Fastpaw and Myrtle
By Strega

	The raccoon stood a little over four and a half feet tall, and to Myrtle that was just the right height. She stood less that that herself, inheriting a slight frame from her elvish mother. Humans and the other tall races towered over her, but when she bumped into the praka minstrel in the inn hallway their eyes were at almost the same level.

	It happened that she and he frequented the same inns; she a saleswoman for spices and he a traveling performer. Some people found the raccoon people ugly and untrustworthy, with their bandit-masked faces, fur and ringed tails. She thought they were cute, and more than cute. 

	The second time they met she learned what praka semen tastes like. She found him in a booth at the inn, strumming his lute and murmuring lyrics. Like most of the raccoon-folk he could not speak Common, but surprisingly he could sing it, after a fashion. As she sat at a nearby table he played an ancient Elvish love song she'd asked for, and he smiled and looked her over with bright raccoon eyes.

	No one saw her slip beneath the table in his booth, and his claws plucked only one note wrong when she pulled up his loincloth and began to rub. He was more like a dog than a man down there, but all the parts were in about the right places and about the right size. A rattling purr began to mix in with his singing after his sheath drew back and she began to suck, and after that he only strummed the lyre for several minutes. After a fair time his eyes glazed and his ears twitched, but still he did not interrupt his playing. Myrtle swallowed a mouthful of raccoon seed, tugged his loincloth back into place and slipped from beneath his table as quietly as she'd arrived. He had the waitress bring her a drink after that, and they smiled at each other until she had to leave a little while later.

	She didn't know him, but she liked him. There was nothing wrong with that, but she should not have trusted him. Ultimately that misplaced trust would be her undoing. 

	The next time they met was at another inn in the same city a few month later. She was on her way to her room with a bottle of wine and ran into him coming the other way up the hall. He didn't have his lyre but she recognized him instantly. His eyes brightened at the sight of her too, and when she held up the bottle of wine he smiled and held up the key to his room. Within there was nowhere for two people to sit, save on the bed.

	The cork was hardly out of the bottle before his nimble, furry fingers sought out the fastenings of her clothing. Carefully trimmed claws stroked her skin and a narrow raccoon tongue tasted her flesh. Myrtle gasped and returned the favor, tugging his belted loincloth away and cradling what she found beneath. Already he was stiff, his sheath tight and a pink tip exposed. She wasn't sure how it would work, coupling with him, but his fur was soft and his hands clever and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to turn away and go to hands and knees.

	First he licked, making sure she was ready, but soon enough he entered her from behind. Clawed hands clasped her hips and belly fur rubbed her rump and back. Somehow his shape became more feral than before; he'd been humanoid, if furry, but the creature that mounted her now might be just a great raccoon. His paws knew where to rub her, though, and such was her lust that she yelped out her passion while the beast still arched and growled.

	Afterward he licked the juices from her thighs. Most of his seed remained in her, but she knew nothing would come of it. The Maker's people could bear young only with their own kind.

	When she was clean, save for the raccoon hair clinging to her sweaty flesh, they snuggled up together in the tangled covers. "A small magic," he sang-spoke when asked about his change of form. "Learned along with my songs. Sometimes it pleases me to be more raccoon, less man." Then he rested his muzzle on her shoulder and they drifted off to sleep together.

	The next morning she went on her way, sharing a loving nuzzle and a lick or two. His muzzle wasn't suited for kissing, even in his humanoid form. He listened at the door and nodded when the hall was empty, and so she left. It only occurred to her after returning her room key that she might have mussed the covers of her own bed. She worried, briefly, then shrugged. There were many places she could have whiled away the hours; no one would assume she'd spent the night in bed with a raccoon.

	She'd learned his name now, Fastpaw. From the occasional comment she heard in inns she learned he had a reputation as a lady's man. That was par for the course for a bard, praka or not, and with any other one it would be a harmless fling. Young raccoon-folk often ended up in the beds of other-species lovers. Eventually the diverse kinds would return to their own, taking fond memories and little more to their later lovers and marriages.

	What she did not learn while asking around about him was that Fastpaw wanted rather more from some of his lovers than a romp in the hay. He covered his tracks carefully, moving from inn to inn and town to town and choosing only those who would not be missed. If he'd known her well enough he might have turned that unwelcome attention her way as they lay curled together in bed, but he hadn't. For all he knew she was at the inn with friends who'd note her absence, and so she'd gone on her way with a lick and nuzzle.

	If she had forgotten him and moved on, all would have been well. Sadly, she did not.

	She met him the last time nearly a year later.  He wandered much as she did, and by chance their paths crossed again in Veryondy, north of the Kron hills and east of the Maker's lands.  She had traveled there with a caravan, the trade roads not being the safest.  She visited a dozen inns and restaurants with her packets of spice samples before picking an inn at random to stay for the night.

	And there he was, in a cleared area at one end of the common room this time. His singing had improved since last they met, but it was his skilful play on the lute that had the soup bowl next to him half full of copper pieces, with some silver mixed in.

	His eyes passed over her without pausing, and she realized the raccoon-man had forgotten her.  That was disappointing but understandable.  He must seldom sleep in the same inn twice, to keep the novelty of a praka bard fresh.  Maybe it wasn't even him; hard though she tried she sometimes mistook one coonfolk for another, and it wasn't well lit in the inn. She flagged down the waitress and bought a bowl of soup and some good local bread.

	A flagon of wine arrived with it, though she'd ordered no such thing.  As she looked at it in confusion she heard the coonfolk minstrel drop a note...and recognized the song he was playing.  It was the Elvish love song, and it was the same note he'd dropped when her lips wrapped around his cock.  She looked up to find the raccoon smiling as he played, and looking anywhere but at her.  He played one-handed for a moment, flexing the other to relieve a cramp. She knew enough of the praka hand-sign language to recognize a number: he was staying in room twelve.

	Myrtle smiled and decided she didn't really need to pay for a room tonight.  She knew where she'd be sleeping.  She was mostly right.

	She was sopping up the last dregs of soup with a bread crust when the bard finished playing.  He bowed to the audience, such as it was in the little inn, and poured his bowl of donations into a pouch.  His lute went in its case and he made his way to the master of the inn, presumably negotiating when he'd be welcome to play next.  Myrtle finished her wine and headed casually for the stairs. 

	A minute after she reached the hall he was there, too.  She hardly had to pause at the door to room twelve before he turned the key and they were inside.  No one saw them enter and no one saw the raccoon-man nibble her neck as he swung the door shut.  Their clothes left a trail between the door and bed.  They still found time for a few words.

	“Here selling spices again?” sang-spoke the raccoon, sniffing at her breast.  To his nose her line of business must be obvious.

	“Earlier, yes,” she said as he lifted her from her feet.  “By myself this time, and no one saw me come in.  So we don't have to hurry.”

	He set her on the bed and smiled a whiskery smile. “Good.”  Had she but known, the last thing she should have said was that no one knew where she was.

	She saw it happen this time.  A complex gesture of his furry hands, a just-as-complex, half-sung string of syllables.  His shoulders rounded, his hands grew more paw like – but still nimble, as she well knew.  His torso lengthened, legs shortened.  From raccoon-man to feral raccoon much the same size, if not a bit larger.  Illusion or true change?  As he climbed into bed with her it did not matter.

	 Belly to belly they coupled, her legs hooked over his, impaled in his lap.  She wasn't sure if he was better hung as a feral, having had his humanoid cock only in her mouth, but he was well hung enough.  She bounced in his lap, his forepaws guiding her as she moved. “Good coonie,” she moaned, and he grinned.

	In the glow of approaching orgasm she didn't notice the calculating look in his eye.  One paw-hand stole behind her neck, pulling her forward.  It would be a nuzzle, or kiss, save that he yawned jaw-creakingly wide as her face fell into his mouth.  Eyes shut, shuddering through her passion, she did not see.  As she came he hooked his muzzle down over her eyes.  She cried out his name, not noticing as his jaws stretched impossibly.  He engulfed her head, tongue slicking across her face to lubricate her for easier swallowing.

	The scrape of a fang against her scalp brought her back to herself.  Why had everything gone so dark?  The raccoon's cock was still in her, and his paws held her close as he growled and bounced her, but everything was hot and wet and tight around her face.  Had he wrapped a wet cloth around her head as a game?  “Um...Fastpaw?”  Her mouth was barely clear of the enfolding wetness.

	Then the praka arched, snarled, and ejaculated, and everything became horribly obvious.  As he spasmed he rolled forward atop her, thrusting like a rutting animal, and at the same moment his maw slipped down over her shoulders.  The feel of wet flesh slithering over her puzzled her only for a moment, for the fangs scraping over her breasts and back told her what was happening.  Somehow, she had no idea how, Fastpaw was swallowing her whole.

	She thought he was his friend!  And how, it should be impossible!  She kicked at his belly as he pulled out, but he was on top of her and it was impossible to get leverage.  He was bigger, and stronger, and by grabbing her upper arms he pulled her downward.  It was hard to breathe, much less resist, with his maw somehow distended around her upper body, and he got her stretched out on her belly with little effort.  Only then did he push forward, swallowing her upper arms and breasts.  His lips and cheeks trapped her arms to her sides as he went down to all fours, and walking forward like a dog he got her knees against the wall.  Stretched out in a straight line, with nowhere to retreat, she could only curse and wriggle as the raccoon pushed his jaws over her all the way to the rump.

	Slick, wet throat expanded over her, tensing each time he swallowed.  Muscles worked beneath the slippery throat skin to ease her toward his stomach.  It took only three pushes and three heavy gulps, and her head slipped into a looser, foul-smelling space.  It rapidly became tight as her neck and shoulders were swallowed down; her calves were bent up against the wall and the raccoon's jaws were stretching around her hips.  There was simply no way to resist the impossible horror he was inflicting on her.  She sobbed as his stomach expanded to accommodate half her body.  Why?  He couldn't be so starved he needed to eat his lover!

	His jaws reached her knees and he pulled back.  Futilely she kicked, hitting only the wall.  Swallowed to the knees there was no way to stop him, no way to hurt him.  It did not occur to her to kick him in the head with her heels, but he did not leave her much time to think.  He merely waited until both her legs kicked downward at once, and stepped forward so her heels wedged against the wall.  Saliva dripped from his chin as he pushed forward, slowly engulfing her lower legs.  He had never gotten around to getting her out of her fishnet stockings, and they went down with his meal.  There wasn't much fabric there, though, so he might not even have to cough them up.  Small items like that sometimes made their way through his body with no need of his attentions.

	With a mumble of appreciation regarding her flavor he got his jaws around her heels.  He rolled back on his haunches, belly already hugely swollen, and swallowed.  His latest meal, like most, hadn't thought to hold herself stiff.  That would make swallowing all but impossible...but it only worked once they were far enough in for their head to bottom out in his stomach, and by then the lack of air and sting of stomach acid was a potent distraction.  As it was, the great contraction of his throat muscles sucked Myrtle's feet into his jaws, and his narrow muzzle shut around a grin of satisfaction as her toes slipped into his gullet.  One more gulp and his lover slid limply downward, curling inside him and stretching his belly still further.

	Myrtle groaned as her feet slid in to join her.  The praka's stomach lining was slick, far too slippery to get a grip even if she had anything to grab.  Still she tried to find a way out, but curled in a ball she just slipped and slid.  Thick goo coated everything, including her, and it too was as slippery as oil.  This coating, largely picked up on her trip down his throat, had made her all too easy to swallow, once the raccoon had gotten his impossibly stretchy jaws around her shoulders.  It should have been impossible, he was barely larger than she, yet she felt him relax as she curled up in his stomach.  It wasn't a game, or a joke; his gastric juices already stung her flesh.

	“Fastpaw?”  She coughed, mouth stung by his bile.  “Fastpaw?”  But her lover just belched contentedly.  Much of the air fled from around her, and a second burp expelled most of what was left.  Wrapped in her lover's stomach, overheated and short of air, she stayed conscious barely long enough to feel him stretch out atop the great lump she made.  Her skin was burning already; unconsciousness and death was a blessing as her friend and lover settled down to digest her.

	A satisfying meal, Fastpaw thought as he got comfortable atop the bulge. He turned the ring on his furry finger, shutting off the minor Silence spell he'd activated as he got his jaws around her head.  She'd not managed to make any sounds, barring a kick or two to the walls, but it was best to be safe.  He almost flopped over on his side – gods knew he wasn't going to sleep his off on his back, with eighty pounds of half-elf on top of him – but ultimately just draped himself over the great lump of curled-up woman.  It amused him to use his meals as a bed. It was uncomfortable at first, with elbows and who know what jabbing at his innards, but as her flesh dissolved it would provide more cushioning.

	In a day, perhaps, most of her flesh would be digested.  As always he chose an inn with indoor plumbing, though here that was just a covered hole in the floor, because eighty pounds of elf woman wouldn't evaporate into nothing as she liquefied.  First the flesh would go, some adding to his bulk as new muscle, fur, bone and fat.  A meal like this would see him gain ten pounds, mostly in the folds of fat around his waist.  Most of it, though, ended up in the sewers.  There was no way to digest her slowly enough to simply live on her, or else he wouldn't need to eat for weeks.  Instead the majority of her flesh would digest but be only partly absorbed, and as a result he'd make quite a few visits to that covered hole over the next few days as his former lover departed his body.  It was a very inefficient use of food.

	After a day or so much of what was left would be bones.  The good bits were all gone, but to eliminate the evidence he would need to digest those, too. 	Fully processing her body would take about three days, he knew from experience.  He'd already told the inn master that he wouldn't be down to perform again, and had paid for his room for that time.  His habit was to change inns, and usually towns, as soon as he was mobile after a meal.  No matter how careful he was to pick those who would not be missed, there was the nagging worry that he might misjudge.  Best to be in a far-away place when someone came looking for the person he best remembered for the flavor of belches they produced.

	Gorged, he waddled from the bed. The magic he used to change form was among the strongest he'd mastered and really did change him, albeit in minor ways.  A quadrupedal form was most convenient for dragging a fat belly, so he let the spell linger as he collected Myrtle's belongings.  A few coins he kept; the packets of spices he tore open and emptied into the floor hole, followed by a crock of water.  He cut her clothes into small squares and sent them after, along with torn-up documents.  Her only weapon, a dagger like his own, presented a bit of a problem.  It might become lodged in the toilet pipe and be found, especially if it helped stop things up.  He'd just have to keep it until he could throw it into a drain on his way out of town.  At least it was nondescript.

	Satisfied and sleepy he heaved himself back onto the bed.  His belly was letting out long gurgles as it worked on the enormous meal, and he smiled.  A rounded bulge protruding from his flank must be her head, and he gave it a fond pat as he settled down.

	“Nice to meet you, Myrtle.  I'll miss you.”  As he draped himself over the bulge to sleep, he realized that he would.  He couldn't remember the last time someone crawled under a table to service him without even being asked.

	He shook his head and yawned, belatedly popping the joints of his jaws back into place.  There were plenty of women happy to bed a handsome praka bard.  If, once in a while, one of them ended up sleeping in his stomach instead of next to him on the bed, well, there were plenty more fish in the sea.  He only had a chance at a meal like this a few times a year; he'd be a fool to turn down such a good opportunity.  He hadn't petitioned the Maker for the ability to swallow people to never use it, after all.

	Myrtle might not have enjoyed the last parts of her evening, but he certainly had.  If he hadn't just mated...no, tempting though it was to rub himself against the vast bulge of his meal, he was still sated.  With a last burp, Fastpaw settled down to sleep off his meal.