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StinkyGomi – Scat

Gomi bit his lip, grunted, lifted one leg up onto the closed lid of the toilet, lowered it, lifted it back up again, glanced back behind himself… sighed, swallowed, wondered if he should really be doing this, felt his heart thumping with the growing nervousness and excitement, and then felt all of these other loose, swirling threads suddenly brushed aside by the urgency simmering beneath the deer’s tail. It’s now or never, he thought, and I’ve got one foot keeping the lid closed, and… and I…

And he relaxed, felt his tailhole start to bulge and press out around the mass contained inside, stored up throughout the course of the evening for this specific purpose. It had seemed like such a good idea throughout the day, letting his waste build up in his bowels, becoming ever more aware of the weight and the rumbling heat, the urgency growing into need until he almost couldn’t take it, and now… now it pressed out from inside, parting his tailhole open, shaping his guts around its craggy, semisoft surface, until he could feel it finally start to slip free.

Then before he could stop himself, the deer shifted, swallowed, took in a breath – and shoved a hand underneath himself. For a second there was nothing; then he felt the gathering, simmering dank heat, so thick that it trickled down like oil; and then the first lump settled into his palm, softer than he expected, hotter than he had thought; and then the second, and it kept on coming, curling out and piling up over itself, dropping into his grasp just as it pushed out from his bowels… and when he gritted his teeth, clenched, and pinched off that mass, still able to feel more stirring inside of him.

Halfway bent over the toilet, heart pounding, breath rushing, the deer swallowed again, felt his tailhole try to start parting open around the remaining load, small sticky, rugged bits of the interrupted log clinging to the wrinkles of his pucker, and then slowly drew his hand out from underneath himself. And there it was: piled up over itself, lumps on chunks on smooth, muddy mass, the dank, damp heat of his own bodily product, stench curling up to tickle at his nose.

Slowly he dropped his foot back down, glanced around the bathroom, and then lowered himself down to the closed toiled. Gomi swallowed again open-mouthed and reached in with his other paw, at first giving his already-plumping sheath a few squeezes, a bit of gentle stroking… and with this damp warmth dripping through his fur and assaulting his senses, it took no time at all to work himself up to a steady, throbbing half-arousal.

The harder he got himself, the further his nervousness departed, the more his excitement grew. That roiling shame and doubt soon disappeared beneath a burgeoning interest, anxiety of doing it peaking into anxiousness to just do it. Still stroking himself, he leaned back a bit, bit his lip, looked from his shaft to his handful of fresh, steaming shit, looked back to his shaft, turned his hand, lifted his hips up…

...pressed the thick, semisoft, deliciously warm, velvety mass against himself, and immediately moaned out with sheer, indulgent delight. His head rolled back on his shoulders, and all it took to bring himself the rest of the way was a few short, slow thrusts into the mass, so that he could feel the greasy mud smear across his shaft, and start matting down his pubic fur, and roll into and catch within his sheath where little chunks and nuggets squished and smeared and flattened out.

Gomi wrapped his fingers around himself, now thoroughly encasing himself within his own mess, and thrust up into the captured handful. Now some of that expected roughness came out, the half-digested fibers and bits streaking across his fully hard cock – but if anything this just drove him on further, reminding him of exactly what it was that he now pushed into, and what he worked around himself.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought as he looked down into his lap. Each stroke brought with it a surprising amount of slow, rough resistance, the wet heat of his load remaining high and strong, each throb pushing out against the stuff even as it extruded out between his fingers, or piled along his thighs, or rolled down his balls onto the lid of the toilet, or slapped into a steadily growing pile along the tile floor. I can’t… believe…

He swallowed again, leaned in over himself, and deliberately took a deep, full breath through flared nostrils. There was the sharp, pungent scent of fresh waste steadily growing less so, acrid and bitter, pressing at the back of his nose and throat, layered over – around – his own familiar musk, seemingly sharpened by the stink around it. The deer moaned out, opened his eyes, and looked down to watch himself paw off: this was something he had seen in so many videos so many times before, but now that it was himself, now that he could feel it, could smell it, could see it, it hit him so much harder.

Pausing to catch his breath, he leaned in a little bit further, tilted his shit-smeared shaft up towards his muzzle, carefully unstuck his fingers from himself – the mass that he had dumped into his hand had by now worked itself to a smeared, mushy, creamy mess, with only a few more solid chunks clinging to him here and there – and then pursed his lips… and emptied out a glob of sticky, hungry drool across his tip. The extra heat and wetness quickly smeared across him, and in a few more strokes Gomi had worked the froth of his saliva into the mess already there-

-and then grunted again, doubled over himself, received a faceful of thick, dense, heavy stench – and then bucked, jerked, and thrust into his slimy, sticky hand, gasped, thrust again, and felt his peak jolt through him like a bolt of lightning. Where he expected to receive a faceful of those spurts as well, though, instead the sticky heat sleeving around his cock strengthened; once he could open his eyes again he looked down to see foggy, milky white mixed in with the discolored brown.

Body trembling, heart still pounding, pleasure surging, the deer leaned back against the toilet, then jumped when the lid of the tank shifted. He reached up to scratch at a spot on his muzzle – then felt the warm, sticky smear spread across his fur.

And then he looked down across his lap.

And remembered that now he had to clean up.

lomidepuzlo – Scat

Rachel nudged the bathroom door shut with a hoof, then paused there and took a breath to steady herself. Why am I nervous? she thought, for certainly not the first time since deciding to do this; I’m the only one home. Nobody has to know. Nobody is going to know. And if I don’t like it, then that’s that, and I don’t have to do anything more. But then, still…

The reindeer glanced down at the thin plastic container in her other hand, her first now dropping from the doorknob – after flicking the lock, of course. In preparation for this she had already stripped down naked, relishing the extra time spent letting the urgency simmer and grow. She had waited until that familiar stir had begun within her abdomen, then waited even longer until she had begun to feel the physical nudging at the interior of her tailhole, the constant, pressing need that demanded deliberate resistance. And then, even so, she had waited to finish the current episode she was watching, then calmly put the remote down, stood up – felt the shift in mass and weight, and the extra impact on that urgency – and slowly, calmly made her way down the hall to the bedroom, where she had stripped down and simultaneously struggled and enjoyed the sensation.

And here she was now, so close to bursting that she had her legs crossed and her little cotton-puff tail clamped downwards, her thighs together, tightening her rump against any stray overflow. Now’s my chance, she thought, and eyed the toilet in the corner of the bathroom; it’s now or never. Then her gaze drifted over to the tub instead, and then from there to the separate freestanding shower, each and every one glistening in bright, clean white porcelain… and then right back down to the plastic in her paw.

Her stomach rumbled, palpable throughout her entire lower body; then her tail flicked, beginning to hike up at the base in the natural, reflexive response. Heart pounding, excitement mounting, she reached up, tapped at her chin in thought, clutched the container against her belly, and then risked letting go of that hold – and instantly felt herself clench right back again, tailhole threatening to part open from inside around the mass stored throughout the day.

Rachel swallowed, sweat starting to bead out beneath her pelt, and then finally made her decision. She stumbled over to the tub, turned around, plopped her rump onto the side with her tail hanging over into the tub itself, then reached back behind herself, placed the plastic container in what she hoped was the right spot, and then turned forward again. Then she swallowed once more, entwined her fingers, gritted her teeth, closed her eyes… and relaxed.

And then she felt the warm, dank weight pushing out from inside, lower boils roiling and stirring with the movement, finally achieving this release and relief that her body had desired for so many hours. The reindeer couldn’t help but sigh out with the sensation, the thick, dense girth of the waste stretching her rim, rolling smoothly out, and then plopping – again, she hoped – down into where she had dropped the container.

Still the initial shock and surprise of oh my God, I’m actually doing this thrummed through her, cresting with each lump and ridge of her own waste as it continued to press out of her. Bit by bit the familiar relief began to spread through her, that built-up pressure pushing against her tailhole already stretching out around it, then dumping out, piling up… smearing across the parted wrinkles of her rim, teasing palpably through the walls of her lower bowels.

She sighed again, then groaned and clenched back around her ongoing relief. The reindeer’s tailhole worked and clamped around the semisolid log still lodged halfway inside of her, tense muscle squeezing in through the surface, mashing in through the uniform, firm softness, pushing through… and then letting the exterior half hang loose from her pucker for a moment, before that too dropped down. Still she had more to give, but for the moment Rachel opened her eyes, shifted herself side to side – sitting along the rim of the tub, as she had discovered, was not the most comfortable of options – and then risked a glance down and around herself.

Then she breathed a sigh of a different kind of relief when she saw that her estimation had been correct, and that the shallow plastic tub she had brought with her had caught everything that she had squeezed out of herself. The thick, dense mud of her waste piled up over itself, sinking slowly downwards beneath its own heft and give.

At least the smell isn’t so bad… but still it was there, high and rich yet still bitter at the same time, reminding her beyond a shadow of a doubt of what she was doing. Rachel swallowed, sat upright again, worked herself a little bit further back, and now pushed from inside to coax out the rest; this time she focused on the sensation of her tailhole stretching open around that interrupted log, then the way it sucked in around the contoured surface, how she could feel the texture of the stuff as it slid out of her, then the way her rim remained parted open even afterwards before the next bit came.

She grunted again, leaned forward to rest her arms along her legs, bore down, pushed, squeezed… cursed under her breath as her bladder released as well, first as a slow trickle of pale yellow stark against the white of the tub wall, and then arcing out as a full stream over the tile floor. The reindeer shifted and adjusted to make sure that she missed the rug, then cursed again and clamped down to interrupt both when she realized that she was no longer above the plastic container, and turned again to see that she had indeed missed her target, and that now she was again loosely spraying out across one leg into a growing puddle along the floor.

Panting softly from both the relief and the exertion of the release, the reindeer turned, held herself inside the tub, and then just let everything else go then and there. A sweet shiver pulsed through her body as she did so, the noise of her mark tinkling across the surface; she spread her legs, rolled her head back, let her eyes drift shut… and then opened them again to look down across the resultant mess.

Yeah, she thought, looking from the impressive pile stacked up in the plastic, to the final few lumps that had missed and now oozed a thin, oily brown towards the drain. Yeah, I could… I could do this again.

Burlington – Scat

Amelia padded along, short skirt swaying about the feral poodle’s haunches, her prim little shirt hugging snug to the short fur of her shoulders and chest; she kept her head up, her posture perfect, her gait measured yet spry. Appearances were everything, after all – and it was for this reason that, deep down, she felt thankful for the way her tail had decided to reflexively hike up all on its own as she walked, all of the taut, puckered muscles layered underneath trembling just enough for the dog to feel. Then that simmering, searing heat that tingled up inside of her too, something so close to an itch yet still so far different, but-

-there was an itch, really. The sensation of little crags and semisolid wrinkles and then, lodged further inside, the pinpoint bumps and nodules of half-digested food, nudging and scraping up against sensitive inner walls where this truly did not belong, and yet… there was still something about having it there. The poodle set her jaw, bit her lip, and continued striding, taking the opportunity to drift back in her thoughts to when she had set the ball rolling to put herself into this position: it had been back at home yesterday evening after a full day of work when she had just gotten home, tailhole tensing, bowels stirring, tail trembling above the sheer weight of what she had spent all day storing up, never finding the chance to let it loose. Then before she could do anything, with the firm, dank heat starting to snake out halfway to her spot, the dog had had to crouch down, arch her back, and push, and then it squeezed underneath her, squished across her spade, stretched the slick, succulent skin and full lips, smeared briefly across the silken inner flesh… it wouldn’t be the first time Amelia had made a little bit of a detour in that department.

She knew the movements already, how to work the mass up inside of her sex with minimal exterior mess, how to then sit back on her haunches and rub at her spade and smeared, messy clit with a pawpad while relaxing and pushing just enough for the log to start crowning out from among interior muscles and then slurp back in, how to ride the natural, slimy motion of the stuff pressed into her womb, pushing with every little twitch and clench, until she had shuddered and trembled with one, two, three orgasms there on the floor, each spurt letting out a loose spray of the juice of her peak, discolored with the presence of the shit wedged, mushed, mashed inside of her, still deep enough that a good clench forced it back in.

But now it wanted to make its way out. All the way out. Amelia swallowed, took a quick look around herself, then padded off of the sidewalk and back around one of the low bushes ringing the front of the building. She also quite enjoyed the chance at being seen: sure would be a shame, she remembered thinking time and time again, if someone were to catch me indulging in something so vile, so indulgent, while also messing up my lovely, carefully maintained pelt, and-

And the feral felt yesterday’s load start to squeeze itself back out of her sex nearly before she had squatted down to do her business. It gave her a similar feeling to doing it the normal way, but still of course different in its own right: a different set of muscles strained and slurped and pushed, and instead of the puckered folds of her tailhole parting open around the well-contained, compressed mass, it was the full lips of her spade instead, pulling out around the log as it slid out along much wetter, slicker interior walls.

Amelia gasped at the sensation, reflexively clenched again, felt the nub that had so far poked out then squish back in, and started pushing all over again. The extra wetness sometimes aided in the smoothness of the extrusion, and sometimes made it harder – but either way, the act itself never failed to get her worked up, to where her hindlegs trembled and her tail wagged side to side the further she pushed. There was just something about how she could feel the thick, sticky, dank heat of the mess slowly slurp its way out from inside, all of the folds and muscles deep inside wedging together to squish against it from behind, forcing it back out from this part of her where it truly did not belong.

The time spent inside of her had of course softened the mass, forcing it to take the shape of the entrance to her sex the further she pushed. The poodle licked her chops, lifted up a little bit, wobbled on hindlegs still splayed in her relief squat, and pulled forward – and felt that first chunk finally drop free, briefly hanging loose on a thick, sticky strand of discolored slime from deep inside of her, arousal mixed with the foul mucus of yesterday’s shit.

Getting to sleep last night had been difficult what with each and every little movement reminding her of the day’s worth that she had somehow squished inside of herself, simmering with a heat all of its own, dribbling and dripping and oozing so that whenever she adjusted her position, she could smell the characteristic bitter stench layered over the higher spice of her natural musk. Now the poodle drew in a breath through flared nostrils and tasted the same on the air, but more fully mixed together: her own musk tainted with the sharp, acrid bitterness, all part of the process as she continued to push out.

Finally the log hit its midway point and then eased itself the rest of the way out, plopping into a slick, slimy pile underneath her as it did so. Panting, Amelia straightened up, gave her haunches a side-to-side wiggle, then glanced down underneath herself and saw a few gooey chunks of brown still hanging down from the luscious pink flesh of her spade, smeared and discolored.

She noticed she was trembling a little bit. The pile she left looked a bit too soft, a bit too wet to have come from a prim, proper dog like her, and that was perfect; as long as nobody takes a sniff, she thought, and turned to make her way back to the sidewalk. Already she missed the warm weight shoved inside, sloshing and slurping with each step, forcing her to keep everything clamped down or else risk it starting to dribble out, and… she slowed in her pace and turned to glance back at the bush.

Why not two days in row?

Burlington – Scat

Petra swallowed, gritted her teeth, and bore down a little bit more firmly, the dragon’s small tail lifting at the base against the wave of pressure. Long practice, again and again and again, had given her quite some dexterity in separating these two movements, but still she couldn’t make one of these visits without the fringe nervousness pumping through her system again: I have to do my job, kept at the forefront of her mind what with this thick, dense, heavy weight pushing out at her belly from within and teasing at the interior of her sex where the masses remained lodged deep within her womb, paired with the somewhat less fortunate and I really gotta shit with the other weight stirring beneath her lifted tail.

That was the hardest part, too: every time she pushed, she had to put deliberate, focused effort into separating the muscle movements, so that her tailhole remained plump and clenched despite the tacky, semi-firm mass lifting out at the ring of muscle from behind. Inwardly she cursed herself for waiting so long, but she had just wanted to finish the movie she had put on; and admittedly there was always a little bit of pleasure in letting the pressure, the urgency build up inside, each mass pressing back in on the other to make the need that much sharper.

The small dragon shifted again. That was another point of contention in her line of work: most mistook her for a kobold, given that even when they squatted down to face her they still had to look nearly straight down to make eye contact. As a result Petra had started choosing to do her deliveries at home, although a few customers still wanted the warm product received in person, and then even fewer of them actually wanted to watch her do it, which… sometimes these mix-ups ended up in her favor.

She grunted again, glanced down, squared her stance a bit, and adjusted how she held herself over the children’s plastic toilet so that it was her puckered, flexing tailhole that held over the bowl. Many of her fellow workers and friends would make fun of her for using something like this, but she figured it was the best option: she had gotten it for a steal at the local thrift shop, it did the job far better than a bucket or a dinner bowl, and then it was just plain cute with the little designs on the side, and besides, nobody had to know that she used it. It was literally designed for someone my size, she had thought as a theoretical argument for it; the only difference is, I’m not a goddamn kid.

The dragon’s breath hissed out between clenched teeth as her muscles stirred again, and now she tried to precariously position herself right at the border of the bowl. Minimizing cross-contamination was best, and at this point she knew her body fairly well enough to tell that today it might be unavoidable. She swallowed, tilted her head back, set her jaw, arched her back a little bit more… and then pushed even harder, this time letting go of the boundary between those muscles.

The familiar pressure continued to simmer, and stir, and grow, and then she heard her tailhole part open just as she felt it, too. The firm, tight ring of muscle drew back around the solid, dank mass held inside, the rugged surface easily pushing itself through: the natural warm slickness of the inside of her body coated the surface and aided its exit, slurping free from mushy, folded walls of interior flesh and muscle, relief coming along with the growing pleasure as she emptied herself out. Petra paused part of the way through, feeling the soft firmness of the log clamped there within her opened tailhole, then shifted back and pushed again-

-and this time felt the similar answering call in her front as well, as that ‘product’ made itself known once more. For a moment she held her bowels, that last chunk breaking off halfway and plopping into the plastic bowl underneath her; then she lifted up, braced her hands on her knees, leaned back, pushed again… and groaned with the hotter, sharper pressure pulling out at her sex from inside. She gritted her teeth again, pushed, pushed harder, then sighed out with released exertion and started all over again. From here it was more discomfort than pleasure, but never quite made it all the way over into pain – not for the regular orders, at least.

The dragon squirmed from side to side as she felt the product finally start to crown out from within, slipping smoothly along sleek, slick inner flesh. She sighed, caught her breath, strained again, and continued pushing from that halfway point, the thing unfortunately having started backwards so that it was the wide, blunt end that she had to work around first.

Could be worse, she reminded herself, as that pressure ramped up into the sensation close to the pulling stretch that always set her heart pounding. Could be worse. Ain’t no fist this time. Could be worse. Could… be…

And then it finally, finally popped free, unloading from within her womb with an audible slurping shlop… and left the dragon’s sex gaping partially open afterwards, thick strands of arousal mixed with natural bodily wetness hanging between warm flesh and then the surface of the thing itself. Petra sighed out with that sweet relief and shifted where she sat atop the toilet, then leaned back to look over her work – and cursed as she saw the palm-sized egg resting snug within the pile of waste, brown on brown, only some of which was the chocolate that she was being paid for. A small, fun quirk of her body, something that she had quickly turned to a profit…

...and something that she was still working on, what with how that chocolate tended to partially melt and smear on the way out, coating her lips and walls in thick, sludgy brown just as it mixed with the rest of her bodily product. Relieved for the lightened pressure, annoyed for the mixup and the work she just made for herself, Petra leaned back, looked down at the array of browns underneath her, then ran a pair of fingers across her sex, scooped off some of the caught chocolate, lapped it off… nodded.

At least that was good.

Sass – Vore

Sass crouched and ducked into the narrow den, the coyote’s feral nose immediately twitching with the distinct metallic scent that had led her here. Again her stomach rumbled, both in hunger as well as excitement; she knew that she had to tread carefully, one step at a time, and then pause in between each to listen for the telltale hissing, rattling, scrabbling… but nothing of the sort came her way. So instead she continued, ears folding back, brushy tail sticking straight out for balance. She could taste it now, the deeper she delved into the cave: the rich, saucy flavor of the fresh eggs, so sharp, so bright, unique in their strangeness, carrying that same notable metallic touch, and…

...and as the entrance opened up into a wider room, the coyote straightened to her full height, took in a slow breath of the heavy, dank air, and couldn’t help but lick her chops. Curled up in the back corner of the den, not only did she see her initial prize, but a bonus as well as the nightstalker himself lay curled around the nest, eyes closed, rattle still in sleep. Sass crept forward, taking even more care now; she swallowed, mouth watering, ducked her head lower, strode in closer until she could hear his breathing, then sniffed at the thick, humid air of his space. There was that metallic touch, the oiled-leather aroma of serpent layered along the richer, more familiar fullness of fellow coyote, dampened and muddled amid the mutation.

That was fine, though. She squared her stance, tilted her head this way and that as she looked over the sleeping prey, flicked her tongue out to catch a dribble of drool just before it dropped. The coyote leaned in closer, sniffed at fields of fur warm with sleep, then the slightly stranger, spicier scent where that fur gave way to leathery rills of scaled skin instead; she made her way down his body towards the tail, sniffed there, licked her lips again. Sass nosed up underneath the rattle, pausing as it gave off a sound like dry grass crunching underfoot; its owner remained asleep, though, so she parted her jaws, felt the sticky strands of hungry saliva stretch and pull, then flattened her tongue against the bottom of her maw, came forward, drew that rattle in…

...and pressed it against the roof of her mouth. She swallowed once, felt the muscles in the back of her throat constrict, tighten, tug, pull, then drew the rattle back further, swallowed again – and felt her heart skip with the sensation of the open valve, with the feeling of her throat bulging out around the ridged mass, with the ongoing pressure of the length tail as it followed. She crouched down close to the ground as she continued, muscles pulling, teeth dragging across skin and fur alike; with the nightstalker already coiling down towards her belly, his tail squished on all sides by tense, velvety walls and folds of flesh, Sass had no choice but to continue on.

His hindpaws came next, the coyote stretching her jaw further, hooking her broad tongue underneath one, tasting the grime and grit of desert travel there before she brought them in. Blunted claws scraped against the inside of her cheeks, and calloused pads danced across her tongue – and then she worked at those, too, having to breathe through her open mouth around him as she started to lift him up, jaws now clamping in at his haunches, pulling him back, scooting him out of the nest. Only then did the smaller hybrid awaken, right when sharp coyote fangs dug into the plush pelt of his hindlegs, and when he did so it was to first look around with surprise, shock, confusion, and perhaps a little bit of dizziness.

And then he looked back, saw the coyote in the process of devouring him, blinked, tilted his wide, half-reptilian head… and then the fear hit him. And Sass could taste it, his aroma sharpening and deepening, taking on that rich, sour bitterness – even as she hoisted him into the air, the strength of her shoulders and neck much greater than his pitiful, diminutive weight. Halfway in her belly she could feel his tail flick and swish, rattle bouncing, the sound muted to near silence inside of her, but still the motion tickled within her stomach and made her shiver with strange delight.

This was undeniable prey behavior: instead of trying to fight back and free himself, the small nightstalker simply let it be, simply allowed himself to now sink slowly further down into the larger scavenger’s gullet, the folds of her throat wrapping smoothly around him, her thick saliva coating his skin and soaking through his fur. He tried to wriggle and squirm and writhe, but if anything this just made her clamp down around him even more firmly; Sass grunted as footpaws pushed out at the inside of her throat, but by that point he would be able to find no purchase to pull himself out, and-

-and a sharp, rich, salty ammonia spice flooded the back of her maw and dribbled down her throat, already past the point where she would need to swallow so that it instead flowed straight down into her roiling belly. She paused, body rigid, head craned back, throat bulging out with the half of her prey already past the point of no return, then swallowed again and felt that salty slickness go with it. Released bladder, primal fear winning out; even with her maw stretched now around the nightstalker’s chest, his forepaws clutched close, his reptilian head swinging this way and that, Sass couldn’t help but smirk with delight and self-satisfied joy at her meal for the day.

If anything, that was just a little bit of extra spice, and – with a bit of effort she clamped her jaws shut, the male’s head squeezing out at the inside of her mouth, then smoothly slipping back as the musculature of her throat took its natural course – something else to enjoy. It took another ten heart-pounding seconds for the sizeable, squirming lump to make its way down, briefly blocking off her breathing and filling her with that sense of overindulgence, and then… with a sigh of relief the coyote licked her chops again, swallowed once more for good measure, and turned her gaze to the couple of eggs still waiting in the nest.

Sass – Scat (post-vore disposal)

Sass gritted her teeth, pulled in another breath through nostrils flared with effort, and then bore down yet again, back arched, haunches lowered, hindpaws splayed. The feral coyote could feel her reflexively hiked tail trembling with the exertion she put in, her blossoming tailhole shivering as it stretched outward, puckered wrinkles pulling straight and taut around the mass that steadily worked its way out, and – she gasped, jerked forward, and then felt the following clench vibrate through her body as another of those stiff, jagged chunks forced itself free, briefly pulling her guts this way and that.

It had been such a good meal, though, filling from head to toe and everything in between. After she had swallowed the nightstalker, the coyote had then moved on to one egg after another, cracking the first between her fangs and letting the thick slime of the yolk ooze down her throat; then the second she had taken whole, delighting in the dense, stiff rounded pressure as it rolled through rings of muscle and tense, tight flesh.

And then even better had been feeling the struggles of the small male inside of her, where her already distended belly had pulled and stretched and tugged around his squirming. Even now, after the time it had taken to go through an entire digestive cycle, she could still feel the tingling remnants of that – of blunted hindclaws scraping up against her stomach from inside, and of her skin and pelt stretching as he had stretched out to try to avoid the natural workings of her body. The coyote remembered partially dozing off just before the struggling hit its peak, and then felt herself roused to full wakefulness when that peak had come: she had rolled over onto her back and pushed her forepaws down her belly, forcing the squirming, wriggling mass back down, pushing back against his resistance, feeling the strain gradually weaken as the thick, sludgy heat inside of her had grown, until it had ceased completely. Still the vague shape of the nightstalker had remained inside of her, though; afterwards she had worked herself to sleep while kneading at the stiff angles of undigested bones, feeling them push up against her guts from inside, aware of the slight pull and tug as they had begun to work themselves further down through her system…

...and now she grunted, and groaned, and strained, and exerted herself in trying to push them out the other end. Her heart thumped in her throat with that exertion, tailhole stinging from what she had already managed to excrete: the thick, muddy pile of waste stacked up underneath her, semisolid chunks interspersed with tufts of fur and patches of scale, had started to frill out with the pale yellow-white of some leg bone or another; then the disconnected bumps that might have been toes; and then the wide, rounded crest of the cracked ribcage, for which Sass could still feel the resultant tingling heat.

She paused in her process to catch her breath, and also took the opportunity to look down underneath her again – but as she lifted up she felt a tug and pull from within her tailhole. Tail still raised at the base, the coyote turned, leaned over, lifted a hindleg to get a closer look, and saw another bone hanging halfway out of her abused hole, the rim of previously puckered pink flesh now tinted red with irritation, smeared along its wrinkles with discolored brown and green, visibly pulsing with the beat of her heart as she watched. The coyote swallowed, set her jaw, gritted her teeth, then pushed again – and watched as the outer rim parted further, briefly the showing succulent, luscious red of interior flesh, muscles working and straining; then she couldn’t help but whimper with pleasure mixed with discomfort as well as relief as the wide hinge of that bone pulled free, first pulling along those folds of her lower guts, tugging them outwards so that the rich folds blossomed out from her parted rim, and then – that bone finally popped free and plopped into the pile underneath her, letting loose a soft, half-solid flow of processed waste follow.

From this point the coyote no longer needed to push, as her bowels did their job without her input. Instead she lowered that hindleg so that she could squat right back down, close enough to be able to feel the thick, dank heat of her mess against her haunches, and then relaxed as the discomfort finally pushed back into sweet, warm relief again. Still her stomach roiled with the remnant sensation of having swallowed the small male whole – that always happened after such a filling meal – and as the sticky heat continued to dribble out of her, the coyote’s nose started to tickle as well.

There was the usual distinct, bitter richness of fresh feral waste, a little sharp, a little acrid, but now it wrapped in with something a bit different: she tilted her head again and took in a breath through parted lips. Mostly just herself, her musk and her mark, but then that same rusty, metallic note, that put her in the mind of the serpent portion of her prey’s biology. That just made sense, though. Sass half-lifted that same hindleg, gritted her teeth, and gave another push, followed by another, as one more dense, firm mass pressed out against her tailhole from inside. It wedged itself part of the way through so that when she reflexively clenched, she felt her rim pull tight around the stiff mass of bone; then she pushed, strained, stretched – and felt the skull pop free and lodge itself in the pile.

That just made sense – she panted softly and flicked her tongue out over her chops – because when she had swallowed the nightstalker, so too had she swallowed everything through which his body and his system had been working. So, of course, some of this waste puttering out of her tailhole was not hers, but his, simply delayed and then reprocessed within herself.

Still she recalled the warmth of his forcefully released piss as it had trickled directly into her belly. A little bit of that was there, too; the coyote sighed with delight, finally hoisted her hind end up, and turned to look over what yesterday’s meal had become. Then she licked her lips again.

If only there was a way she could devour him a second time.