Orion’s belly is already more than a bit rounded by the time he checks, he numbered them, trap eight. There’s a raccoon in it—feral of course, non-sapient also of course. The little guy heard him coming, so he’s more than pissed, hopping around inside the cage and scanning back and forth, futilely of course, for a way out.

The buck standing over the cage, on the other hand, calmly, though carefully, reaches down, grabs a small lever, and turns it slowly. The walls of the cage tighten, squishing the rac in place, not enough to hurt him, just enough to immobilize the critter. Then Orion flips over one panel on top and grabs the rac by the scruff of the neck. The catch’s muscles tense, Orion can feel, as he pushes down to hold him in place, flicks another latch and pushes down hard and the trap opens up and falls flat.

Orion still pins his captive, reaching behind himself to dig in an outside pocket of his day pack—the only thing he’s wearing—and put a pill-shaped object between his fingers. Once that’s done, he flicks the cap off with his thumb; said cap disappears into the grass. It would be one thing if the cap weren’t biodegradable, and if this weren’t his place, but it is and the whole assembly degrades quite well once used.

By the scruff of the neck, Orion hoists the raccoon up into the air and holds him at a craned arm’s length. While the critter’s spittling and hissing and scratching at the nothing he can reach, Orion uses his other hand to grab and support the rac’s rump, taking the weight off his neck, but also pricks said rump with the Lehrentier test between his fingers.

One second, two, three, and then he removes the test, keeping it between his fingers, and rotates the raccoon to see its result. Blue. Negative.

The raccoon in the buck’s hands, unlike the buck himself, is definitely not sapient.

Which definitely makes the buck’s captive the buck’s prey.

Orion opens up his eyes wide, pupils dilated, snout down, looking almost pouty, definitely cute. It’s a trick he inherited from his mother. He’s also got some sedative in his bag, but as it usually does, this works: the rac stops fighting so much, eyes locked with his, maybe confused, definitely letting his guard down, muscles loosening. Is Orion’s trick paranatural? Maybe. Does it work? So far, yes.

Orion starts to scratch the base of the rac’s tail with the one hand—dropping the spent test and crushing it underhoof—and guides the other up, cradling his quarry’s head now, scratching him behind the ears, making sure he’s nice and cozy as the situation will allow. The raccoon appreciates the attention, apparently, still a little tense, but loosening up, leaning into the attention, leaning back into Orion’s hands, soon lying down, belly-up, melting to Orion’s tender touch.

In turn, Orion brings the raccoon closer, chest to chest, snout facing snout. Orion sniffs the rac and licks his nose.

Fuck, the critter already tastes good.

Orion lowers lips to snout, keeping his hypnotic eyes, and then he starts to open his maw over his prey’s face, pushing him up into himself, and once his jaw, now dislocating, is over and around the rac’s head, Orion opens as wide as he can and shoves the raccoon into himself, trying to get as far as the shoulders before the critter figures out what’s going on and—to be fair, rightly—flips out. Orion squeezes around the rac’s rump, trying to hold the hind legs in place—those are perfectly capable of scratching a neck—and…


The raccoon doesn’t seem to care. All the easier for Orion, but—

One gulp later, the little conundrum solves itself when the tip of Orion’s tongue bumps into the tip of something else.

Huh. That happens every once in a while, but not too often. Usually wild critters do not go gentle into that good night. This one, Orion supposes, figured out its fate a good minute ago and seems to want to make the most of the time he’s got left. Orion, for his part, is perfectly happy to oblige: one more gulp and they’re in the perfect position for a bit of tongue play.

The raccoon, for his part, doesn’t seem to know the art of patience, and wastes no time humping Orion’s tongue, his shaft lengthening and hardening, jerking back and forth inside the deer’s maw, and it’s maybe a minute and a half before the raccoon twitches and braces and pushes and fires, procyonid semen flavoring the rest of the meal. Which, there’s better, but it doesn’t taste bad.

Quickly, though, while the prey’s in a post-ejaculate haze, Orion cups both hands around said prey’s rump and pushes in and swallows hard, throat around shoulders, then hips, and he bulges quite nicely as he goes down, still numb, still dribbling.

Orion puts a satisfied hand to his belly, savoring the sensation as it starts to really bump and quiver, his prey realizing his prey status, making a few last futile swipes at freedom. It always induces a little bit of a twinge of guilt, but that’s always struck him as odd: cervine or no, like it or no, he’s a predator, and buying a pack of sausages just doesn’t cut it some days. Not to mention—

Orion produces a bead of pre from his erect shaft, his hands cradling his wriggling belly.

—not to mention how fucking good it felt.

… That said, he may have just checked the last trap, but he’d also like just a bit more in him.

Orion’s phone buzzes once in his pack. He reaches around for it, checks the messages. It’s from Toss. He’s here too, fishing at a pier overlooking the lakefront.

got a big one

Problem solved.

When Orion arrives at the pier, Toss is where he left him: sitting underneath one of Orion’s sunhats, which is propped up by a couple of sticks. Toss is playing with his phone, at least until he hears Orion’s steps onto the pier. Orion’s hooffalls are usually a little more subtle; Orion is also usually not so weighed down.

Toss looks back from underneath the hat, at the buck cradling his swollen belly, underneath which is a still-hard shaft.

“… Wow you look good.”


“Uh, right, caught a fish for you,” and Toss indicates the five-gallon bucket next to him. Said bucket is held up by a metal ring mounted to the side of the pier. That usually wouldn’t be a requirement, but the bucket is taller than the weasel is. Hell, the fish is longer than Toss. The only reason he can fish at all is because of a set of little mechanical whatevers he built that, to be honest, do most of the work for him. He gets to sit in the shade and relax and, every half hour or so, watch Orion eat a fish. It’s a pretty good deal all around.

“The hook’s out already?” Orion asks.

“This time.”

“Nice.” Orion smiles and sits down at the edge of the pier. He towers over the weasel next to him, not that that’s any surprise. “You’re doing good?”

“Yep. You?”

“Just downed a rac.” Orion puts a hand to his belly, feeling the slowing wriggles of his prize. “He’s feisty now, but he was really getting into it while I was downing him, which doesn’t happen too often.”

“Huh.” Toss scurries out from under the hat to double-check a line. “That doesn’t happen too often.” Line’s good, apparently; he goes back under the hat, in the process knocking out one of the sticks holding it up. “I wonder if it’s a side-effect of the eyes,” the hat says.

“Seems to work on you fine enough.”

“Yeah, it’s not the eyes.” Toss props the hat back up, looks back at Orion—

—who’s performing that little trick.

Toss, being the target of said ploy, feels the stress, the tension drain from him and dissipate into the wind. It’s not that he’s lost his lucidity—his faculties remain his—but rather, there’s no real purpose to using them. He is comfy; he wants to be comfier.

The hypnotizing buck in question has a quite comfy looking tum to sit on, full, round, still moving, though not for much longer.

“…okay, maybe the eyes, a little…” and he slowly walks closer, to Orion’s thigh, and then up it and to the belly as the buck leans back on his hands to accommodate, weasel rump on durr tum, zull shaft starting to harden.

Orion looks up across the lakefront, breaking eye contact, his pupils contracting again.

Toss comes to, shaking the vestiges of artificial calm out of his head, a little higher-strung now, though not by much: “…but not the whole thing.” He pats Orion’s belly. “Now that I’m here, I’m sure as hell not moving.”

Orion’s still blinking, squinting a little, rubbing his eyes with his fingers: doing that trick hurts a lot less in the half-light of evening. “Glad to hear I’m not only valued for my pupils, ow it’s bright.” He notices his mustelid buddy’s current state of arousal: “you, uh…”

“Enjoying the moment, is all.” The belly the weasel is sitting on twitches a couple more times and then gurgles. “Speaking of, you going to down the fish I caught for you?”

“Right,” and Orion reaches into the bucket with his free hand and grips the fish—no hypnosis, or whatever it is, required—and as it flops in his hand in the air, he brings it to his mouth and opens up around it and, with a couple swallows, sucks it down. Straightforward.

He can feel the fish slide down his gullet, trying to thrash back and forth, in too tight a space to, until it reaches his stomach and has a little bit more wiggle room, though much less time. The weasel sitting atop him can feel it too, if his satisfied exhalation is any sign.

The raccoon’s apparently expired; the only movement now, of which there is at the moment much, and pleasant, is from the fish. The hand Orion isn’t leaning on rubs said belly for a moment. Both he and the weasel atop him rest with half-lidded eyes of satisfaction in a moment’s silence.

“…mmm, that hit the spot.”

“Yeah, it did,” Toss replies. “What was your haul for the day?”

“Let’s see…” Orion drums his belly with his fingers. “Three buns, a squirrel, I let a skunk go because they’re not worth dealing with, maybe half a dozen birds, the two fish you caught before this one, and, uh… the rac and the fish just now.”


And for a minute they both lazily look out across the lake, the afternoon sun starting to golden with the oncoming evening.

Orion and Toss are back at the former’s cabin, still on the property, watching a movie now that night has fallen and Orion has eaten his fill. Usually he’s alone out here, so he’ll put on some random internet videos or something and let himself digest, but Toss is here (he happened to be free this weekend and the topic came up in conversation), so this time he went to the trouble to put on a movie while his gut gurgles. That said, it’s a pretty stupid action flick, mostly on for flashing lights! Fun colors! Loud noises! Cool shit! Why the fuck not!

Toss, of course, has had a running monologue of snide comments the entire film, which Orion supposes is half the fun, but he usually keeps them in his head. This can be annoying, but on the other hand, some of them are actually funny, so it’s a net plus to have him here. That and the weasel fits quite nicely around his cock.

Toss is draped back over Orion’s belly, his head near the deer’s navel, his abdomen currently stretched around the top two thirds or so of Orion’s shaft: the buck can just see the bulge of his tip under the weasel’s ribcage. One of Toss’s hindpaws stands on Orion’s thigh; the other rubs and tickles the base of his spear. One of Toss’s hands rubs Orion’s belly, the other his own, and through it the (proportionally) giant peen inside him. The weasel too is visibly aroused, of course, which, the experience is definitely better when your cocksock himself is enjoying the ride.

“…hey, wait, this scene is in a house of mirrors, right?” Toss is watching the movie, almost upside-down the way he’s flopped over his larger partner’s tum. “Where’s the camera then?”

“…huh.” Orion typically doesn’t like to talk shop off work, but it’s a good question. “Maybe…”

He trails off. He was hoping the right thing to say would pop into his head as he spoke.


Orion starts to get to thinking. As he often does, he bounces one leg slightly as a tic.

As he does not often do, he has a weasel standing on the thigh he’s bouncing, and said weasel currently holds a highly sensitive part of his body and, judging from the rhythmic aroused huffs coming out of him, very much enjoying the input.

He’s not the only one: Orion half-consciously starts to bounce his leg a little higher, losing his train of thought, focusing instead on pushing his member up, up, up, a piston in a stretched mustelid rump, dribbling pre, lubricating an already-slick interior—

And then Toss pushes down through himself on his tip with one hand and slacks his leg to suspension the bouncing a bit, and spitfires: “hey hey hey hey hey, let’s slow down, a bit…”

Orion slows, though whichever part of him wants to nut shoots back with one rebellious bounce. Toss fires back with an indignant glare and pulls himself up a quarter-inch, threatening to peel off entirely and leave the durr peen out in the cold.

At that, Orion comes to his senses: “…yeah, let’s not rush ourselves. Movie’s not over anyway.” He relaxes his leg again and the weasel slowly lowers himself around the cervine spear once more and, once more, instead of forcing the moment, they simply let it happen.

That said, all things end, even so-bad-it’s-good action flicks, and the wall of shame that is the credits starts to roll. Orion turns the TV off with the remote. The film’s score cuts. Then silence, softly broken by Orion’s belly groaning.

“…now what?” Toss asks.

“Now… hmm…” Orion half-sighs, half-says, too lazy at the moment to get up. It’s a comfortable couch. “We could…” and he starts bouncing his leg again, and feels the sensory overload again, and slows down—

Toss is massaging durr peen with both hands and that hindpaw, eyes closed, loving the moment. Until he opens them again, looking up at Orion’s face with mild confusion. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because last time—”

“Yeah, the movie’s over, go ahead.” He sounds almost annoyed.

Orion shrugs and gets back to bouncing his leg, shaft pumping up and down, up and down, up and down, and Toss squeezes the inserted shaft with both hands now, mmf it’s so tight, and he lowers himself, taking a little more, mustelid pucker stretching just a bit wider. Orion keeps one hand on his belly, but lowers the other to Toss himself, pinning zull against tum, feeling his shaft against his fingers—it’s starting to dribble pre, understandably, which gives Orion an idea: he licks his other hand and then switches hands, the weasel now between warm, wet palm and groaning belly, pistoned as he’s pinned, and he starts trying to hump Orion’s hand—though he can’t get enough purchase, not that it matters; the bouncing’s doing all the sliding for him.

They do this for a minute, each letting out increasingly aroused grunts and sighs, until Orion switches rhythms and turns Toss just a bit, and pushes him against his own belly, and there’s a couple more bounces and then they both buck and both blow, cum dribbling out of the weasel’s shaft and onto the deer’s hand, much more cum from the deer’s shaft into the weasel’s expanding belly.

They both hold still, save for their twitching rods, for a minute, Toss’s belly rounding out under Orion’s hand, itself now featuring a dribbling line of white, and then they both exhale and sink into the moment, still twitching, one still inflating the other.

… Coming off the back end of an orgasm really is coming down from a high. There’s a weight of exhaustion that falls. In some cases it can feel deadening. In this one, though, for both of them, it’s more like a weighted blanket.

Toss massages Orion’s shaft as it finishes dispensing and starts to retract, though halfway—while he won’t cum again for a little while, the situation is still rather arousing. The weasel lowers along with that which spears him. His abdomen is now stretched more from Orion’s load than from its means of delivery.

For a minute, they both enjoy the haze.

“…it’s getting late,” Toss finally says, quietly. A little bit of deer spooge has started to leak from his rear entrance, leaving them both pretty sticky.

“Yeah, it is,” Orion replies, eyeing a clock on the wall. “You need help getting off? I can’t imagine that being anything but tiring.”


Orion lowers his hand, the one with weasel cum on it, a bit, curls two fingers under the weasel’s rump, and slowly, carefully, pulls the weasel up, up, and off his penis, which retreats a little further into its sheath. The weasel’s is still poking out a little as well as Orion picks him up, for the same reason as Orion’s: exhausted post-coital satisfaction.

While suspended, belly bloated, Toss lazily, pathetically reaches down to Orion’s tum, which is still working on today’s feast. “…mmmmmm, I wanna rub it…”

Orion lowers the weasel to his abdomen; weasel gets to work giving it little rubs.

“…actually…” Toss looks up, mustering what of his consciousness remains: “You want dessert?” and points to himself.

This is something they’ve done before. For whatever reason, Toss doesn’t asphyxiate or drown, instead entering a sort of pleasurable half-catatonia, and is immune to acids and bases. The first one he says he discovered by winning a hold-your-breath contest as a pup, and then just… keeping going; the second, he was doing pool maintenance and knocked a container over (and was fired).

This isn’t something they’ve done while Orion was already full.

“You sure about that? I’m not exactly empty,” Orion says, jiggling his tum, which for a moment sloshes and groans in protest.

“Oh, fuck, yes I know…mmmmmmm…” Toss’s shaft tries to harden at the prospect, unsheathing itself just a bit more.

Orion shrugs. “So be it.” By force of habit, he uses his deep eyes, though half-shut: he too is tired. That reduces its efficacy a bit, but it doesn’t matter, since Toss is basically in the state it induces anyway.

As Orion cups the weasel in both hands, bringing him to his snout, Toss puts one hand forward and then pats it a couple times on the buck’s nose. Then the deer opens his mouth and puts the weasel inside. He fits quite nicely in there, actually, almost perfectly, and Orion can feel the weasel’s swollen belly roll around as he plays with it, and with Toss’s bits just below that. Toss, for his part, lies on Orion’s tongue and wiggles his hips a bit, still leaking deer jizz from his rump. Orion recognizes its taste. It goes with the flavor of the weasel himself quite nicely.

For a moment, he plays with the weasel in his mouth, but said weasel lets out a pathetic squeaking groan and a “come on…” and tries to push himself down.

Lying back, his hands on the belly Toss will soon enough enter and wiggle a bit around in, still a bit sticky from the adventure of a few minutes prior, Orion tilts his head back and obliges his little creampuff’s request, and down he goes.