"At Large" by Kyrm

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Speedometers would have started printing their speeding tickets in advance if any officers were loafing on the highway’s shoulder. But they weren’t. There wasn’t a soul around to appreciate the black blur whistling down an asphalt horizon shimmering with heat from a cloudless noon sun.

Cintia had been in it for the money at first. Then when she had enough of that, she had been in it for him. Lastly, she discovered she couldn’t live without the raw adrenaline of getting out alive.

Nowadays? Cash, cock, and a rush that rivaled cocaine all made for pretty swell prizes.

She rode shotgun, her tinted passenger window down, head poking out to savor the wind’s wail. It raked invisible fingers through her glorious mane of hair. Butt-long and flowing, it whipped behind her while the desert blurred by. She could do a mean wolf impression for a fox, and times like this called for one. Her, “A-woooo!” out-shouted the engine’s roar.

A commanding grip found the scruff of Cintia’s neck and yanked her back inside. He was the only guy allowed to handle her like that—the only guy with the balls to get rough with a gal her size. She turned her head and found his snout already coming for hers. His sunglasses-tinted gaze abandoned the empty road and pierced into her while they shared a long, tongue-twisting kiss. When their lips parted, she slumped against the passenger’s door. Panting, with a wild look that said, If we weren’t driving, I’d fuck you silly.

She always got frisky after they pulled off a heist. And this had been a heist.

Mutual grins flaunted the fangs of monsters, which was what they were. Had they riders in the backseat, the sight of those teeth would have them fearing for their lives. Doubly so when both the driver’s and passenger’s stomachs growled in unison.

“Shit,” Cintia drawled—her soft drawl made it come out as, “Shyiet.”— “Probably should’a eaten something before the run.”

“Got one of those gas-and-diners coming up,” her boyfriend said. “Not if you keep speeding like this.” He gunned the brakes. Rubber squealed as it burned treadmarks across asphalt. Cintia

jolted like she had been shot, swung with momentum from an instantaneous 90-degree wheel- turn. Cheaper tires would have popped; one of the reasons they had blown such a hefty sum on this 14-cylinder stallion of a getaway vehicle.

“Good thing you were wearing a seatbelt.” Cintia wrinkled her nose. “You did that on purpose.” His chuckle, like the rest of him, conveyed strength without trying. She could admit that

she was fickle for a woman, she always gravitated to the strongest man in the room. In all her years, she had never met stronger than Andy Renard. “Guilty,” graveled the criminal with warrants in 37 states.

Same ones as her.

Their car stood out, more expensive than every other vehicle on the dilapidated parking lot combined. Dusty old pre-owneds of vacationing couples, cross-country drivers. Firmly middle-class dullards who’d decided to have a break at the quaint little rest stop.

The couple that thumped their bare paws onto the sun-warmed grit of the lot stood out more than the car itself. Andy alone would have been eye-catching. He ducked out of the driver’s side and flicked off his shades. He squinted amber fox eyes while adjusting to the sun’s glare.

After stuffing his shades in his jean pocket, he shook his impressive bulk. Russet headfurs tipped brown waved lively as tallgrass in the wind.

Six feet and eight inches. A classic red fox by coat, a monster by genetics. A freak, and in all the best ways possible: un-godly tall, leaving lions and buffalos and all those big, brawny species wondering if they had just stumbled across a new breed; best of all, he had the physique to back it up.

Hea-Vy, a one-word summation printed across his pectorals. He looked the part of a criminal. Short-sleeved shirt, sharktooth-sliced sleeves, chain-link necklace suspended by bulbous scalenes.

Cintia may have been the feminine side of the duo, but she didn’t consider herself ladylike. Two inches shorter and just as tough, she advertised herself as Hea-Vy in her own way. Legible when Andy was coming, and when Cintia went: syllables rhinestone-studded one to a cheek over the peach-shaped outline of the foxy ass jutting against black leather leggings, snug and shiny.

Dark to Andy’s light, all browns and darker hues on her coat, the 6’6’’ pile of muscle and curves heaved her mighty hip to slam the passenger’s door shut.

“Easy on her!” Andy barked. The car beeped as he pressed the lock button on their key fob.

“Jealous?” Cintia stuck her tongue out as she swaggered over, one leg in front of the other like a runway model; he had the briefcase in-hand. She looked from it to his eyes, questioningly.

“Of course.” A look Andy disregarded. The enormous fangs showed off by his grin always made him look like a dumb brute. But behind those beady eyes inlaid beneath a thick brow ridge lurked intelligence. His other meaty handpaw swept in to distract Cintia; she drew in a sharp breath as claws nipped her Hea-Vy bottom. “Even a car seat shouldn’t get more of your ass than me.”

Cintia snorted. She and Andy took their first steps towards the diner. Directing his hand off her ass, she slung its bulk over her shoulder like a fashion accessory. “Maybe you’ll have your chance to be my seat tonight, stud.” She walked a finger along the fluffy ridge of his forearm, colored brown like a glove that came up to his elbow. “That is, if you can beat me.”

“I might deign to let you win.” They pushed open double doors that just barely fit them side to side. It triggered the jingle from the welcome bell, and as the heads of patrons turned towards their huge arrivals, Andy gave a firm, shameless squeeze to Cintia’s breasts.

She didn’t blush, but she did coax his hand off. “I’d say that violates rule one,” she said under her breath, smirking up at her hulking fox. Their massive, bushy tails rubbed against each other.

He had his own smirk, though not for her. Cockily panning it around the room, as if to ask onlookers—What are you going to do about it, runts?

The answer, of course, was nothing. Some midwest folk had this preternatural sense of when rain was brewing. Andy and Cintia seemed to trip that same alarm.

On instinct, people knew they were trouble.

Rather than wait around, Andy led them to a booth. He and Cintia sat across from one another. Some buck-toothed pipsqueak practically tripped over herself to serve them: a splotchy black-on-white mouse, probably a couple years older than Cintia but shorter than her seated.

Smart girl, she looked nervous. If she knew who she was serving she would’ve had every right to be. They were a big couple and they ate big; she hurried off to fulfill their excessive orders.

The second she did, Andy placed the briefcase on the table. “Are you insane?” Cintia hissed. “Put that back down on the seat.” “What’s the matter?” Andy matched her conspiratorial volume. His amber eyes flickered

around the room, Cintia took a more obvious inventory with her purple ones: two couples, a businessman, an older gentleman, a cook behind the counter.

“No one knows what this is, anyway,” he argued, rapping a knuckle against the polished steel case. RYSING, was embossed in bold lettering. Thee biopharmaceutical company. The one that put a big word like that into the mouths of the simplest people. The company had appeared out of obscurity ten years ago and had revolutionized gene therapies. Invented cures for cancer.

That wasn’t the sort of target Andy and Cintia usually went for. He was a bank-robbing, car-jacking sort of bastard. Cintia was the bitch who liked her pearls and diamonds.

This hit had been something special. She had to plan it out within a night. Andy got a piece of intel “from the pipeline,” which was odd because everyone he knew she knew. But the armored vehicle was unguarded, just like his so-called “reliable source” had said.

Andy was the muscle, he knocked out the driver. Cintia was also the muscle, she disarmed the guard and choke-holded him unconscious. As distant sirens blared, she got the back of the truck open and retrieved this briefcase.

“What do you think’s in it?” Cintia asked.

“No idea. But it’s from their enhancements division.” After popping off the side latches, he nodded for Cintia. She complied with an eye-roll, using her claw to pick the main lock. It was irresponsible, sure, but deep down she was equally curious. The lid wheezed as Andy pulled it up. Nondescript white bags of icepacks were piled up inside; seeping coldness exuded an aura of chilly air.

“Where the hell is it?” Cintia numbed her fingers while sifting through the icepacks. She jerked her hand back as if stung, having come close to roughing up a lidded plastic vial.

Andy gingerly pinched it out then dangled it between them. Frost chunks marked the outside, but the deep purple inside remained entirely liquid.

Cintia liked purple. Matched her eyes. The color of royalty. Andy swirled it around. “Grape soda,” he said, unimpressed. “Don’t do that!” Cintia would have slapped his hand if not for fear of damaging the vial.

There was money to be had for Rysing research. A prototype like this? Black market buyers would pay big bucks. “I won’t forgive you if you damage our own private island.”

“That’s the price you’ve decided on?” Andy raised his brow, still swirling their ransom just to defy her.

“Isle of Cintia. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Not even Isle of Andy?” her boyfriend tutted, shaking that bestial head of his. “I had a better idea, though.”

“Try me, sport.” Cintia folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. It didn’t take much leaning before her bust blanketed her forearms. Perhaps she should have gotten a top to

match his? She liked her black velvet crop top plus denim jacket combo, but her puppies upstairs deserved a Hea-Vy content warning just as much as that back-porch peach.

It got Andy’s attention. Strong of body, weak of will. His tongue darted across his lips; for a second she thought he might fuck her right there in the diner. But he wrenched his gaze from that top-straining temptation to look her in the eye. “Instead of selling...” He took the briefcase and eased it shut, calmly placing it next to him on the booth. “...we par-take.”

Cintia slowly blinked, waiting for him to crack a smile and laugh. “Bad joke?”

“I know I could’ve been a standup comedian in another life, but I assure you: no joke.” Andy used his thumbclaw to flick the lid off; it went flying up like a flipped coin then hit the table, bouncing a few times before going still. “Need I remind you this was enhancement division?”

“I know what it means.” The more fun experiments happened there. Plastic surgery without the plastic. Muscle without the workout. It was big news when Rysing accepted a military contract for a super-soldier serum that... “Wait.” She held that thought, looking at the vial in a new light. “You don’t think—”

“I have no idea,” he confided in a low voice. He leaned a little closer, so did Cintia, the two of them seated until their foreheads were close to touching. In an even lower growl, one usually reserved for pillow talk: “But it’d be fun to find out, right?”

“If you end up in the hospital, someone’s gonna catch us.” A scent distracted Cintia. She lifted her snout and snuffled the air. “Damn, what is that stuff?” It smelled like... well, she couldn’t place it. That was the frustrating part. It was nice, but elusive. She could detect it in the air, her brain told her it smelled good, but it also told her it didn’t know what it smelled like. Too subtle. Too faint.

As if telling her...

Andy took a long, deep whiff straight from the container and, Mmm’d similar satisfaction. “Only one way to find out,” he said, speaking her own guilty thought aloud.

“Wait,” she gasped—too late, he had tilted his head back and wolfed half the vial’s contents. A gulp bobbed his Adam’s apple against his chain-link necklace. He smacked his lips, licked his chops. Waited.

“Well?” Cintia asked, impatient after a few seconds. She drummed a finger atop her bust; she kept a burner phone between breasts for emergencies. “Am I gonna have to call 911?”

“Don’t think so,” he said, the booth seat creaking as he leaned back and slung an arm over it. “Tasted pretty good, though.” He carelessly sloshed the vial’s remaining contents until they threatened to spill over the rim.

Cintia scowled. “You, darling, just drank a couple hundred grand and have nothing to show for it.”

“Patience, sweetheart,” Andy condescended. “Maybe it just takes some time to...” His easygoing smile slipped away, his stare shifting from her towards a spot next to her. “To...”

“Now it looks like you’re about to throw up a couple hundred grand.”

“Here are your drinks!” their waitress said, lofting a tray with Andy’s water and Cintia’s sweet tea. “Your food will be ready, er... is he alright?” She had noticed Andy’s offness.

“He’s—” Before Cintia could downplay it: Thud. The table rattled as Andy slammed his hand against it for balance. “...fine.”

But his bristling coat and deep, open-mouthed breaths said otherwise. He let out a grunt. Not a normal one, either. It was a guttural animal chuff. A brainless, “Urgh,” accompanied by a flinch from his muscular body—as though someone punched him in the gut. Other subtleties

came with that movement. A straining sound that made her ears perk to their limits; she recognized it, it was the stressed noise her favorite jeans made when she dared bend over in them. Except they came from Andy’s side of the table. Creases along her boyfriend’s shirt smoothed out, framing his thick chest and shoulders. His chain necklace appeared to clench.

Almost as if—

Andy shot upright. He was violating rule one again: outside the scene, never cause a scene. Their puny waitress shrieked as he carelessly bumped his shoulder against her serving tray. Their glasses hit the floor and crashed apart.

The offending fox didn’t so much as grunt an acknowledgment. Thump-thump-thump went the hurried, graceless weight of his bare paws as he stormed forward, on a warpath for the men’s restroom. An older elk had to leap aside to avoid being bowled over. Andy made it past him, shouldering the men’s restroom door open and disappearing inside.

“God dammit, Andy,” Cintia harshed under her breath. She stepped over the puddle of water and iced tea. Over their shrieky little waitress. She ignored the eyes on her, leveling a glare at the bathroom. They had to get the fuck out of here. Someone would recognize them soon— from the papers, the news, internet. Then the cops would get involved. “Of all the stupid stunts that fox has pulled...” She reached the door, but the sounds coming from behind it gave her pause.

His groans sounded bad. Bad enough that the caring girlfriend under the grit and vinegar came out. “Andy?” she asked in a softer voice, rapping a knuckle on the door.

“Feels so...” His speech was thick, as though he was wrestling with his own tongue to form words. “...so damn...” The sexual moan that followed left Cintia’s nipples visibly straining against her top.

“What the hell are you up to in here?” Cintia pushed open the door to the men’s room and went inside. There were stalls on the left. Andy faced a mirror opposite her, hunched over with bumpy back muscles flexed against his shirt. He had a bracing grip that enfolded the sides of a sink.

The lights were off, so when the door swung shut behind her, the lighting grew ominous—sourced solely through a small rectangular window in the corner.

“...goooood,” Andy managed to wrench the word out. Definition along his back rippled; the hem of his shirt hitched higher second by second until it started resembling Cintia’s crop top. There came a sound she had heard before, but never from a person. It reminded her of paws on loose gravel, except it was happening underneath Andy’s skin.

“Andy?” Cintia was surprised at the meekness in her voice. “Andy, what’s going on?”

If they were violating rule one up to this point, Andy’s triumphant roar altogether executed it. His biceps shivered with muscles Cintia had never seen. Neck muscles bulged and that chain-link necklace strained taut then exploded, each piece clinking across the dingy tiled floor.

Cracks skittered along the part of the porcelain sink that kept it to the wall. Then it tore clean off as he hurled it across the room. It struck the wall and made a terrific sound on breaking to white chunks.

Cintia remained very still. For a moment, she forgot she was looking at her boyfriend. That over there was a beast—more of a beast than usual, that is. Each belabored bellow of breath exaggerated the swell of his bulbous back. Busted pipes gurgled sinkwater into a puddle pooling at his paws.

Cintia backed away. Her butt thudded against the door louder than she wanted. Andy stiffened, slowly turning his head to glare over his shoulder. When their eyes met, he turned around; his back popped as he rose to his full stature—undeniably fuller than before. His wet paws thumped him forward, silhouette casting a musclebound shadow over her and a door he was now too wide for. She looked up. That was nothing new. But looking up two inches was a much different experience from craning her neck from the height of his pecs.

He - y, his shirt read. The deep, v-shaped rip down his collar exposed corded cleavage, “a” and “v” erased from a message that now doubled as a warning.

“Andy,” she breathed, planting a palm to his chest—sifting through silk tufts of white furs to test the diamond hardness underneath.

It was real.

His rough, calloused clutch devoured her chin, wrenched her gaze up. He smiled a deep, knowing smile. “Hey down there,” Andy rumbled. His hand slipped from her chin and covered her back. With her size, her strength, Cintia had never been made to feel small. Not until that moment.

A shove sent her stumbling into the middle of the men’s room, down on her knees in a puddle of tap. She splashed upright and turned around. No way out, the way blocked in muscle and teeth.

“Ma’am?” The waitress was pounding on the door, too cowardly to open it. “I-is everything alright?”

“We’re fine!” Cintia and Andy called at once, his words overtaking hers. “Be out in just a minute,” Cintia added.

“Might be more than that,” Andy said. She watched her boyfriend’s baseball mitt-sized hand slide down to his crotch, training her eyes in the process. There her stare stayed, fixed on what those tight jeans fought to contain.

She wasn’t hungry anymore. Not for food—but meat. Andy’s meat had slithered down to strain obscenely against the left thigh of his pant leg. It almost reached the knee, ending at a conspicuous dark spot that told her just how good this transformation had felt.

He tried to undo his jeans. His fingers were too huge to deal with the button. “Take it off,” he commanded in a low voice. “I’ve never needed you more in my life.”

Cintia wanted to. Desperately. But while gawking, a less conspicuous bulge caught her eye. The ill-fitting nature of Andy’s jeans had kept the pocketed vial neatly pinned to his right thigh.

Barring any spillage, half of it remained.

“What’s the rush, big boy?” She sauntered up in the practiced way of a vixen who knew she was beautiful—tail swishing in time to the swing of wide, womanly, legging-hugged hips.

“You’re trembling,” Andy observed.

“That’s how bad I want a piece of this,” she whispered, getting chills from his presence. From the sheer trek it took her claw from the divot of his pecs to the rugged outcrop of his chiseled jawline.

“What happened to rule one?” He cocked a brow while she went down on her knees. How big had that shit made him? Over seven, to be certain—to make a big girl like her feel little. Eight, then.

Eight feet and some change.

And though the thought of roaming his bulk excited her to no end... “Fuck the rules,” she said, brandishing the tip of her claw like a surgeon’s scalpel. Rather than go for the fly, she easily cut a gash in the thigh of his right pant leg. Immediately after creating that opening, she crammed her fingers inside and wrenched the vial free. Unstopped, but its confines had been too tight to allow for spillage.

She went to bring it to her lips without a second thought, only for her wrist to vanish into Andy’s grasp. She had to clamp her fist around the vial as he squeezed and pulled her singlehandedly off the floor.

They had been on equal footing before this. Lovers with a competitive streak. Some couples got petty, she and Andy wrestled their woes away. But without her own boost, she could forfeit any future physical challenges in advance. He wasn’t just taller, he had gained bulk. And Andy already had a strict workout regimen.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he crooned, pinching the vial from Cintia’s fist before letting go of her. Her knees almost buckled when she landed. She braced both hands to his sturdy chest to stay standing—and to bat her lashes while looking up at him.

“Don’t I get a share of the spoils?” She pouted her lip, did a despondent swish with her bushy tail. “It’s only fair, Andy.”

The plea didn’t move him. “I could drink it all for myself. Bet we could have some real fun if I was that ‘enhanced.’”

Cintia swallowed. There was a pregnant silence. She had run with gangs before getting in with her one and only. The way he looked at her, this felt like an initiation. Her boyfriend had always respected her. Her and no one else, really. She didn’t take shit. She demanded he treat her as an equal. As his partner.

But the scales had tipped. And with one sip he could tip them further. Part of her didn’t mind that, considering the heavy artillery crammed into his jeans. Getting her gut flossed by a humongous fox knot didn’t sound so bad... Her mating instincts stirred a compulsion to flurry lips over his new muscles.

But she wasn’t about to demote herself like that. Seeing Andy this big sparked her own ambitions. “I want. My share.” More forceful this time, through clenched teeth: “Make. Me. Big.”

He nodded, and thereby said she had passed his test. “Get these off first,” he ordered. “They’re chafing, in case you couldn’t tell.” Maintaining eye contact, she slipped down and undid his fly. The hard part was the

waistline, snug around tough, angular hips. She pulled. Harder. Grunting and glaring until the jeans rolled and caught mid-thigh, his virile red rocket bursting free like a spring-loaded trap.

“Woah,” she breathed.

It had nearly smacked her in the snout on the way up. Now bobbing next to her shoulder, it radiated tempting heat. Her nostrils snuffled and for a second her thoughts were like television static: the more masculine the fox, the stronger the musk.

And Andy was the peak of foxkind.

His heavy hand covered the top of her head and rubbed like she was his little pet. Her eyelids drooped, and she almost went straight for his dick. But again, pride burned the thought away. And just in time. If she gave in, she suspected she would have failed the test.

“My share?” she said expectantly. “You don’t look scared.” “Should I be?” Cintia raised a brow as Andy lifted his hand off her.

“If I drank the rest of this stuff, sure. Bet I could break the ten-foot mark. I’d probably weigh a ton. Bust open bank vaults just by charging into them.”

“But you promised.” It was a lame reason, almost a whine. She and Andy were criminals—but neither to each other. She didn’t like the power he had over her. It made her feel like... like she had been surpassed. Left as the shoddy, on-her-knees-sucking-dick-in-a-pit-stop second half.

Andy’s grin widened, taunted her until she glared. “You’d never win another of our scraps in your life.” He held the vial so near his lips that its plastic misted. For a moment, he looked tempted enough to drink. Then he stopped and looked down at her again. “Lucky for you, I like a challenge.” Her heart stopped as he tilted the vial on its side. The serum dumped out, sautéed along the top of his two-footer. “Drink up.”

“Well, someone decided not to sleep on the couch tonight.” Cintia licked her lips while looking over the cock seasoning. “Fox dick with a side of whatever that freak juice is? Darling, you spoil me.”

She couldn’t fit it in her mouth. But that wasn’t her goal. Her tongue traced the top of his knot from tip to sheath. Dignity had to go on the backburner for a bit: she worked the sides of his shaft like it was a melting popsicle. Not one rivulet of Rysing’s patented experimental serum managed to sneak past her tingling tongue. That was good, because the flavor had such a kick she would’ve licked it off the floor, off Andy’s feet if it meant more.

“You have more willpower than I gave you credit for,” she panted. Excited. Aroused. She didn’t even care they were doing this in a public restroom—maybe that made it hotter.

“That so?”

“Yeah,” she breathed her answer across her boyfriend’s knot, now shiny with drool. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have been able to resist downing the whole thing.”

“I always knew I picked a good one.” Andy’s chuckle rumbled through the room. “You are one greedy bitch.” She positioned her maw at the head of his knot. “Hungry, too,” and she suddenly had a white-hot, fur-raising need to crack her jaw wide as it could; her teeth tickled sensitive skin, she swabbed the tip with her tongue.

That was the extent of her worship at first. Through no added effort, her maw soon had the volume to fit more of Andy’s girth.

Ba-bump. She felt it. Her heart performed a single, pronounced beat—as if trying to lurch out of her breast. On that heartbeat, she felt every vein in her body throb the same, blood replaced with that good growth juice.

Ba-bump. “Mmh,” a feminine sigh as Cintia sleeved more maw over his dick. She felt so good. Hot all over. Someone cranking the thermostat inside her body until it hit fever-pitch.

Ba-bump. Her outfit nipped wherever it touched skin. She unconsciously shrugged out of her denim jacket for comfort, leaving her with a balloon-smuggling crop top and a pinched array of abs almost hard as Andy’s. Leggings that left nothing to the imagination hugged an even more unimaginable figure. Fuller. Rounder.

Ba-bump. Lust-drooped eyes jolted wide. It finally clicked on this pulse, when her panties shrank to pussy floss, and rhinestone studs spelling Hea-Vy popped off her butt.

Ba-bump. She left a slobbery trail as her lips broke with Andy’s knot. She leapt upright; the gulf in their heights had shrunken. Shrunken. Felt wrong to use that word in this context, though. Her height had graduated from eye-level with boulder pecs to muscle-plated shoulders.

Ba-bump. Then she stood a little higher than that. An inch higher, to be precise—though she didn’t know that was the exact gain gifted by each pulse. “Fuck, Andy,” she grunted, and it was hard to form the words. As if her tongue tripped over chocolate fondue. Her muzzle felt animal, not meant to form speech. Only growls and snarls. Still she labored out: “It’s better than sex.”

Ba—Another inch of height, more than that in heft. Her boobs visibly inflated against her top.—bump. At the first sign of a winnowing tear in the crop top’s neck, she laid her hands on separated seams.

“Fuck...” Ba-bump! “...yeah!” she cried, tearing her top apart at the front as she grew. The second her tits and their puffy, dark chocolate nipples tasted air, they vanished into Andy’s hungry hands.

“Now these are tits,” he admired. “Keep growing.”

“Like you have a say.” She smirked up. Ba-bump. A teensy less up than before. She guided those hands around to where her butt had already begun bullying its irrepressible heart shape through tearing leather seams.

His claws tested the supple protection of her thick ass. Too thick to puncture. She stepped towards Andy. Firm D-cups squished against his firmer chest. Cintia caught him off guard with her excessive weight; he had muscles, but she had a lot of lady-part padding. That, and she was catching up. Now eye-level with his neck, strong and riled enough to walk him backwards until his back struck the wall hard enough that some of its cheap old tiles skittered off. He didn’t care. His ravenous hand clenched her right thigh, claws raking four streaks in her leggings.

With another orgasmic Ba-bump, she grew, her thickening thigh erupting through that weakened strip of fabric in an appetizing wobble of feminine flesh.

Cintia growled as their tongues met. The large lovers jousted with fangs neither knew the other had; another animal mutation to go with dozens of others. Andy had been disarmed by her curves, by an ambush of amorous woman weighing him to the wall. Not anymore. He hefted her other thigh as well, lifting and encouraging her to cross those watermelon-crushers around his back.

Ba-bump. She was eight feel tall and he could still carry her.

Ba-bump. Her arms crossed around the broadness of his back, hands failing to meet in the middle until—Ba-bump. Thaaat was the ticket. Andy’s pawsteps thundered as he walked their combined weight across the bathroom. He was panting and growling and grinding his knot against her nethers and—

Bang. The bathroom door collapsed against Cintia’s back. Everyone in the diner had given up on the pretense of eating long ago. They were all watching, and all jumped as the elephantine lovers battered the door off its hinges.

Andy staggered out in pulled-down jeans and a tight shirt with its back ruined by amorous claw marks. And he had his hands all over one Hea-Vy load in his grasp. He fell forward, pounding Cintia back-first against the diner counter. Plates and porcelain mugs flew to the floor. She hardly noticed. There was no pain—not now, at least. She would have a tender bruise to icepack later. But in the moment, nothing could hurt. That part of her brain had simply turned off.

There were only endorphins to counteract snapping bones and stretching skin. And between those pleasurable additives was an anticipatory thrill. A period where she could hold her breath, only to gasp it all out through the Ba-bump, that expanded her bust, swelled those big birthing hips, jutted her ass out until the last Hea-Vy studs erupted off.

She thrashed beneath Andy’s girth while they made out on the counter. He ripped a hole in the crotch of her leggings and entered her lust-lubed cunt. She had gotten bigger, but not that big. Where her womanly features swelled until they could drown the average man, Andy’s masculine traits had risen to the challenge.

She might’ve died if that pole impaled her a few feet ago. This new, stronger body was requisite for hitching a ride on Andy. She panted as her muscular stomach distended with dick.

“No photography!” Andy snapped at those watching. “Haven’t you ever seen anyone getting it on?” Sure they had, but no one in the world had ever seen it quite like this. Savage. Almost violent. Two brutes denting the counter with each rut.

“Harder,” Cintia exhaled, grabbing handfuls of Andy’s chest fluff. “Harder!”

The feeble wooden counter gave out with a loud crack. The floor shook as she hammered it with all their weight combined. She and Andy wore feral grins; they knew it was depraved, they didn’t give a shit.

“Another reason to get arrested,” Cintia panted.

“I’ve never been able to fit this much of my knot in you. You’re one. Loose. Bitch.” Wood splintered as he fucked her into the ground. It was the most intense sex of their lives, and somehow it was secondary to the Ba-bump of her swelling vixen frame.

“Get it right, sweetheart,” she purred, shocking them both by forcing Andy into a roll. His herculean back demolished another segment of the counter. Now on top, hands to Andy’s shoulders, she said, “I’m not loose. I’m big.” She rode Andy like a steed, high as a kite and starting to feel like her never-ending growth would get her to that height. Ba-bump. She was catching up to Andy.

Ba-bump. In the haze of her growth-drunk lust, she began to develop a mad ambition.

Ba—What if she was the bigger one?—bump. Andy & Cintia. An infamous duo. But didn’t Cintia & Andy have a nicer ring? She pulverized his hips with her own. Her

ass quivered on each downward clap, decimating those last threads biting it back. Ba-bump: her body’s grand finale, a spurt that eclipsed Andy’s lap with her monstrous

ass. It thundered down in an audible collision of flesh on flesh as she fully hilted herself. She and Andy threw their heads back in unison, crying out as they climaxed in front of the entire diner.

She normally would have needed the next couple hours to recover from a dicking like that. Not today. Andy’s knot slipped from her drooling cunt as she rose; it landed with a wet slap, lain heavy across his abdomen.

Busted wood crunched as she tottered to her paws. The tips of her ears brushed the low ceiling lights. Rigid muscles etched the exposed length of her back, counterbalancing the weight of knockers her haggard breaths knocked together.

“I’m so big,” she marveled. The patrons were like children from up here. Just one glance from her and they shrank back. “This has to be some kind of record...” Giddy, breathy laughter colored her speech. “I’m the biggest person alive!”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Her heart raced as she watched Andy heave himself off the floor. His knot kept spewing spunk all over the counter’s remains. She shivered from an anticipation almost pleasurable as the growth itself. Cintia, bigger than Andy Fucking Renard. She’d stolen millions, but numbers on a bank account paled compared to the thrill of stealing size.

Her grin slipped away. Andy inherited it as they stood eye to eye. Then he hulked up ‘til the neat alignment of his jagged teeth mocked inches from her face. They parted to correct, “Second biggest,” in a husky voice. “Like always, sweetheart.”

Cintia made a sound. One she had never made before and couldn’t on command. Low and threatening, a growl vibrated motor-deep from her chest. Bystanders expecting a brawl stepped back. The growl abruptly ended in a canine yelp as Andy poked her clit. It tamed her; she tensed her thick thighs to stay standing from the tazing touch. Their lips met, they traded some tongue.

Then, standing with cheek pressed to cheek, turned to leer at their audience.

“Thought I said no photography?” Andy lumbered over, legs too long to be outpaced. He was talking to some shaggy-bearded goat standing next to his same-species girlfriend.

“Hey,” was the extent of the goat’s resistance. Andy snatched the phone into his fist, dangled it between two fingers. Tilting his maw up—no, Cintia refused to believe he’d do it.

But he did.

Andy dropped the phone into his maw and downed it in a gulp. He patted his stomach before leaning close to give the patron a fang-riddled grin. “No. Evidence,” he said. “Got that?”

The goat swooned in terror, falling into his girlfriend’s arms. Andy swung to his full height. Sparks flew where the top of his skull cracked apart a lightbulb. But he didn’t so much as wince. He was riding that same rush as his girlfriend, pain receptors shot as their good judgment.

“We should probably get the fuck out of here,” Cintia said. “Someone out there in a car looking worried on his phone.”

Andy followed her gaze. “Better do something about it.”

Cintia would look back on that moment in amazement. What the fuck came over me? she’d think of the enormous, eight-foot fox ducking out of the diner. Employing both double doors to make it through with her royal wideness, her Hea-Vy heft shamelessly bouncing, swaying, leaking as she walked up to the driver’s door.

The driver, some punkish badger, looked wide-eyed out the window. He spoke hurriedly into the phone while setting his car in reverse. Too timid of an escape, should’ve floored it. The sun-heated handle was warm to the touch. Cintia yanked it. The door swung towards her.

In her defense, it was a cheap car—and her strength... well, growing more than a foot in height and doubling in weight made it unpredictable. The door came off. She held it for a few moments in startled consideration. Then threw it aside as the badger slammed his brakes and set his car to park.

“You—” He sounded indignant. Ready to hurl an insult. Cintia wasn’t sure what she would have done if this diet meal had done that. Luckily, she silenced him by grabbing his phone. She didn’t check if he was on the line with 911 or not. She simply dropped it, stomped it, then twisted her paw over the remains.

“Snitches,” she said calmly, a swipe of her claw tearing through seatbelt straps. He came up in one hand by the chest of his baggy tee, hollering while flailing scrawny fists against her forearm. She jerked him up until their noses touched, arresting his panicked eyes with her glare. “Get. Stitches.” She let go. The badger hit the ground with a pained gasp, down on his knees in front of her. Her paw almost covered his entire back. “Got that?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” His limbs trembled, and the view struck her. She had always been intimidating, but never to the point of inspiring terror.

She liked it.

Her ears perked at the sound of Andy grunting his massive shoulders through the doorframe. What remained of his cum-stained, half-shredded jeans were back around his waist. There was a gash where his left pocket had been, surgery to retrieve the tiny keychain twirling around his index claw. “May I suggest we get out of here?”

Distant sirens wailed. They were coming in fast. They always did, when a crime scene matched their description.

Andy and Cintia made for their car, though not with the usual urgency. She felt oddly calm, taking her time getting in. Growing was dangerous—because it made her feel invincible. Like she could take a bullet.

Their size made it look like they were forcing themselves into a clown car. It shook from side to side, frontloaded by plus-sized passengers exceeding 500 pounds apiece. Their man-sized tails overlapped in the space between inadequate chairs and overflowed in the backseat, creating a cloud of brown and orange fluff. The couple let both seats out to their limits. Andy was too muscular for a seatbelt, Cintia too endowed.

Heads touching the roof of the car, shoulders rubbing, they shared another grin. “Gotta write Rysing a thank-you note sometime,” Cintia said. “Me too.” Andy was looking at her bust when he said it. “‘Enhancements’ division is

fucking right.” Then he looked up, mockery in his eyes. “Too bad you couldn’t quite catch up, shortcake.”

Her smile soured. He had noticed, then. That secret hope wasn’t so secret. “Drive,” she growled, glaring out the front window.

Andy chuckled. “Yes ma’am.”

Between the broken counter, the bathroom door blown off its hinges, and the sheer amount of... fluid on the floor, it looked more like the site of a shootout than the state’s most dire public indecency charge in 47 years. Blue and red lights flashed outside the diner.

“They were big,” the perps’ waitress told the two officers. “Really big.” She threw her hands high and wide. “Like, I didn’t even know they made foxes that big. And when they came out of the bathroom... I could’ve poked my entire head in one of their mouths.” She bounced on her heels. “So are they really high-profile criminals? Is this, like, a national security issue?” She sounded more excited than scared after the fact.

Issac and Leona shared a look. “Certainly sounds like our power couple,” Leona said. She was the second-largest woman to have entered the diner that day. Technically thee largest, if they went strictly by the metric of entering. 6’8’’, the stern-looking lioness frowned at her notepad. She wasn’t in her officer’s uniform, off-duty when the call came in. The tight casual wear she opted for made it look like she had come from a yoga class.

“But a diner?” Issac had thrown his slapdash police blues on. The outfit almost looked stolen, hanging from boyish shoulders and wrinkled around skinny arms. If the raccoon stuck around the precinct for too long, other officers might have started questioning him—so he simply never stuck around. Contrary to Leona, he was the second shortest person to enter the diner: the bubbly rodent waitress was the first person he had been able to look down at in weeks.

Leona nodded for her partner to follow her along the aisle of booth seats. “Criminals get this way, right? Seen it a million times.”

“What?” He snorted. “In the movies?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and continued: “They find success one too many times, start to feel invincible. And considering who runs their little two-person operation, it’s hardly a surprise.”

“The chief is gonna love this,” Issac muttered. She flashed him a look of warning. He hugged a clipboard to his chest while offering a guilty grin.

“We don’t talk about the chief,” they both said at once: her to scold, him like it was a very boring recital.

“Um, officers?” The waitress meekly spoke up, scurrying behind them. “The, uh... ‘affectionate couple’ did leave something behind.” She pointed them towards one of the booths.

Issac put the discarded briefcase on the table and popped it open. “Icepacks,” he said, tossing them aside one at a time.

“Isn’t that tampering with evidence?” the mouse asked.

“Who’re the officers, dear?” Leona countered, and while the mouse’s attention was off him, Issac took the chance to wipe beads of sweat from his brow—isn’t it, indeed? “You can go.”

“Is what happened to them normal?” “Nothing ‘happened.’” “But I saw them get—” “Just mass hysteria. Move along.” “Nothing here,” murmured Issac. He had emptied the briefcase. The icepacks had

concealed nothing. He closed the case, then flipped it over on a whim. What he saw made him go still. “Uh... Leo?”

“Rysing?” The mouse said, reading the same label. “The biopharmaceutical company?”

“Move. A-long,” Leona growled. Her lip curled back in warning. A show of cat teeth got the rodent’s legs pumping.

“Guess we can scratch talking to the chief,” Issac said while tracing a finger across the Rysing logo.

“It’s one of those missions.” Leona gravely nodded, patting her gun. Issac’s pipe-thin throat bobbed. “You don’t think we’ll have to...” “We’ll find out, won’t we?” With a grimace, she added, “‘Partner.’”

. . .