Soft fur (furry horror/splatter short-story) R18+

. . .

The hyena slips back into the darkness, only existing in this terrifying abyss by his crackly voice, and insane laughter. I notice an object he's holding, before I notice him. A tray, although it's more of a drawer... like something you'd pull from the tallboy in your own bedroom.

I can't see whatever is inside... but whatever is inside... it rattles. It churns. The clinks and cocks of metal against glass.

Then they're down at my feet... tucked beneath by hind paws, and the hyena handles me quite gently when he lifts my legs on top of the drawer. But I'm pulling away, as I'm seeing that the camera is tilting towards my... areas...

The hyena sets the camera up on a tripod at the base of my hind-paws, and he cranes his head close to mine. Both masked in our own ways. Both out of the camera's frame.

I whimper as I try to shake off this horrid steel cage around my face. Even the salt of my growing tears can't possibly dissuade it. I'm stopped when his grip forces me to look at him.

The hyena's voice is soft. "I completely understand if you're scared. Um... I'm not going to rape you... I tried it. And I wasn't into it. Its... not for everyone. No..." He shakes his head at some loop of thought. "No..." His eyes flick up. "What I'm going to do to you is a lot worse."

He drops the knife down onto the tray, leaning in so close that I'd be able to feel his damp breath had it not been behind a mask. "Can I...?"

I do nothing, as I expect my petrified whines to be answer enough. But after a few seconds of his blank, dissociative stare, I make a deal of shaking my head. The metal muzzle rattles.

"I'm just going to get a feel for you, first." He says. "But, after that... please... if you're feeling any... discomfort, or fear, or if you simply just need me to stop..." He nods slowly. "say something, because I wouldn't want to hurt you.."

I feel his paws glide over my sides, and the mask dips down. It's only when I start to cry out for him to stop, that I realize the sick game...

... that I realize he'll never, ever hear me.

I'm quickly hating these sensations of my fur lifting and being brushed down again. He's onto my bare chest, but suddenly he recoils his paws, suspending them in front of them as though in reflex to touching a burning surface. "Wow..." He mutters. "You have such soft fur."

I watch his hazy eyes twist back onto the camera, and after he grabs at it, a screen reflects back into them, with tiny, watery – backwards lines of speech. Multiple people, all streaming digital thoughts. All to do with:

Bottles. Emptied.

Knifes, pencils, other sharp, mundane things.

Plyers.

Surgical equipment, well used, uncleaned – and stinking of rust.

A cheese grater that you'd find in a kitchen.

A meat tenderiser that you'd find in a very professional kitchen.

A dirty rag that stinks of gasoline.

Last but not least, a nail gun, and its inventory of nails – powdered with age and dust.

These are the contents of the drawer.

"Almost everyone's voting on... surgery..." The hyena says softly. He watches my shivering body eagerly. "... I guess we just get started."

Sweating. Struggling against his arms when they are trying to pin me down into place, and that terrible knife is back within the clasp of his paw. He doesn't seem to watch anywhere else other than in my eyes – like the viewers on his livestream, he seeks an entertainment of his own...