Sprinting

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A man becomes a feline of speed...
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This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.

*****

Sprinting

Stretching his arms over his head, Hondo worked out the kinks in his body, strained from sleeping on a hard floor all night with just a sleeping sack for comfort. Of course, he had had a choice in the matter. A domestic dispute at home had driven the slender, African man to a friend's abode for the night, but the trek along the unwholesome edge of the city had perhaps put his life more at risk than it had been within the walls of his home. Either way, he had decided to take his chance elsewhere, at least until she cooled down.

He grimaced, lips twisting. If she cooled down.

But, regardless of what was happening in his life or not, there was always one thing that called to him. The fenced in sports complex kept wild animals at bay - at least during daylight hours, even if the chain fence was coming free in some places - and he bounced lightly from foot to foot, worn sneakers squeaking on the track. The white lines had nearly been worn into the dust, but it would do well enough for what he wanted, his body as limber as it was going to be after a night of roughing it, his partner in crime snoring away in the next room.

Puffing his cheeks out, he dropped into the start position, toe perfectly poised on the white line and hips above the level of his head. His dark eyes shone intently, his world narrowing to that of the track, golden morning rays cast across him as if to lure him onward into a better world. Pale dirt swirled in a cloud across the track and he counted himself down, every muscle in his body pumped for the only sprint that mattered.

And then he flew.

Digging his heels into the dirt track, he flung himself forward, legs and arms pumping as if he was running for his life, from a lion or a cheetah, though running from either would have really been a futile endeavour anyway. In the distance, a hyena laughed, the pack of scavengers on the move. The sunlight warmed his skin, comfortable before the rising scorch of the day and he dragged in a breath, needing every drop of oxygen he could clean to fuel his body onward.

But it wasn't any ordinary run. It could have been, but not that day - never that day. Hondo couldn't have known that before he began and yet he felt something change before he even crossed the two-hundred metre mark, something churning irrevocably in this gut.

His next footfall came more quickly, skin prickling. But he didn't stop, couldn't stop. It was all about the sprint. Hondo's vision shivered, skin rippling as if it had suddenly become liquid, and his face pushed out, jaw aching as his teeth seemed to realign themselves.

He should have stopped. But he couldn't have stopped. Growling deep in the back of his throat, Hondo hurled his body on, feet slapping the track. There was only his rhythm and pace to think about even as something deeper in his body worked itself out beyond his realm of control.

His back lengthening, his field of vision changed as his head came down and down and down, arms stretching out until he was running on all fours, hips high. It should have been ungainly, but there was something natural about it that kept him going, his eyes fixed on the finish marker as he crossed four-hundred metres, breath raking through his lungs, blood up.

His heart pounded. His spine stretched out, pulling his body into elongated elegance, clothes tearing as they fell away, useless to him. There was no sense in his mind to be concerned, however, as his sneakers slipped off entirely to reveal wriggling toes sucking back into paws, the pads pink and deceptively delicate in appearance.

Six-hundred metres gone. Hondo grunted, arms becoming forelegs. The prickling that had first alerted him to something amiss spread further, coating his body with a golden coat, struck through with black rosettes. His tongue flattened out between his teeth, dark lips gleaming with the faintest hint of saliva. Muscles bunched and powered him forward, spine shooting out behind him to become a long tail covered with similarly patterned fur. Faster and faster, his legs ground into a new position, claws tucked into his toes and yet still ready for action.

He reached for the eight-hundred metre marker with fire in his eyes, ears itching as they migrated up his head - all the better for listening for prey. He'd have to be stealthy if he wanted to get close to his next meal before launching himself into a full sprint, expending every ounce of energy in a deathly hurtle that may or may not result in a full stomach at the end of it.

And he knew what he was as he ran with greater speed and fervour than he'd ever dreamed off, his body designed to sprint and excel at it.

Hondo passed the nine-hundred metre mark, a male cheetah in his prime, tearing up the ground as it passed beneath him, a being that hardly dared make a print lest he be constrained by the cruel drag of gravity. For, in running, there was nothing to hold him back.

And one-thousand metres. He slowed then, letting his body roll out into a long-legged rope, feeling how his legs had changed, settling into a different position as if he was pushing up onto his toes. It felt right. He shivered, though it was one of pleasure and certainly not of cold. It was a good feeling. A very good feeling.

For there was nothing better that he could have wished to become, the problems of life left behind as he surveyed the outdoor complex and the gaps in the fence that may as well have been left there just for him. Hondo growled. He was not one to be caged. No! He had to run.

That was all that mattered in his heart.

Running had always been his solace. Hondo chuffed a laugh, tail swishing as the cheetah stretched out his new body, luxuriating in the finesse of embodying a true sprinter.

It suited him.

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