This month's themes are nasal vore, second person narration, and absorption.

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Featuring



There’s this little foxhole burrowed into a hill, and it’s encircled by detritus and a few stalks of grass. Peeking out of that hole there’s the head of a sleeping red fox, with his little paws flanking his delicate little snout. How cute, you think. You’re a large poison dragon, by the way.

You watch for a while longer, to the point where the fox’s head shuffles a little with a snore. A penny-wide bubble of snot inflates out of his right nostril. Alright… a little less cute. Still, how can you say no to that precious face?

After a couple of snores the fox’s snot bubble has inflated to the width of a duct tape roll, and you see the fox lunge out with his paws, as if to catch a hare in his dreams. Which reminds you of reality, your reality. You’re a poison dragon over twice the height of a person. You catch things too, and those things just happen to be foxes, what with your place on the food chain. Pretty gamey. Tough like jerky, too. But this particular fox smells of chives and spices, and he seems more mature than most. A good-sized meal.

Licking your daggers for teeth, you spread your membraned wings with the slowness of practised ninjutsu. You’ve poised yourself to pounce, so as not to make any alerting steps before you seize your prey. You recline on your hinds a sliver more, right before the jump—a jarring crack of tree roots beneath your hindfoot. You gnash your fangs. Pretty clumsy of you. Ahead of you the fox’s ears have stood in soldierly salute, and the bubble of his right nostril pops, proceeding this shrill “Yap!”

Now or never, right? You unload kinetic energy, bounding out of the underbrush. Your right forepaw plunges into the foxhole, swiping, clenching, only coming up with boulders and grains of sifting earth. Enough sifting earth avalanches over your foreleg, so you’re inconveniently stuck. Well, that’s not gonna stop you from catching your meal, is it? You keep digging, and snort a poisonous steam in your irritation, when you hear a “kon” from your left. The fox, there he stands. But how did he escape? Did you so blindly leap at the foxhole that you lost track of the fox himself? He’s an anthro, you notice (they tend to be more clever than your critters). He holds both of his biceps, twiddling his talons and tsking.

You stare at the snot bubble that balloons back out of his right nostril. It expands and contracts more fiercely, more swiftly. You watch the fox’s belly heave up and down, and something about his aura now frightens the bejeezus out of you. Jaws are revealed from his black lips, and a snarl is produced. You’re quite unnerved by that, and you’re trying harder to jerk your forepaw free of the collapsed foxhole now, but you’re making little progress; more rocks seem to sift over your foreleg.

The fox is walking toward you. “First off, you wake me from my most wondrous dream of mech engineering. Then, you have the gall to reach your hand into my home uninvited?” He frisks his tail agitatedly. “Though, I have been dabbling with a bit of bioengineering lately—a means of devouring your massive creatures through nasal inhalation. I haven’t tested it yet… nor have I eaten anything larger than another fox before. Guess you’re going to to become a couple of firsts for me…”

You don’t gather what the fox is getting at, but it’s too ominously devious for you. Best to find another meal that’s less psychopathic. You’ve just freed your paw. Your limbs have decided you want to get the fuck away from the advancing vulpine. So you wheel around, and you dash into the trees.

“Oh no, you don’t!” the fox shouts, echoing behind you. What do you mean, oh no you don’t? You’re dashing through the woods at seventy miles per hour, and have been for two seconds already! What could the fox possibly—

—you hear a sick, nauseating SNNRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRK. The mere sound throws you on your belly and your forelegs in front of you. The wind’s hammered out of your stomach and you vomit it up, and suddenly you’re being dragged backward, murderously. Oh my, what the leaping fuck is going on? You twine your neck backward, and there you see the fox with one finger punched down on the left nostril, and his face going through great, orgasmic crack-addict contortions of bliss with every SNRRRRRRRRRRRRRK! of the right one, which hauls your 13,200-pound body towards it tail-first. “No!” you scream. The pain of the friction is drowned out by the shock. You’ve been on top of the food-chain all your life. How is this happening? How could a little fox’s nose vacuum you towards it at two—four—eight—sixteen yards per snort, the force doubling every time?

“Come—SNRRRRRRRRRRRK—here, little—SNRRRRRRRRRRRRK!—dragon… I didn’t say you could—SCHHHHHNNLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLOCKKKK!—ngh, leave…”

You may as well be an insect being sucked into a vacuum hose; how powerless you are against the fox’s inverted nasal gusts…

“SNRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHWWWOOOP! Ngh… Almost there, little dragon—SNRRRHHHHHHWOP… SCHNNNNNNNWWWWRRRROOP… SCHHHHHNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT!”

Unease and disgust trample over you as you feel the foul, fox’s mucous nostril constricting around the tip of your tail and devouring more of you with its suction, continuing to SNRRRRRK away at you and feed the fox… You can hear the fox’s ecstatic moans and sniffles between every snort as your panic and fear only heighten. The giant pulse of your body erratically speeds up, massaging deep in the fox’s schnoz, which you can feel he enjoys by the ululations of joy from the tight, slimy walls. With each concussive burst of inhalation, his nose gobbles up each successive tail-spike on your tail, which are now essentially nose-knots that progressively seal your doom. An all too greedy SCHNNOOOOOOOOOOOOCK gives the fox what you imagine to be a thick, goopy run-of-the-nose, as you feel the syrupy slime slobbering over your length of tail foot by foot. The moans of the predator become more nasally congested. SHNNNNNNLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOP, and finally, what you feel to be the fox’s ravenous orifice hoses down your tail’s base, followed by a mucous SPLAT of viscous fluids over your rump and buttocks.

His nostril’s clogged up, creating staccato notes of cacophony with brief pauses in between as you feel that hungry nostril attempting to dilate itself entirely over your posterior. There’s no fucking way he’ll manage, you assure yourself. You may have gotten my dragon ass through the tunnel, but this is the END of the line. Just as you falsely comfort yourself you start to hear the vulpine’s nasal passage rapidly loosening up, from all the trial-and-error; you also hear the fox’s SSNNNNNNNRRRRRRRRRRRRRRKs leveling up in the stats of POWER and CHARISMA. At the rate the fox charges up