though it would take many hours, the flesh beneath her would eventually dissolve. Very slowly she would proceed down that throat, feetfirst. Eventually his stomach would have room for her.

Outside, Ripper clambered heavily to his paws. The owl doubled the bulge in his neckfur, but added little to the mass of prey he had taken earlier. His entire weight in furs had vanished into his maw, and with a slow and labored gait he made his way to one of his nest trees. It was one of the lower nests, and with panting effort he managed to drag himself into the spot where spreading limbs made a platform large enough to hold him.

His latest meal twitched as he stretched uncomfortably out to rest; he paid it no heed. She would go the way of the others. With a last belch, he settled down to sleep.


Ripper woke.

Dawn was just breaking, and the meadow was empty of others. Odd dreams had haunted his sleep; had he really visited with that man? He could count on the claws of one paw the number of times he had mated with a male, but the memory seemed oddly strong for a mere dream. He remembered it clearly; it was that bald human who was always so willing to brush his fur….

His belly let out a long gurgle, and sudden, urgent needs replaced any thought of dreams. His chest had resumed its usual diameter, all his meals slid down and digested, and even his belly was smaller than it had been. Now the results of his glut were upon him; he had a sudden, irresistable need to rid himself of his prey.

The urge was so strong that it was an effort to not lift his tail and crap right there in the tree. With a hasty effort he thumped out of the tree and ran full-tilt to a building concealed behind low trees. Within were urinals, stalls -- and what he most needed, open ceramic-floored toilets set below the level of the floor. He spun in place, backed up over one and squatted.

His sphincter opened involuntarily -- he was lucky he had made it to the toilet -- and the first of the turd shot out, propelled by a muscular contraction. It was as thick as a man's wrist and had he not crouched it would have been propelled against the wall behind him, so mighty was the pent-up pressure.

In seconds he gushed out twenty feet of brown, greenish and gray turd; it coiled untidily beneath him like a badly made soft ice cream. There was orange and black fur mixed in, providing roughage and holding the thing together in one long mass. The tiger alone produced a vast pile of it; he could feel his intestines relaxing as the mass of converted cat at last escaped from his body. Teeth and bits of broken down and softened bone added to the bulk; some parts of the turd were powderery-white with pulverized calcium.

But he wasn't nearly done. As the growing pile began to brush his fur he managed to pinch it off -- on the second try -- and trod on the flush pedal as he moved to the next toilet pit. The need was now only slightly less urgent; more crap had moved down to take the place of what had gone. The moment he crouched it started again, and his guts continued to loosen as their long cylinder of compressed contents was expelled.

The painfully tight feeling in his abdomen passed as he moved to the third toilet. The first two pits flushed, taking a fraction of the turds down; much of the second belly-high pile was yellow with ocelot fur. The room was astink with the shit-smell; his anal glands had discharged into the turds and added their skunklike fetor to the air.

The third toilet pit accepted the last of it. Each pile had been two feet wide and nearly that high, a coiled mass of expelled, digested flesh, bone and fur. The rest of the 'taur left, and the owl followed, her leaving marked by furless turd and a fair number of white patches from the smaller feathers. Much of the last turd was from his small intestine, incompletely digested and wasted flesh. But the sheer momentum of his shitting had carried it out as though he had been given an enema.

Finally the last bits of crap broke free from his anus and plopped into the pile. With a much-relieved sigh he trod on one pedal after another. It wouldn't be long before he needed to crap again; there was plenty more dissolved flesh in his belly and upper intestine that had simply been unable to proceed further. He could feel his insides adjusting, resuming their usual shape, and he imagined he could feel the dissolved meat moving down to be absorbed. In two or three hours he would do all this again, if not so copiously.

At the moment he had other concerns. With his bowels healthily emptied another overpowering need impressed itself on him, and he stood over the fourth pit and let his bladder empty itself. The piss left him in a long, long rush; his bladder had been painfully tight and he'd not even noticed in the rush to rid himself of painfully accumulated crap.

It seemed to last forever. He didn't lift his leg as a dog would but crouched a bit and let the fluid flow. What seemed like (and probably were) gallons of it left him, and slowly he felt less tight beneath. Any hint of morning wood left with the urine, which if he'd looked was quite yellow.

He waited impatiently, and finally the rush ended. He trod on the various toilet pedals again, flushing the urine and the last of the turds. The three basins he had shit in were badly streaked and stained; some hapless maintenance worker would clean them, as he couldn't be bothered. He turned to a sink -- right at nose level on the big wolverine -- and flipped it on, lapping at the water that flowed into the sink. Someone had once commented that he probably drank from toilets; he had forgotten who that wight was, as it had not happened in the swamp and the hasty and violent meal he'd made of the fur had been the last time he saw him.

His thirst was slaked, but still he drank. He needed to slick down his throat and get plenty of water in his belly for what came next.

His stomach sloshed when he moved away from the sink, making his way to a toilet pit sized for dragons. Lesser furs could fall into it and vanish; even he avoided it, save when something needed to be gotten rid of that would clog even the capacious plumbing of the smaller squat-pits.

Planting his paws at the edge of this pit, he lowered his muzzle and belched. Water moved in his belly as he yawned, heaved, retched. And again. Something moved inside him, and he heaved, belly sucking in hollowly. Something filled his throat, deep down.

He retched, and it moved upward. Finally it appeared, a slimy, squashed mass of white feathers mixed with yellow, black and orange fur. A couple of bits of bone were merged in, the 'taur's pelvis incompletely dissolved even after twelve hours. The pellet was as thick as a man's knee and drooped from his jaws, hanging together in one piece as more was vomited up.

A foot, two feet, three feet appeared out of his gullet, then finally dropped in one piece into the depths of the pit. Somewhere down below there was a splash as thirty pounds of feathers, head-hair and fur -- not counting the belly-slime and the water impregnating the gooey mess -- hit bottom.

Turning back to the sink, he drank another couple of muzzlefuls, and finally remembered to turn off the water. The urge to crap was back, and he visited a stained pit, leaving a coiled mass no larger this time than four or five well-fed great danes might. Another quart of piss followed, and he was done.

He stretched, feeling much better now. Some of the crap that had piled up had brushed his fur, and in an uncharacteristically intelligent-seeming motion he pulled paper towels from the holder with his fangs, wet them in the sink and bent around to clean himself. He bathed rarely, and was most often accompanied by a rank scent of sweat, lust, blood and fur-oil, but he had no desire to stink of shit.

The towels followed the rest, and he turned for the door. Empied of his meals, he felt light on his paws. Light, hungry…and with a growing stiffness along his belly.

He padded back out into the light, leaving the smells of the bathroom behind. It was time to do it all over again.

The End