>stories>Fixate>Sin City 2000, Type 3: Vore On the Floor
Sin City 2000 
by "Fixate" 


Narrated by Timothy Freeze 

Type 3: Vore On the Floor

"From here, you can see each individual dinner table up close and personal, or the entire room in panoramic view" 

Well, the super eccentric to being scary, red fox sure knows how to make the best of an abandoned casino. Gambling is so out of fashion, or so he says. In this room, I can watch other furs gorge themselves on huge amounts of food, if they want to or not. A guaranteed big bill with every meal, and the biggest bill you can get or be part of is for the "Vore On the Floor" house special, payment in advance only. World wide advertisements have been raving about this super-sized meal for months, without the added subliminal messaging. He intends to do all of this old school. 

"With this virtual map, you can focus the audio to anywhere in the room. You, Tim Freeze, have the best seat in the house, for the greatest show on Earth." The best? The greatest? I'll make my own judgment when it's over. Despite desperate warnings from the television corporations world wide that are going to be broadcasting this, he's going to let everyone else make their own decisions, too. Some furs actually call it revolutionary. I call it playing fair. 

"Well, here goes everything, my friend." The customers we've been watching haven't put themselves nearly to the extremes that this fox put my family through earlier, but gold buttons do pop, silk, satin, lace, and other fine materials do rip, and everyone is greedily satisfied. It's getting really close to the raved demonstration of Vore on the Floor, and the fox is going to show it off personally. Moments after leaving the catered security room, he appears on stage in his sky blue two piece suit, violet shirt, lime green and purple striped tie, red carnation, black leather belt, plaid socks, scarlet dress shoes, and gold cufflinks, wrist watch, monocle, rings, and choker. No one else dresses like him, yet everyone is dead quiet in anticipation when they see him. If there's not some sort of subliminal messaging involved, then, well, is it fear? He can and does do everything he wants, and a fur can only take being laughed at for so long. The lights dim, but he's no less visible. 

"Ladies and gentlefurs. Welcome one and all to Vortropolis Incarnate. Tonight for the grand opening, I, Seymour J. Polypophilacopolis, shall delight you personally with the dinner theater. It's what you've all been waiting for. Tonight's Vore on the Floor shall be a rendition of -" the eccentric fox starts before one of the ornate chandeliers breaks loose and crashes down on a table occupied by a sleek suited rooster and his two, well endowed and shapely figured (most likely super model) hens. 

"Holy shit. That nearly killed us. Seymour. Who the hell built this place. I want my money back. If one of these chicks had lost a feather because of that, oh, I'd sue you so hard..." The pimp rooster fumes, hustling his two assets towards the door.

"Please don't leave Mr... Fullcock? Is that your name? Yes, I've heard of you, and your *cough* performances. And whom, pray tell, are these luscious beauties you've brought with you?" Seymour leans forwards, clasps his hands behind his back, and flashes a toothy grin. Maybe it's some subliminal thing, but they stop and turn around. 

"I'm Miss May. Little Valentine." And with that she thrusts back her head and busts out of her silk shirt. I don't know about anyone else, but I am definitely impressed by that staged maneuver. She even gets a button to land in some shocked Canadian goose's wine glass. Her boyfriend seems impressed by it, though. 

"I'm Miss August. Peaches Pennywise" This one does the splits in her very short, cherry red dress down to Fullcock's crotch, backward rolls away from him, flips back onto her feet, and then vaults onto some lone wolf's table to display everything to him instead. These are definitely not your run of the mill prostitutes. 

"What the, what the hell do you think you're doing, you airhead." The Canadian goose has come out of shock and is on her feet, ready to fight Valentine. 

"Quite sorry about that. Sometimes she's just too good, for her own good. Is there any way I could make you forget about that glass?", Fullcock asks slyly with a raise of his brow. The goose's jaw drops, she caws, and all is forgiven. That butch timber wolf at the table with her must be a rental, or something. He looks at his watch spitefully, then smiles and lovingly feeds her a grape when she sits down again. Do the high and mighty even know what love is? I doubt it. 

"Please, Mr. Fullcock, no more floor shows. Lights please. If you will all please take a seat up here, I will gladly reimburse you for psychological damages." It's still dim in there. "Lights, please." 

The lights come on, there's a buzz and crackle, and then randomly half of them blow out. Glass falls like confetti. Then one of the lights that have managed to stay on, brakes loose first from one side, swings for a moment, the occupants of the table under it get away from it, and the light splinters the table below. 

"My word, Seymour, what shoddy workfurship you've got here. This will not do at all. I'm going to have this place quarantined immediately", the well fed and not so well weathered turkey that had been sitting comfortably at the table bellows in his baritone voice. He then goes back to the table, tries to grab his briefcase, is hindered by his portliness, the accompanying, accountant-looking duck obediently gets it for him, and they start to leave. "I will have to have the company that built this exterminated." 

"Edward Lurker, Lucky Quintain. Please. Friends. I'm very sorry. I will get everything fixed afterwards. Please sit down up here and we'll discuss what I can do to make this all up to you guys." Seymour is on his knees, so they look at each other, sigh, and take their places next to the professional porn crew. For a while, everyone is silent and looking for the next fixture to fall. 

"Well, as I was going to say before-" There's a faint creaking sound from various areas of the room. "Say before the room started-" The walls and ceiling start making creaking and popping sounds. "Before the lights-" Cracks snake across the ceiling in every direction. Everyone turns their heads to the ceiling in unison. "This is the modernized-" The rest of the lights buzz and blow out except for a few over the stage "Vore on the Floor version of-" A small section of tiled ceiling whizzes down, followed be a larger section. They don't land on any occupied tables, but it's enough to send everyone stampeding for the doors. 

"My Gawd. The ceiling is falling. The ceiling is falling. " Little Valentine shrieks at the top of her lungs as she dives for the floor. Seymour nods approvingly. The crowd finds all the doors locked, and then as everyone turns nervously towards the stage, she says it again from under the table "Seymour, the ceiling is falling. Don't just stand there, or you'll get killed." 

"Don't worry little chick, I know the best route out of here. I'll go and tell the mayor about this." Slowly, the audience gets it. Everyone looks first at the scared chicken, then at the grinning fox, then at the cock, hen, turkey, and duck in the back of the crowd. Finally everyone but those six start laughing. As the disturbingly eccentric fox continues to nod, I realized that he's going for total global hierarchy. He knows he's the best, they now know he's the best, and those that don't get eaten tonight will definitely be back to eat or be eaten later. Without the out of fashion subliminal persuasion. 

Realizing what a headliner this could be, the four dinner guests swagger and wave their way back to their seats, and Fullcock pulls the still esthetic and clueless Valentine from under the table. Seymour bows as the rest of the crowd takes their seats, and then a previously unused set of lights illuminates the stage and guest table. Valentine is now completely baffled, so Fullcock fills her in on what had and what is going to happen. 

At first she's shocked, then her expression slowly turns to that of erotic pleasure, "Oooo. I've been eaten before, but I've never been, eaten, before. Let me be first, Foxy Woxy." 

"Well then ladies and gentlefurs, let the show begin" Again with the toothy grin as a couple of high definition screens slide down from the still mostly intact ceiling so the people in the back can be equally aroused. As Valentine bounces over to the stage side steps, a vixen, completely covered in scarlet colored leather from ear to toe with only her long, fiery tail free, swaggers on stage with a glass of red wine and hands it to Seymour. He takes it from her, sniffs it, stirs it with his pointer finger claw, and finally tips his head back and slips what's probably mostly special sauce down his gullet. He hands the glass back to the vixen, bows, turns to the chick, studies her, and then puts his pudgy hands on his muzzle. 

"No. Wait. Why would the audience want to see me swallow such a beauty like yourself, Miss Valentine, when they came to see me take in an impossibility such as my friend, Mr. Lurker." Seymour points to the huge turkey and Valentine pouts. Lurker frowns, sighs, and then pushes back his creaking chair. 

"Whatever, Seymour." All the other guests are slim to average sized, well exercised fowl that will somewhat strain, but still reasonably fit themselves down Seymour's throat, but Lurker is a butterball. A monstrous butterball. A visually impossible to swallow dessert. Seymour will probably choke on Lurker's shoulders, let alone his massive gut. Real high and mighty incarnate, capable of demoting you with a stare. As Lurker heaves himself onto his feet and trudges himself to the stage side steps, Seymour begins to looks really, really unsure of his meal change. Seymour is going to attempt microvore, and the crowd loves it immediately. Various places actually bet on how many more minutes Seymour will be alive. 

As Lurker slowly rocks up the stairs and then menacingly stomps towards the outclassed fox, each step reverberating through the stage, the leather vixen reaches into a filled pouch on her outfit that, when closed, makes her look like she's overeaten, and hands Seymour a couple oxygen pills, which he pockets for now. He's going to need all the time he can get once the show really starts. The vixen then has to help the butterball get his shirt and belt off, then his slacks and boxers. Once he's completely disrobed, he's every carnivore's dream in pieces, nightmare as a whole. Just to prove this, the curtains part behind the three furs to reveal a giant scale, which Lurker lumbers onto. Eight hundred seventy-nine pounds. Mmmm, beefy. 

"Have you lost weight, my friend?" Lurker frowns at this weak joke. Seymour studies him thoroughly, taps his muzzle, and cocks his head to the side. "Would you like to gain it back?" As Seymour turns to the audience, the vixen disappears off stage. "Ladies and gentlefurs. How many of you would like to see a real turn of events? My friend, Ed Lurker, will eat me, and then all the other guests at this table. You must agree that he is much more prepared to do it than I am." A carnivorous turkey? A turkey eating a fox? A carnivorous turkey eating five other furs? The audience loves it, and the vixen comes back with another glass of wine. This one she tosses up between Lurker's grisly beak, and then disappears again. Seymour pulls a gold handkerchief out of his back pocket, blindfolds himself, pops the pills down his throat, and Lurker starts towards him again, this time as the eater. 

The monstrous turkey wraps his wings around the athletic fox's still clothed body, drops his beak over and around Seymour's muzzle, then entire head, and lifts the vulpine over his head. Seymour drops down to his shoulders into Lurker's throat, then slides first one arm, and then the other down Lurker's leathery throat, and the turkey continues to stuff him in. When Seymour gets a quarter of the way in, Lurker stomach starts gurgling. Lurker stops taking in the fox, looks queasy, and then quickly coughs Seymour back onto the floor. As Seymour recovers, and Lurker stumbles about, clutching his stomach, the leather vixen reappears with a garbage can. The show has become a failure. The vixen leads the puking turkey off stage, and Seymour slowly stands up and scans the disappointed audience. 

"Well, if you want something done right.... Hey, Valentine? Would you still like to be the special of the day?" The chick, who has by now made her way back to her seat, quickly flies onto the stage, and gets ready to disrobe. "No, no, no. Not like that, my Little Valentine. Nice and slow. Enjoy being the meal." Valentine licks her beak erotically, and Seymour nods slowly in satisfaction. 

With a toothy grin, he swaggers and sways up to her as she massages her genetically enhanced breasts and sways her head from side to side. Their eyes lock. Seymour quickly slips behind her, and then slowly comes back to the front as his tail plays over her tender thighs. He darts towards her and she gets ready to stick her beak down his throat, but he just slaps her beak with his long tongue and slips behind her again. She steps back against his body, he presses his hands against her crotch, and then runs his claws up her shirt until he's caressing her breasts. The shirt is torn, but the feathers beneath remain flawless. As she closes her eyes and raises her wing tips to the sky, he cuts a vertical line down the sides of her shirt, slips it off of her like a cape, plays it over her breasts, and then tosses it to the guest table. Next he slips in front of her, presses her against himself, cuts a couple clean lines from the bottom of her shorts up, and slips this off, too. This is also played over her breasts before being tossed to the guest table, and then he's on all fours with his teeth on her lavender silk panties. This he slowly draws down, taking a moment to nuzzle her crotch, and then with a quick flap of her wings, she's natural, and he tosses the panties to the table with his teeth. 

Once Valentine drops back down onto the stage, Seymour points her wings to full breath to the sides. He then removes and pockets his monocle, rings, watch, cufflinks, and choker, and then slips out of his shoes. After taking a moment to remove his socks, he pads back behind her as he unbuttons his shirt and pants, and removes his belt. Dancing from one wing to the other, he removes both articles of clothing and then his boxers before coming around to the front again natural on all fours. He sits and looks at her standing there before him, and then momentarily faints and winces as the sauce takes effect full strength. 

Seymour almost tackles Valentine to the ground, but recovers by turning her quickly towards the audience. Once again, he's in the back and she's looking down his throat. She hears his stomach growling at her and she pokes her slender beak down his throat. In pulses, she snakes her head and neck farther inside of him until her shoulders are against the sides of his maw. How the hell is he going to get the rest of her past his mouth without cutting her? How the hell is he resisting the temptation to tear her to pieces? He has got to be famished. You could hear a pen drop, it's so quiet. The person who lost it is too engrossed in the show to find out where it went. 

Seymour then drops to all fours, sits, clutches Valentine by her breasts, and heaves her upside down over him before standing up again and balancing himself. She folds her wings against her sides, there's a pop as her weight dislocates his jaw, and he rocks her gently from side to side as he loosens up his skin, muscles, and tendons. It takes some time, effort, and probably a little pain, but eventually, she's sliding ever so slowly down into his stomach. It takes even more effort to get her breasts inside, and he switches his hand position to her crotch with his pinkie fingers nervously within her. If she's still alive, he's going to let her die happy. 

With the thickest part of this petite beauty now inside his throat, Seymour's next task is to prepare his stomach for the rest of the dinner. Not to mention that he has had to hold his breath since the moment Valentine entered him. He shows signs of being at the end of his oxygen content (or maybe it's just show) and so starts gulping her feathery body down in belly dancer fashion. As she disappears from view, his gut slowly gets larger and larger. Once her handhold is near his mouth, he quickly transfers his pudgy hands down below his bulging stomach to steady himself. Soon it's just the feathers of her tail, and then with a hard gulp and the lick of the lips, not even that. His fluffy, off-white stomach now full to bursting and showing a rough outline of the balled up chicken, he adjusts his footing for equilibrium, throws his ebony hands into the air, his head back, and his long, bushy tail up. 

There's more excited murmuring than applause, but this is only the beginning. Was Valentine still alive? Probably not. It had taken too long and no one had given her any oxygen pills. She must have been just for foreplay, or the appetizer. Now for the first course. Seymour burps, points at Pennywise, and the crowd is once again silent. 

Pennywise jumps to her feet, slams her wings on the tabletop, wingstands, flips over, and is standing on the table. Then she spreads her wings , soars up and over Seymour's head, lands behind him, and roundhouses him onto all fours. He gets about two steps off before she uppercuts him right up under the tail. Show or not, that's got to hurt. He yelps, drops onto his stomach, and seems genuinely disturbed by this hen's actions. He's definitely going to enjoy swallowing her, if only she'd get into his mouth. 

Pennywise hurrily circles Seymour a couple times and then raises her wing to slap him on the muzzle. He bares his teeth and growls at her and she cackles with her wings on her hips. She looks like a chicken, but acts like a hawk. Cute. 

Then with a swift motion, Pennywise hooks her wings under the bottom of her dress but is only able to pull it up to her breasts. Angered by the stunt being stopped short, she raises her wing again to slap Seymour on the muzzle. He starts snapping at her, though still on his stomach, so she gets on her knees and gets him to catch the tip of her dress in his teeth. He shakes his head violently, she yanks back hard, the zipper in the back of her dress breaks apart, and she's free and natural. Seymour tosses the dress to the side and gives her a sadistic smile. 

Pennywise does a forward roll, pushes herself up into a wingstand, and lunges her muscular legs towards Seymour's muzzle. He draws his head back, baring his teeth, and uppercuts her legs, sending her back into a wingstand. 

She teeters, finally falls back onto her wings and feet, and then dives for his maw with her wings folded at her side. 

Seymour opens his mouth wide and she's up to her shoulders inside of him. Her feet hit the floor, her talons dig in, and Seymour's eyes bulge as she instantly forces her shoulders past his gums. Is she hurting him? 

One push, two push, three push, four push. Pennywise is up to her crotch inside of Seymour, and he's struggling violently. Is her body choking him? Did he get enough air before she violated his innards? He's got to finish her off quick. 

One gulp, two gulps, three gulps, four gulps. Pennywise is gone and Seymour is coughing and gasping for air. Then he stops and there's a foolish, satisfied grin on his face. Oh, he's good, and she was probably better. His enormous beanbag belly twists and twirls as she adjusts herself around Valentine. For the next minute or two she snakes herself around his elastic belly until her air supply finally runs out and or the acid gets to her. I donít know if he mixed antacids in with the elixir or not. I donít hear her screaming or anything, but either way, she does pretty good for going in pilless. He belches to signal her defeat also, and the crowd cheers. This is exactly what they came to see. The tables are being carried closer. Who's next? Fullcock? What's he going to do? Uh oh. The rooster stands up, shoves his chair away, and doesn't even wait to get on the stage to disrobe. He turns to the crowd. 

"What's my name? What's my name?", he crows, his wings diagonally at full breath. 

"Johnny Fullcock!", most of the females in the room answer. His right wing swishes down to his sheath and with some extremely quick featherwork, his member shoots through his wing like a springloaded utility knife, or in his case, sword. Some of the females that know him faint, and some of the males that don't, choke. First rule of publicity: Always hire the best.

Johnny swaggers and goes to choice, female filled tables to play the audience before walking onto the stage. At the edge of the stairs, the leather-clad vixen slipped him a couple pills from her pouch, he pops them into his beak, and continues swaggering over to the somewhat immobilized Seymour. Once Johnny is between the fox and the audience, they spend a moment to criticize each other with their eyes, and then Seymour opens his mouth. Johnny lays down in front of Seymour, sticks his feet into the fox's maw, and slides down until his whole member is against the vulpine pallet. Then he starts grating himself again it for a couple minutes, momentarily swings out to let Seymour catch his breath, does more fancy feather work to himself, and then he's back inside and going harder at it. I doubt that Seymour is enjoying this, but Johnny and the audience are, and that's what counts. One more time out, Seymour gives a quick, 'this isn't half bad' smirk as Johnny winks at the audience, finally swallows the pills he's been rolling on his tongue, and now it's time for the climax. 

Johnny slips himself down until his entire member is now down in Seymour's throat, and the fox starts trying to gulp him down. Johnny's wings are pressed against the ends of the fox's cheeks, so instead of a hard surface, the rooster is now working himself against a powerful, undulating, and slimy vacuum. Johnny is in pure ecstasy, puts up a good fight for almost a minute, but finally cockadoodledoos, and disappears from view almost immediately. Then, nothing. 

Five minutes later, nothing. 

It's about this time that the females realize that they have just witnessed the quick and happy death of the greatest porn king on Earth. With the sudden disappearance of Johnny Fullcock, Seymour has single-handedly sparked a global, unisex death force. No amount of males will be able to stop their quest for revenge. Every female in that room is on stage, or trying to be, within seconds. Seymour yelps and slowly his stomach starts twisting and twirling. A muffled cockadoodle signals that the rooster isn't defeated yet. 

"He's alive! Johnny's still alive! Look!" The females send this message like wildfire back to the farthest hysterical fur, and the room is soon buzzing with cheers, sighs, and celebration. 

"Then he can still be saved. Step aside girls. Make way for Lucia Dosis. I'll save him." The crowd parts, and the Canadian goose that Fullcock promised to service later comes running up towards Seymour. He yelps even louder, sits up to try to get away, and a group of bouncers enter in from back stage. They pull out their guns and the unarmed females in the room clear from the stage and that side of the room. 

"You gents may scare all these other chicks and kits, but Lucia Dosis doesn't go down without a fight. Kevin! Get your tail over here!", Lucia commands as she removes her ornate, golden necklace, presses the singular ruby on it, it hardens into a large, thin, razor-sharp, ring of metal, and she throws it Frisbee style at the armed bouncers around Seymour. Somehow controlled by her head movements, she is able to disarm most of the guards with it before making it return back to her and becoming a harmless necklace again. The other guards fire at her, which she dodges, and then disarmed them, too. I think I've seen her before, on television. Nice to see she's not just an actor. 

"Where the hell are you, Kevin Lobo? I'm not paying you to slouch around." Seymour's bouncers go for Lucia tooth and claw, and she defends herself with wingslaps, roundhouse kicks, and the necklace now as a whip and grapple. Kevin checks his watch again, cracks his neck, lazily gets up out his seat, and paces up to the fight. One of the bouncers throws a fist at him, he stops it cold in his hand, and casually tosses the scared fur over and behind him one handed. The butch bouncer lands hard quite a distance behind him as Kevin backhands another one across the stage and then swats a third guard backwards off his feet. What's his deal? Genetics? Cybergenics? Biotechnology? He yawns, and then looks at a bouncer that scratches and bites him repeatedly. As the fur soars halfway across the room, Lucia roundhouse kicks the last remain bouncer left standing between them away, and then its time for them to deal with Seymour. Kevin cracks his neck and looks like he's going to fall asleep. 

"Kevin, rip this bloated fox's head off. I'll get you out of there, Johnny." Kevin glances at Lucia, then Seymour, shrugs, grabs Seymour by the back of his neck, and lifts him, or at least everything but his stomach, off the ground one-handed. 

"Now Kevin, why in the world would you want to kill my employer? He's never done anything to hurt you or any other fur." The leather clad vixen is leaning on the side of the stage with her arms folded. Her voice is puppyish and just as beautiful as I figure she is, if I could see the non-tail part of her, especially since the tight leather over her genetically enhanced six-pack makes her body look like an upright hopper. There are zippers as well as straps, clasps, metal buttons, and rings in choice spots on her kinky suit, and she zips her mouth closed, pulls a long, scarlet, leather whip out of that aerodynamic pouch, lays down on her back, unzips her crotch area, and plays the nine-tail end of the whip within and over herself. Kevin lets go of Seymour, raises an blow, and nods in satisfaction. The vixen grins lustfully, gets up, slides the whip under herself, and then cracks the whip towards the Lucia. 

High and mighty motto: Make love, not war. Seems to be quite effective. 

"Bitch! Are you challenging me, Lucia Dosis, supreme action star!? Ha! Prepare to die!" Lucia honks, throws her necklace, it cuts the whip into several sections, and returns to the goose. "And now it's your turn, Bitch!" Lucia throws the sharp ring, the vixen jumps in the air, pulls a couple daggers out of her pouch, catches the necklace through its center with the daggers, and pins the necklace to the floor. The necklace goes limp with a quite press of the ruby. "Damn you, Bitch!" The leather vixen zips herself up again, flips half way to Lucia, unzips all around her neck, and bares her silky head. 

She shakes her head to loosen up her fur and I notice that the headfur on the top and back of her head and neck is as yellow-orange and long as a lion's mane. Her right eye is green while her left one is blue, and when she sticks out her tongue to lick her muzzle, the reddish-pink muscle goes over her nose and just about reaches back to the base of her maw. Then she reaches it over into each of her ears and cleans in and around them with it. I'm surprised she doesn't choke on that thing. 

"*Ahyeee*" Lucia flies straight up, and then drops into a flying kick towards the amazing vixen, who sidesteps, slaps Lucia's head backwards, dodges a couple wingslaps, trips her, then jumps on top of her, and holds down her wings and legs. She looks down on Lucia with a psychotic smile, "This isn't over, Bitch. Kevin! Get this whore off of me!" 



"Tee hee, he said, 'no'" 

"Shut up, Bitch." 

"Make me." She looks as old a Seymour, but sounds and acts as old as, maybe even younger than, Crystal. Her tail wags excitedly. 

"Stick your tongue out again and I will, Bitch. I'll rip that ugly thing right out of your mouth." "You're such a kidder. Why don't you just admit that I am, and will always be better than you? I mean, come on Lucia, why can't you get Johnny yourself? Why do you have to drag Kevin in this with you? You scared Johnny'll find out what a lousy lay you are?" She flicks out her tongue, almost hits Lucia in the eye, and gets it back between her muzzle before the goose can clamp on it. She starts bouncing on Lucia's restrained body. 

"What? No one calls Lucia Dosis a lousy lay! Get the hell off of me, Bitch! Kevin! Where the hell are you? Kill this whore! NOW!" 

"Why? You want Johnny? Get him yourself." 

"Damn you! Both of you! You're fired, Kevin. You hear me!? FIRED! Okay, Bitch, I'll get Johnny myself. You sure enough don't care about him." The vixen flips off of Lucia and wraps her tongue around her muzzle, as the Canadian goose slowly gets up and dusts herself off. Lucia then quickly turns to get her necklace, but the vixen backflips over next to it, pockets it and the two daggers, and waggles her finger at the goose. 

"You have to leave my employer intact Lucia, but if it will help you any, your boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend *teehee* can hold Seymour's mouth open." Lucia glares at the leather vixen, and then angrily walks up to Seymour's toothy grin. Lucia glares at Seymour, then at Kevin, Kevin clutches the fox's muzzle, Seymour opens his mouth obediently, and Kevin keeps it that way. The vixen puts her hood back on and zips herself back up. 

"Johnny? Johnny? Are you okay, Johnny?" Seymour's lumpy stomach twitches. "I'm going to get you out of there, Johnny. Just grab my wing and I'll pull you out." With a bit of hesitation, Lucia reaches her wing down Seymour's throat and fishes it around his stomach. Nothing happens. She tries poking around inside him with both wings. Nothing. She takes out her left wing and sticks her head and long neck down the fox's throat. "Johnny? Are you sti-*hack*" Seymour's stomach twists and twirls violently as Lucia thrashes about. Johnny appears to have nearly run out of air and so Lucia's been snagged by a drowning victim. Instead of Johnny coming out, Lucia is pulled inside, and Kevin just stands there obediently holding Seymour's mouth open. Why not? It's not like Seymour has anything to do with what's happening. 

Yeah, right. 

"Damn you, Bitch! Kevin, get me out of here! Get me out of here! Now!" Seymour's massive, wiggly gut twists and twirls for about a minute, and then all is quiet again. Kevin raises a brow, lets go of Seymour's mouth, shrugs, and heads back to his seat. The leather vixen watches him until he's sat down and then swaggers and bounces off stage, her tail wagging happily. 

With the danger gone, all the other females slowly return to the stage, poke and prod Seymour's overloaded stomach, and are answered with a weak cockadoodle. There is some slow movement within the fluffy red and white mass, and then an outline of Fullcock's beak pokes against the side of Seymour's belly. A lioness cautiously touches it, and the beak nuzzles her hand. For the next couple of minutes, the cooing and purring females file around Seymour to touch Fullcock before he finally goes, and then the fox's stomach is stationary again. This time he doesn't answer them, the crowd goes into mourning, stay quietly around Seymour for ten or so more minutes, and then the crowd starts heading for their seats. They will not be enjoying the rest of the show, no matter what the others do. 

As the last female is stepping off the stage, Seymour lets out a loud belch, and the female population quickly mood swings from surprise, to disgust, to rage again. He bares a toothy grin at the returning mod, opens his mouth to belch again, and a pair of red and white wings reach out of his mouth. That is a total mob stopper. The wings press against the ends of Seymour's cheeks, and Johnny draws his head out of the fox's mouth and cockadoodledoos. The entire female population cheers. Johnny slithers the rest of the way out of Seymour's mouth, gets up, bows, shakes himself off, dives onto the female crowd, and is immediately sucked under with love. He looks pretty good for someone that supposedly just spent a lengthy amount of time swimming in stomach acid. Now Iím quite sure that Seymour neutralized most, if not all of his acid. I wouldnít be surprised if Johnny lost a few of his feathers, though. I also suspect that all the other males that have to wait another ten minutes for the females to return to their seats are hoping his feathers will fall off. Score another global point for Seymour's genius. How the hell will the duck do to top that stunt? 

Lucky Quintain slowly gets up, looks nervously around at the hushed crowd, and then keeps his head down all the way over to the stage side stairs and then all the way back to in front of Seymour. He sadly looks over to the fat fox's muzzle, then mournfully sweeps the crowd, and spends a moment staring at Johnny, now sitting in the back of the room. Finally, the duck speaks in a cracked voice. 

"Sorry, folks. I don't dance, or sing, or, well, do anything amazing. I'm just the average, honest, IRS auditor." Okay. Whatever. 

First the crowd gasps, then they're booing, and finally they start chanting, "Eat him. Eat him. Eat him." I don't get it. I take it he either is, or represents, a universal, high and mighty enemy. He somberly strips himself of his clothing, slowly walks over to Seymour, opens the fox's maw, and wiggles his way down into the overloaded gut. Seymour closes his mouth and sticks his tongue out in disgust. The crowd snickers. Amazingly, the audience close to the stage is serenaded by muffled wailing, and everyone can watch the duck violently thrusting himself against the annoyed vulpine's belly, for a full five minutes. Though I missed when the vixen slipped them to him, the duck must have been using up the power of the oxygen pills at a cheetah's pace. When Lucky finally succumbs, the show appears to be over. 

That's when Lurker reappears. Or at least most of Lurker. 

The turkey on stage is a noticeably thinner version of Seymour's friend. He seems to have spent the show's time ejecting almost all of the fat from his body, and his skin has tightened up to smooth out the empty space. The leather vixen reappears escorting Lurker back onto the scale, and now he weighs five hundred twenty pounds. The potentials for Seymour's entrees seem limitless. The audience ooos and ahs and wonders where on the menu they can order this. A lanky mink flags down the nearest waiter for this drink immediately. Working on commission, the waiter leaves to sneak her some of the experimental drink. Pure profit and one less high and mighty fur to compete with. 

Ed Lurker, semi-butterball, then trudges over to the now larger than him fox, still quite a dessert. Before exiting again, the leather vixen flings a couple pills between Seymour's muzzle, a couple between Lurker's beak, and then Lurker's beak, head, and neck work their way into the fox's throat. As Lurker pushes and twists and very, very slowly works his way into Seymour, the vast and lumpy vulpine is forced to stretch to impossible lengths. Lurker's a quarter of the way in and Seymour's all cheek and neck, and stomach. He looks like some short, fluffy serpent caught in mid meal. Crystal would go hysterical if she saw him now. 

Once the stretching of Seymour's throat has leveled off, Lurker starts stretching Seymour's chest, and finally starts doubling the size of the fox's already massive stomach. Afterwards, Seymour's skin and muscles shrink back to normal, though a lot stronger now, his jaw pops back into place, and he just lays there happily as his stomach twists and twirls, gurgles and groans, and basically seems like a grotesquely massive and lumpy entity all its own. The leather vixen gives Seymour a long drink of some more wine, and then the audience files up onto the stage to poke and prod his stomach. Thoroughly impressed, they slowly gather their stuff and head back to their mansions, probably very eager to find out what's going to happen tomorrow night. 

When everyone's gone, I decide to visit the proud vulpine stuck on his glorious stage. 

"So, what did you think?", he mumbles to me, his cheeks and neck puffed up with fat. I climb on his back and start scritching him with all four paws. He belches loudly, then closes his eyes and flashes a big, toothy grin in contentment. The food is being processed really fast, and so is already starfishing him into a blubbery mass. I bounce on him, ride the ripples that result, and gather his thick flesh under me. He's like a huge, fluffy, red and white waterbed, and I scritch him, and kneed him, and nuzzle him, and bounce on him, and squeeze him, and... uh oh. I quickly jump to the floor and calm down behind him, away from his toothy grin. 

"Well, you brought down the house, dominated your competition, and made yourself big all over the world. How could you possible top all the amazing stuff you've done so far, on and off the stage, Mr. Polypophilacopolis?" He snickers when I ask him this. Not good. What's running through that eccentric mind of his? ďAnd why didnít you have any of the females use oxygen pills?Ē 

"I didnít? Oh, sorry. I guess I just figured they could hold their breathes long enough to be effective to the audience. But as for my future plans, well, I'll think of something Tim, but *yawn* right now I'd much rather sleep. I've had a very fulfilling night and it's only right that you should, too. *yawn* So, Tim. Did you see any cute fur out there you'd like to mate with? They're all available, with a reservation." I figured that. I come up with my choice immediately. 

"The vixen in the leather outfit. Um, is her name really Bitch?" He doesn't say anything. I'm calmed down, so I walk around to talk to him face to face. He looks a little disturbed by my choice. "She looks a little weird, and acts kind of funny, but that's why I like her so much. She's sort of like a..." 

"Dream?" He gives me a sleepy grin as he finishes my sentence. "Yes, Tim. Bitch, was specially bred to be every fur's fantasy. She's most likely in the coat room right now, but you be careful, my friend. She tends to get a little excited around fresh meat, and has these... qualities about her that can really... blow away an inexperienced fur as yourself. Actually, I'm quite sure that a young fur as yourself, grown up on the mellow street, would be way out of your league with her." He looks really disturbed now, but I refuse to let some high and mighty tell me what I can or can't handle. I bound off the stage knowing there's nothing he can do to stop me in his present state, and head for the coat room with high hopes. ďDonít say I didnít warn you, my friend. Bitch, can and will dish out fantasies left and right.Ē 

One furryís fantasy, can be another furryís nightmare. 

Next Type: Maximum Yiff/Vore Drive