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.



By Strega, Dec. 1 2001

Inspired by a discussion with Morphy the balloon panther of FM.

Shural was a gul. That one word conveyed all the average person needed to know about him, whether they be elf, halfling, human, dwarf, orc or any other species -- 'gul' was synonymous with 'big, strong, fast, smelly, bad-tempered beastman'. There was more to it than that, of course.

When the Archmage known as the Maker had created this breed, he'd started with giant wolverines, huge, vicious creatures from the far North. If he'd had a family group, he might have ended up with a relatively good-natured bunch of carnivorous soldiers. Instead he'd collected rival males and enough females to ensure breeding stock; fighting had instantly broken out between the brutes, and that vile-tempered nature had been passed down when the Maker had transformed the beasts into beast-men.

Shural was the youngest Gul male to be let out of the Maker's castle that day, and the smallest. He stood only five foot ten, and weighed in at just over two hundred and forty pounds, solid and wide. Muddy-brown fur covered him head to toe save for tan 'sideburns', a similar stripe down each side that met atop his tailroot, and a few splotches of off-white pelt over his collarbones.

He was eight years old, and wore just the steel and leather bracers with which he practiced blocking sword-strokes, the better to get close to his future opponents. He'd not be allowed into a real battle for another two years, when he had his full growth. By then he'd be eight inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier.

Even now he was a frightening creature. 'Humanoid' was a label easy to apply but hard to make stick; His head was completely bestial, flat-topped with a short snout and underslung lower jaw that left his upper canines ever exposed. His cheeks were twice the width of his muzzle, heavy with the powerful muscles that would drive his slicing carnassial teeth through the heaviest bone. His neck was as thick as his cheeks, sloping down into massive, rounded shoulders, barrel chest and short, almost bearlike legs. His tail didn't reach the ground, merely a stub of extended spine furred with such long, dense hair that it resembled a broom. Hands and feet -- if you wanted to call them that, 'paws' was much closer -- were large enough to completely cover a man's head, five-toed footpaws and thumb-bearing paws equipped with claws like cruel ivory hooks. He was a solid mass of muscle, bone and sinew, and a month ago he'd surprised an elven thief in the castle and pulled his spine out through his belly.

That was why he'd been let out today. Gul warriors swept a mile-wide area around the castle each day, chasing out small prey and bringing anything too dangerous for a youngster back to the keep as dinner. That left the occasional orc, goblin, gnoll, or medium-sized predatory wildlife His task today was to catch his dinner -- literally; if he came back without a trophy worthy of a gul he'd be laughed at, beaten up and sent to his bed-niche with nothing to fill his belly. Worse still, he'd lose the respect he'd gained when he'd been the lucky one to stumble upon the sneakthief.

He was far enough from the castle to hunt now. Falling to all fours was a natural impulse, and he obeyed it, creeping into the woods as stealthily as he could. His prey awaited.


An hour later he was grumbling to himself, and resisting the urge to snarl out loud. He hadn't caught so much as a whiff of scent from anything alive -- not an orc, nor a badger, nor even a groundhog. Any of the above would have suited him just now, for he was hungrier by the moment. After all, he only had to bring back proof of what he caught, not the whole corpse.

Suddenly he froze, unknowingly mimicking the 'point' a hunting-dog comes to when prey is sighted. Something just ahead had rustled leaves, and a bush moved a branch or two.

Sinking low to the loam, he crept up on it, placing his paws with exquisite care. Gul were not built to sneak, but they could try, and he was smaller than most. He considered circling downwind, but there was hardly a breath of air here under the canopy and --

A flash of fur, and he pounced, throwing caution to the wind. Something darted from beneath the brush, and he hammered down a handpaw. Even before he heard the pop of bone giving way he realized how small his prey was; his hand all but concealed it now, and he pulled it back to reveal a squirrel.

"Shrak." Glaring at the unfortunate rodent -- still twitching, but hardly more than a rug after that shattering strike -- he knew he couldn't possibly bring this back as his prize. He'd be forever labeled 'squirrel boy', not to mention the older gul would beat him up and down the halls.

But he couldn't just leave the thing there. He could get that nickname just as readily if another of today's hunters found the dead thing with his scent upon it. He could bury it, hide it -- or do what he did now, carefully shove the thing into his muzzle. Its last spasms of motion made the tail beat his cheek, but he managed to get it in without getting blood on his chops.

Gulp. It moved heavily down his gullet, a small thing but more rigid than a chunk of

bitten-off flesh, but it moved, and he licked his lips carefully to ensure there was no trace of it. He thought he felt a last twitch and tail-tickle, down inside himself, and then it was gone, save that the edge was off his hunger now.

Sniffing the wind, he glanced around for anyone who might have seen the embarrassing incident, but he was alone. Muttering a curse at his bad luck, he pushed past the bush the departed rodent had used as a hiding-spot and stalked onward.

His stiff-legged walk only took him three paces past that bit of undergrowth, though, for something off to the side glistened. A ray of sun had felt its way through the overhanging leaves, and a golden sheen bounced back from something just to the left of that bush.

Approaching with a caution more like a wild wolverine's than a proud gul's, he drew close enough to see that it was a folded sheet of some shiny material, smooth-looking and dry. Without thinking he flipped a pebble at it, heaving a sigh of relief as the little stone bounced and left a dimple. He'd heard stories of blobs of moving flesh, creeping predators vulnerable only to fire or magicks, but this was…what, exactly?

"Come now, it's not going to bite you." He snarled low in his throat, and rose to his hindpaws to free up his hands. "And it might be worth something." He grabbed the thing, yanked it upward -- and it unfolded into something that took a moment to recognize.

It was a vixen. A smooth, flat, folded golden vixen, a lot like the Vulpa foxpeople the Maker had created before he made the Gul. Like and unlike, for this thing was soft and flexible, furless, not like a hide but more like the silken garments the vain vulpa sometimes wore. He snorted at that thought -- he knew gul-males who returned from 'hunting trips' with a powerful odor of vixen about them.

He paused in playing with the thing, for he'd found two oddities almost at the same moment. First, as he'd flipped its tail idly, he'd caught sight of a soft, puckered hole beneath it, and a moment later he saw a beak-like nozzle at the tip of the tail.

The hole in the material looked almost like an anus, as though the thing were a living creature. He frowned, turning the thing in his handpaws, and soon found two more such holes: one inside the muzzle, and one in a slit that ran from the tailhole around to the front of the thing's groin.

None of those holes yielded anything interesting when explored with a claw, but the nozzle did. He just barely got a clawtip into that, met an obstruction that felt somehow engineered, and lifted it to his lips to blow whatever it was clear.

The first big puff of air swelled the thing's belly alarmingly, and he almost dropped it in his haste to get it away from his lips. Stupid! It's hollow, of course. How could I have missed that?

It held the air somehow, and with a shrug he puffed some more in. Whatever the obstruction in the nozzle was it kept the air from coming back out no matter how hard he blew.

Shural was young, but he wasn't stupid, and soon he'd blown enough air in to swell the thing tight. It really did look like a vixen now, a smooth, soft-bosomed balloon vulpa, and he rubbed his furry fingerpads over it and thought unclean thoughts.

It has holes, he thought. They are soft-lined and deep, and there's one for each hole a real vixen has. He'd caught a glimpse of a vulpa-bitch bathing last week, and though her fur was darker, she'd looked a lot like this; soft and rounded, flexible and…willing?

He'd never been with a female. He had just started to want to a few months ago, but the female gul were either warriors who'd snort at the very idea of coupling with a youngster or dames hidden in the crèche, where no uninvited male dared to tread. The vixens were too proud and too few for a young gul. That left the little Praka raccoon-people, the first of the races the Maker had created as followers; he'd heard they were willing enough, but he'd not managed to get to a quiet place with a femme-coon and find out.

Not having been with one didn't mean he didn't know what to do with one, though, and a fanged leer twisted his muzzle as he turned the inflatable vixen over. His deeply buried sheath -- normally revealed only by a streak of pale fur -- had gone rigid somewhere along that train of thought, and he slid the exposed tip up beneath its -- her -- tail.

Grunting, he tugged the vixen in against his belly, unsheathing and resheathing into her soft slickness. The smooth whatever-it-was she was made of clung to his shaft, and it was a moment's effort to bend her over a convenient log, fall to all fours and go to work.

He hammered up beneath her tail, using every inch of his narrow-if-long shaft, and fantasized: It was a vixen, proud an aloof, and she'd sneered and dismissed him with a wave. But she'd forgotten they were alone, and he was much stronger than she. A barking squeak, as he tore off her robe, and a despairing wail as he forced himself beneath her tail.

He gaped his muzzle over its -- her -- nape, instinctively wanting to scruff her, hold her down while he had his way. Humping thrusts made her seem to struggle and squirm, but he took her, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt the lust building in his loins. He didn't need to hold back to please her, she was his, to do with as he would.

His lust grew, and grew, and in his fantasy she squealed as ten and more inches of gul-cock slammed into her, swollen hard and made even more stiff by its inner bone. He matched her now, growl for squeal, and with a shuddering snarl he let go all control --

And the smooth, lifeless vixen-thing twisted in his grip. Hot lust pulsed through his loins, filling her, but flexible arms wound around his own, muzzle gaped wide for his. The puckered opening inside its maw swelled wide, as though to devour him.

But even shuddering through his first waking climax, he would not be taken so easily. Roaring, he rocked back on his knees, slashing left-right-left-right with his handclaws. The vixen was strong, but flexible; she couldn't keep him still, and his claws tore through the material of her false breasts, letting out the air and leaving the thing in long shreds of fabric. It collapsed, and he fell atop it, shivering as the last of his seed left him.

Panting, he relaxed, closing his eyes to concentrate on the warm glow of ebbing passion. For just a moment he let himself soak up the pleasure, for he'd missed the real heat of passion in the moment he'd had to fight. He was still in it, still in tight, and he felt the last pulse of seed spurt through his cock.

He was careless for just that moment, and it cost him. The thing's 'arms' went tight around his biceps again, and he opened his eyes to the horror of its slashed body knitting itself back together. It somehow flowed back into the wounds, closing them as though they'd never existed, and before he could recover from shock and orgasm its muzzle had engulfed his own.

Smooth, flexible material sucked itself rapidly up his snout, deforming the vixen more and more, and he let out a strangled grunt as nostrils and mouth were sealed in the tunnel -- the gullet. It would not have him! He slashed anew, tearing great rents in its chest and legs, letting the air out once more.

But this time it didn't collapse. The material knit as fast as he clawed, until his flailing slashes tangled his fingers in the shreds and were caught fast in the healing 'wounds'. He tugged and rolled, slamming the thing against the ground, trying to get his footclaws into it.

It did not relent. Maw slid smoothly over his entire head in a moment, muzzle, cheeks and ears, and he thought too late to rip at it with fangs. By the time he tried, his muzzle was held shut by the smooth gullet-tube, and rippling pulsations pulled it further over him. His neck was taken, and he snarled muffledly, trying to get his claws free. He would shred it anew, tear the thing to tiny bits and find a fire and burn them.

It was growing dark now, as its pulsating maw folded over his shoulders. He was growing weak. He should not be weak! He was a gul, and the gul were strong. Far too strong to be so taken by a vixen.

He shivered, tried to draw in a breath, failed. He was stronger than it was, but he had no air, and even as his claws came free from its 'flesh' he was too weak to strike at it. His ribcage was taken in, sucked rapidly into the cool, smooth material. Larger than the thing, he wore her now; he could feel himself bulging through the material, forcing the vixen into his shape even as it slid over his hips and still-unsheathed cock.

His legs were taken in a last long slurp. He was all in cool smoothness now, sliding downward, balling inside its stretched material, in the dark. Grunting, he pushed, tried to use his claws.

But he had no more air.


The latex vixen recovered, there in the forest's shade. Its lover had been large, very strong and sharp-clawed, and it had nearly lost its grip. Had he gotten away, it was even possible he'd have found a way to destroy her.

Now she was swollen around his bulk, and she felt her body working at him, changing him. The great mass of him grew softer by the moment, and soon he would be gone. When she was done she would go up on her feet as though she were a live vulpa, and depart the area. It was not good to take too many in one area.

But she had to finish with her strong furry lover, first.


Shural woke.

He woke with a start, leaping half to his feet. He was groggy, confused -- what had just happened? He cast about for the vixen-balloon, that hungry thing that had eaten him.

But wait. It was dark. The horizon was lit, but in the wrong direction; it must be nearly dawn. His hunt was only to go to the twilight; by now the warrior gul should have found him, as they found any who were lost in these hunts, dead or alive.

They hadn't found him, though. He turned, spotting a familiar log. That's where he remembered bending the flexible 'vixen' into a pose like a gul-femme, and taking her before she --

He froze as he heard a squeak. Just as he'd turned there'd been a sound like the vixen's material rubbing against itself. He snarled, turned to look.

Squeak. From behind! He spun….

Squeak-a. What was happening? He rubbed his eyes, and froze anew.

His hand. His muscular furred hand was changed. It was now a smooth, deep brown slickness, material like the vixen's coating its contours. Following the hand down to wrist, to forearm, elbow and finally chest with his eyes, he realized the truth.

He was like she was, now. From footclaws to shoulders, and his face when he felt it, he was a balloon. His body flexed oddly when he pushed it; he was no longer flesh and blood, but a hollow thing. Remembering, he pushed his hand into his muzzle, felt smooth soft fangs and a stretchy opening like a gullet.

He had just thought to check his other openings when he heard the song. The sun was just coming up, and he padded noiselessly to peer through the undergrowth. A stream ran just beyond, and there washing herself was a vixen.

Not a smooth, fleshless one this time either; this was a furred, brush-tailed vulpa-femme, naked with her clothing hung on a treelimb. She was alone, here in the cleared woods, seeking privacy for her bath and her small song

He could tell just by looking she was one of the proud ones, noble and aloof and above giving a young gul the time of day, much less any intimacies. But she was alone, and he couldn't go back to the castle like this.

There was a swelling along his belly, and he watched the inflatable cock swell in its smooth latex sheath. It felt good, and somehow he knew it would work just as his fleshy one had the one time he'd used it. And down in the depths of his hollow belly, a churning, like a hunger added to the lust.

Smiling, he gathered himself for the pounce. It was time to try out his new body.

The End