The Tickle Trunk Unhinged

It wasn't so much that I was able to put the ravenous lynx fur back into its secured section of the Tickle Trunk as it let me put it back in its resting place. The other furs in the room had been right -- having that thick, softer-than-soft fur pulling on me, wrapping me up as if I were being swallowed up by a living, fur-covered and fur-lined sleeping bag, to the point of almost being mummified in undulating fur, had me wondering if I could have ever let go of the coat, both physically and mentally.

I came, or rather it had made me cum, for what seemed like hours. The special nature of the furs in the Tickle Trunk that had granted them... life?... and that allowed them to communicate telepathically and also gave them the ability to usurp a certain amount of control over whichever willing plaything ventured through the door of their private chamber, whether it was breaking down a person's defences or turning what would normally be a twenty-second orgasm into a convulsing marathon that was completely out of the convulser's control.

The lynx's power of suggestion was much more than I had thought possible. While the Golden Island fox and some of the other furs had linked with me in the hope that I would understand and appreciate their essence, the lynx fur's only interest was proving its level of influence over my human, and ultimately weak, mind. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the feeling of being sucked by it; of reaching into its dense, almost infinite depth and finding my desire exponentially increasing with each stroke, each plumbing of its guard, awn, and down hairs; of cumming into such a vast expanse of fur that my velvety little twitches disappeared almost before their wetness left the head of my lovingly milked penis.

As soon as the thick pelts touched me I had given up any and all interest in resisting, and as I jerked myself off with it (or was it jerking itself off on me?) ejaculation was the only thought I could hold in my head. To be granted the ability to cum over and over again - sometimes laying on my back with mounds of fur in my hands, the softness raging over my cock, and sometimes gathering up the lynx in my arms as it flipped me on my belly, coaxing me to fuck it, to thrust my penis deeper and deeper into the caramel and white coat as it alternated between easing the way for my tight, polished flesh and then providing some resistance to my plunges, just enough force to make me slow my hips as a furry opening gently squeezed my sex -- was excruciating and beguiling at the same time. Had the lynx not let go of me I doubt I ever would have left the room since I got the feeling that enough would never have been enough for it.

I was glad that my neighbours had texted me to say they were extending their holiday for another two weeks because if they had called me I don't think I would have be able to contain my excitement. Two more weeks of unfettered access to their sumptuous staff of forever-willing furs?! How could I not wish them their well-deserved break and truly mean it?

During the first week of housesitting I was visiting the Tickle Trunk at least twice a day. It got to the point that I would strip naked as soon as I walked in the front door, pile my clothes on the bench in the hallway, and head straight for the basement. Sometimes I would enter the closet without turning the lights on and just feel my way through the racks and racks of furs until one or more of the animate coats, hats, rugs, or various fluffy items suggested its will over mine and I stroked or was stroked until my warm, fluid tremors had been exhausted. Other times I wouldn't even make it through the entrance before I was almost assaulted, wrapped up by some fox fur boa and quickly jerked off, causing my orgasm to surge from me and squirt just beyond the reach of the insatiable fur as I braced myself against the door frame, hugging the pelt that was constricting around my torso, stroking the fur in unison with its swaying and twirling over my penis and across my belly.

I began taking 'treats,' as I called them, over to the house for my sessions. I would collect vintage furs, stoles, or sheepskin rugs from local thrift and vintage stores, and walk around the racks and racks of eagerly-awaiting coats until one of them connected with me, reaching out to soak up the tired but still desirable fur item, partaking of it as one would a fine meal -- the process slow and methodical, one square centimetre at a time of whatever fur was being offered up would disappear into the depth of its new host.

I also got the impression that the leisurely lapping up of the fur was a way for the devourer to both test the resolve of the little fluffy indulgence, to see what sort of spunk was still left in its old but still pliable hairs, and maybe even moreso, it was a way for the living fur to tease me because for every centimetre of proffered fur it ate the coat or whichever fluffy companion I was feeding at the time in the Tickle Trunk would slip down my penis and immediately share the new thickness or softness it had just incorporated in a drawn-out, agonizingly erotic performance of my favourite show, "Watch the human cum."

I was never allowed to orgasm until all of the fur I was offering up had been fully merged into its new host. It didn't matter which of the inhabited garments I was supplying with a furry morsel or two, it would always keep me on the edge of cumming for the entire session with what felt like a mouthing or words or letters around my cock -- furry "y"s, fleecy "l"s -- a fuzzy conversation with my penis that it understood perfectly; the various depths and manners of hairs puffing and lightly champing about my delicate flesh, feeling like even the air between the wisps of fur was equally as soft as was the pelt, the fur so expertly dedicated to emptying me of every slick bequest I could create.

I had begun to wonder after several days of making my donations to 'the cause' why the mohair and angora sweaters, blankets, scarves, and fabulously fluffy skeins of yarn I had been bringing over were being left untouched. Stroking the Golden Island fox coat that had initiated me to the Tickle Trunk, I asked if they could be soaked up as the fur pieces I had been bringing over. With one sleeve brushing against my belly, just above my pelvis, and the other slipped over my shoulder and caressing the side and back of my neck, the coat pulled itself closer to me and nuzzled its collar into my face.

The feeling it expressed was 'candy.'

Still not being used to only thinking what I wanted to say in order to be heard, I asked my question aloud.

"Why do you call it 'candy'?," I said, almost moaning the words as the thick fur curled up in my lap and began rocking back and forth, a motion that felt like it was panting into my crotch, swaying my penis in slow circles as the caramel hues gathered incessantly around me.

'We like the furs you are bringing us... LOVE the furs you are bringing us...,' the words flowed up the side of my neck and sank into my mind. 'In fact, no one has ever thought of doing that for us, which is why we keep calling you back day and night.'

The fox fur had moved both sleeves around the back of my head as it was... talking?... and was gripping me firmly as its chubbiness continued to swell and pitch in between my legs.

'The sweaters, all that fuzzy, fuzzy mohair, and the silky, plush angora are lovely treats, indeed, but to us they are more like candy than a real meal. We will devour them eventually, but when we eat we want more than a little amuse-bouche, we want to FEAST!'

As her last word entered my thoughts, the other furs in the room, all that had been watching the two of us fuck in the only chair in the Trunk, exhaled the word 'cum' into my mind, and as the warmth spurted roughly into the endless fox, I grabbed the coat, burying my hands in its plumpness and my head between the lapels, and cried out in ecstasy, my screams muffled by the dense fur that surrounded me, and thrust my hips up into the coat as the last of my orgasm tapered off.

The Golden Island fox stayed wrapped around me long after I had softened, wicking away the dregs of fluid that sighed from the tip of my penis as it shrank and fell back onto my pubic hair. The thick fur rustled lightly over and around me and I continued stroking it, squeezing it, filling my hands with its silkiness.

'Sleep,' she whispered into me, 'sleep with me tonight. I want you to stay with me... we want you to stay with us tonight and let us give you dreams that no human has ever had before.'

Her voice was intoxicating, and the notion of what a room full of sentient furs could make me dream was more than I could pass up. I could feel the fox's influence over me causing my thoughts to become heavier and heavier by the second, and as I breathed in her scent, my head totally enshrouded by her lapels, I could hear some of the other furs slip from their hangers and inch their way towards the chair and my exposed, bare legs.

'Dream,' she whispered again as I lost consciousness, 'dream of rivers of fur, dream of cumming.'

• With all attention in the room focused on either the cocooning of or watching the cocooning of their weakened and drained sleepover guest in the chair, a rabbit fur poncho had spilled unseen off its shelf near the back corner of the Tickle Trunk and had slowly found its way to the pile of mohair and angora and began timidly nudging it, gingerly spreading the mound of sweaters and knitwear as if it were looking to create a fluffy warren for itself. After a few tentative probings the rabbit fur singled out a gauzy, hairy mohair sweater and slowly began its absorbtion of the bright pink yarn. When it had finished sucking in the pink mohair, the poncho continued to swallow up one knitted item after the other as the rest of the furs concentrated on wrapping up and entombing their bringer-of-treats for his glorious night of twitches and sighs, the rabbit fur thickening as each new piece was engulfed and devoured, sending ribbons of colour popping up through the white fur and then melting into the poncho creating a pastel-toned pattern amongst growing and frizzing rabbit hair melange.

Satiated on mohair and angora and in a fluff-induced stupor as it digested and restructured the various yarns, the poncho shuffled back to its cubbyhole, slowing occasionally as bubbles of fuzz burst over its surface, dissolving into one another and increasing the thickness and softness of the mutating rabbit fur tenfold as the assimilated fuzzy treats made their way into the core of each white hair. What was once a half-forgotten but still lovely fur was becoming something that none in the Tickle Trunk had ever imagined possible -- a hybrid of living fur and its manmade cousins. And as the first of what was sure to many somnolent-infected groans and shudders from the adoring bit of flesh inside the writhing assemblage of furs where the chair once was, the ravaged, half-eaten Mongolian lamb jacket shrugged itself off its hanger and slunk after the evolving poncho. Its consciousness still muddled from ingesting so many bits of 'candy,' the poncho was unaware of the Mongolian fur following it and nor was it in any state to stave off its curly attack when it started.

The lynx's partial consumption of the lamb fur had not diminished its wildness; if anything, being stripped piecemeal out of a kind of revenge and left to ponder what pleasures could have been had it been fully ingested by the alpha fur had made the hunger of the remaining bulging locks greater than anyone could have imagined. Its blitz attack on the nascent, multi-textured, almost vibrating swath of fuzziness and furriness was ruthless; the Mongolian tresses shot out and latched onto the confused and undulating field of fluff, pausing for a moment as it stretched its chubby screws of fur across the entire width of the near edge of the poncho, multiplying its curls over the expanse of rabbit fur and newly-assimilated mohair and angora at an alarming rate.

The poncho was too stunned by the speed and ruthlessness of the Mongolian lamb that it froze, at first almost enjoying the sensation of the fleece racing between its own lightly-tinted fur, the plump and ample coiled locks felt like a surprise kiss in the dark or a surreptitious grope from a long-lost lover -- shocking but sinfully and thoroughly enjoyable. As thick and frizzy and achingly touchable as the fur and fibre entity was it was no match for the indomitable will of the curls upon curls of fur that were racing through every filament of the quaking and squirming candy-filled bushy swath of the poncho. The Mongolian lamb was so voracious and single-minded about its total domination of the fluffy fusion in its grasp that it even drew into its shaggy girth the satin backing that had so elegantly lined the rabbit fur garment, creating an amorphous pool of thick, fine, pillowy fur rippling aimlessly over the floor.

When the furry molestation was over, the resulting near-formless layer of fluff was so thick and so vast that it covered the length of the aisle and spilled up a good portion of the bottom two compartments of the banks of coat racks at the back of the closet. Exhausted by its exertion and enraptured by the softness of the amalgam of fuzz it had just consumed, the Mongolian lamb folded over itself and plumbed its own suppleness, churning over and through itself, fingering its freshly-made depths with a wild, uncontrolled desire that it would soon share with the other (and unsuspecting) occupants in the Trickle Trunk. •

When I awoke in the morning it was to the gentle pushing of a single thought through my mind. 'One, more... one more,... one more...' filled my chest and wafted up the back of my neck, and at the split second between sleep and complete wakefulness I came so unexpectedly that my gasp echoed through the Tickle Trunk. The bouquet given off by the furs that had attentively encased me for the evening filled my lungs, their sweetness delicate on my tongue. It was only when the Golden Island fox sighed backwards, releasing my head and shoulders from its dense embrace, that I realized my hands were squeezing to the point of almost crushing the soft and spiky sleeves on an enormous Murmansky fur coat. The fox slid off my lap, pulling the last knock of my cum with it, and as I released my grip of the darkly mottled fur the word 'sorry' flashed behind my eyes.

'You needn't be sorry,' the raccoon fur assured me, 'for some, pain and pleasure go hand-in-hand. I felt what you felt as you came, and I know the memory of me flooding through your fingers as she feasted on your wiggly, taut skin will be one you will never forget.'

The chestnut coat was absolutely right. Even though I was asleep as the furs toiled over me throughout the night, I was left with a subtle imprint of the evening's events smeared across my soul, an ache that would never leave me and one that I would need to feed again and again in order to become whole again. I got up and began the process of hanging up each coat and stashing away each fur piece that had been a part of the glorious and repeated fucking I had received during the night, biding my time as I did so, languishing in the energy that still linked us together. Though I was very much aware of the mystical connection between myself and the full and magnificent pieces in the Tickle Trunk, I was as yet unaccustomed to how easily my thoughts gave me away.

'We will figure something out,' was the reply that wafted over me.

"But...," I stammered, "I mean... I didn't mean to suggest...." I suddenly became very self-conscious.

The Golden Island fox's thoughts tipped into my mind.

'How are they going to top that?' It is a fair question, and, if I am being completely honest with you, so deliciously naive,' she said without any hint of reproach.

Her words sent an intense longing through me, and I had to catch my breath as I leaned against the door jamb, soaking in her meaning as vague images of the future appeared in my head.

'We had the entire night to probe your thoughts. How could you not think that we discovered your deepest and darkest secrets as we swiped and plucked each of your syrupy whimpers from you as you slept?' Her words sunk in as the potential debauchery to which she eluded flourished in my mind, and it was only a united 'Go home' that finally forced me to walk out of the Trunk, get dressed, and lock up the house for the day.

If the furs had not been so fixed on rejoicing in the group's satisfaction with how the evening had turned out, they might have noticed the white and pastel sweep of furriness that had gradually and methodically begin to tumble and pour from behind the racking in the far corner of the Trunk. Had I still been in the house when the spume of altered Mongolian lamb made its multi-pronged strike, I would have felt a communal "OH GOD... PLEASE... WAIT!!!" ring through my very core. As it was, my senses remained heightened until it was time for my late-day visit to my neighbour's house.

•

I had barely closed the lid of my laptop when I was grabbing the spare set of keys for the house next door and heading over for my nightly fluffy rendezvous. I wasted no time in stripping and heading down the stairs, my penis already beginning to swell in anticipation of what the furs had in store for my latest poofy call. Walking towards the entry to the Tickle Trunk I could feel a new level of exhilaration in the air, the first drop of pre-cum already wetting and cooling my foreskin.

I was so used to the layout of the closet than I just opened the door and stepped across the threshold without looking and fell headfirst into a writhing pile of coats, Icelandic sheepskins, and every imaginable bit of fur one could think of, all of which was being tossed about or otherwise beset upon by a shapeless and ubiquitous mass of white and pastel-hued fuzz. It was so thick that I never hit the floor, and in fact I felt like was continually falling through a gigantic and bottomless pit of the softest and fluffiest eddy of hair that had ever touched my skin. I couldn't help reacting to the shock of the newness of the candy-floss-like tizzy that roiled below me.

"What the hell?!," I shouted. I tried to get back on my feet as I groped through the infinite depth of curls and puffs and swells but I wasn't able to find any firm surface from which to right myself.

I looked around the room and the chaotic scene that was unfolding before my eyes. Coats, and stoles, and mittens were twisted and flung everywhere -- over top of the massive white tide, half-buried underneath it -- all of them fumbling and fondling the former poncho, or being fondled and expertly fingered by the white bulk that covered every surface I could see. It was then that I saw the Golden Island fox suspended in the air, as well as the sable and Murmansky coats, all of which were turned inside out, the whiteness spewing tendrils from the bottom of their hems and out through their sleeves, swishing back and forth like tidal waves of fleece.

'Don't!,' was all the fox could get out before a fluffy coil of fur shot out from the edge of the pile and wrapped itself around my neck.

I threw my hands up and tried to pull myself from its grip but there was nothing solid to hold onto, only fluff and fur and billowing softness. Despite being choked, I felt unbelievably aroused, and I soon found myself alternating grappling with my captor and stroking the fur that was looped around my neck. The fox broke through the bedlam one more time.

'Don't resist!,' she almost sobbed. 'We have all been wound up in her... for the whole day... and she only wants to fuck us more intensely than any of us... ever thought possible.' The fox wept in ecstasy again as the Mongolian lamb ballooned inside the honey-coloured fur coat.