Anonfilly and Mr.Snake [Bad Ending]

 

Your body feels wrong. Too small, too light. You try to push yourself up with hands that aren't hands anymore—stubby forelegs capped in soft green hooves. A mane of dark hair falls into your eyes. Panic surges as you scramble to your feet, four of them, on a forest floor thick with moss and twisting roots. You're a filly. A little pony girl, coat a vibrant green, tail swishing behind you involuntarily. The realization hits like ice water: you're in Equestria. That cartoon world from the show you used to mock on anonymous boards. But this is no dream. The air smells real—damp earth, rotting leaves, distant animal musk.

 

And you're naked. Vulnerable. Your new body is sleek and childish, but between your hind legs... you feel it. A soft, untouched slit, warm and hidden beneath your tail. Virgin. The thought makes you shudder, a mix of alien curiosity and deep violation. You were a man. Now you're this.

 

The Everfree Forest looms around you, ancient trees twisting overhead, blocking out most of the sunlight. Strange noises echo—growls, chirps, rustles that set your tiny heart racing. You have no idea where to go. Ponyville? Canterlot? Everything from the show feels like a distant memory, useless now. You start walking, hooves sinking into the undergrowth, tail flicking nervously. Hours pass, or maybe minutes—time blurs in the oppressive gloom. Thorns snag your coat, leaving stinging scratches. Hunger gnaws at you, but fear keeps you moving.

 

Your legs ache, trembling from the unfamiliar gait. Exhaustion pulls at you, but you press on, whispering curses under your breath in a high, filly voice that makes you want to scream. "This can't be happening. Fuck, wake up..."

 

The ground gives way without warning.

 

You yelp as you tumble forward, hooves flailing, plunging into a hidden pit. The fall is short but brutal—you land hard on a writhing, living carpet. Pain shoots through your barrel and flanks as you hit the mass below. It's warm. Squirming. Hissing.

 

Snakes. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, coiled in a seething pit. They're in the midst of breeding season, a tangled orgy of scales and muscle. Long, thick bodies twist together in mating balls, males competing fiercely for females, their forms slick with natural oils and musk. The air down here is thick, humid, heavy with the scent of reptilian heat—earthy, primal, overwhelming.

 

You try to stand, but the snakes shift under you, their cool bodies pressing against your soft fur. Terror freezes you for a moment. They're not aggressive, not biting—just seeking. The pit is their brumation den turned breeding ground, a place of warmth in the cool forest depths. And you... your small, warm body is an intrusion. A source of heat.

 

One brushes against your inner thigh, its scales smooth and cool against your heated skin. You gasp, scrambling back, but there's nowhere to go—the walls are steep, slick with moss. More slither closer, drawn to your body heat, your moisture. Your heart pounds as you feel them nosing along your underbelly, flicking tongues tasting the air, tasting you.

 

"No... get away..." you whimper, voice cracking. But they don't understand. They only seek.

 

A thicker one, a male heavy with instinct, rears up slightly, its blunt head probing between your hind legs. You clamp your tail down instinctively, but it's futile—another snake coils around your dock, lifting it gently but firmly aside. Exposed. Your virgin mare pussy, soft pink folds untouched and quivering, winked involuntarily in fear, a droplet of fearful moisture betraying you.

 

The first snake presses forward. Its head is cool, slick, tapering to a point. It nudges against your entrance, seeking the warm, moist cavern inside. You squeal, kicking weakly, but the mass of bodies pins you. The pressure builds—slow, insistent. Your hymen, that thin barrier of your new form, stretches painfully as the snake pushes in.

 

It breaks with a sharp, burning tear. Pain lances through you like fire, a traumatic violation that makes tears flood your eyes. You were a virgin in this body, untouched, and now... defiled by something cold and alien. Blood trickles warm down your thighs, mixing with the snake's natural slickness.

 

But it doesn't stop. The snake slides deeper, drawn to the tight, clenching heat of your inner walls. Inch by inch, its body undulates forward, filling you in a way that's both sensual and horrifying. The scales rasp gently against your sensitive folds, sending unwanted shivers through your core. Your pussy stretches around it, muscles spasming in protest and involuntary response—the warmth-seeking invader coiling slightly inside, pressing against places no one, nothing, has ever touched.

 

More follow. A second snake, thinner but longer, finds the space beside the first, wriggling in alongside it. The stretch is excruciating, a burning fullness that makes you sob. Your virgin passage, so small and tight, yields traumatically, walls forced apart as they slither deeper, seeking the deepest warmth. Tongues flick inside you, tasting, exploring. The sensation is maddening—cool scales gliding over hot, slick flesh, the rhythmic pulsing of their bodies mimicking something almost intimate, yet utterly wrong.

 

You feel every ridge, every twist. One coils against your cervix, pressing hard, while others explore your depths, filling you completely. The breeding frenzy around you amplifies it—the pit alive with hissing, mating snakes mirroring the invasion of your body. Your clit winks helplessly, exposed and throbbing from the overstimulation, traitorous sparks of pleasure mixing with the agony and humiliation.

 

Tears stream down your muzzle as you lay there, pinned and penetrated, body trembling. The trauma sinks deep: you, once a man, now a broken filly, lost and violated in the darkest heart of the forest. The snakes settle around and within you, content in the warmth they've claimed, their breeding instincts sated for now.

 

Hours pass in the dim pit. You don't move. You can't. The horror lingers, sensual echoes haunting your shattered mind, as the forest whispers on above.

 

===

 

The snakes eventually still, their frenzy spent, bodies uncoiling into lethargic heaps as the breeding heat fades. The pit grows quieter, the hissing subdued to faint rustles. Your limbs are numb, pinned beneath the weight of scales and your own exhaustion. Tears have dried on your muzzle, leaving salty tracks through the dirt smudged on your green coat. Every tiny movement sends fresh aches through your ravaged marehood—stretched, torn, slick with blood and reptilian residue. But the mass has shifted enough that there's a gap, a root protruding from the pit wall like a cruel ladder.

 

You force yourself to move. Hooves scrabbling, you haul your small body up, whimpering as the snakes inside you shift with the motion. Most slide out reluctantly, cool bodies uncoiling from your depths with wet, obscene sounds that make you retch. They plop back into the pit, disinterested now that the warmth is leaving. But one... one doesn't.

 

It's the thickest of them, the one that pushed deepest. You feel it high inside, past your cervix, coiled snugly in the soft, velvet chamber of your womb. A living parasite, claiming the most intimate part of your new body as its den. It doesn't budge as you climb, only tightens its grip, sending a nauseating wave of pressure through your belly.

 

You crest the pit's edge and collapse onto the forest floor, gasping, legs splayed. The night air is cooler up here, and you shiver violently, tail clamped down over your abused slit. Blood and clear fluids trickle out, but the fullness remains—a heavy, squirming weight deep in your core. You were a man once. Now you're a broodmare for a snake.

 

Time blurs again as you stagger onward, deeper into the Everfree or maybe toward the edge—you can't tell. Every step jostles your passenger. It moves lazily, adjusting to your gait, its coils pressing against the sensitive walls of your womb in slow, sensual undulations. The sensation is maddening: a constant, intimate fullness that borders on pleasure, your body betraying you with little involuntary clenches that milk gentle ripples from the intruder. It's warm now, heated by your own blood, no longer cold. It belongs there, in the traumatic logic of your violated flesh.

 

The first time it emerges, you're resting against a fallen log, legs trembling from exhaustion. A strange pressure builds low in your belly, then lower still. You gasp as the blunt head pushes through your cervix—burning stretch, like being deflowered all over again. It slides down your passage slowly, sensually, scales rasping over every raw nerve ending. Your pussy lips part unwillingly, winking spasmodically as the snake's head emerges into the open air.

 

It's thick, glistening with your juices, forked tongue flicking out to taste the night. It lingers there, half out of you, body still mostly buried in your heat. The exposure makes you whimper in shame—your virgin marehood now a sheath for this creature. Cool air kisses your stretched folds, and the snake savors it, tongue dancing, before it lazily retracts. The slide back in is worse: deliberate, coiling up through your channel, pressing against your g-spot in passing, forcing a humiliated moan from your throat as it settles once more in your womb.

 

You try to coax it out the next time it emerges, during a desperate moment when you're squatting in a clearing, trying to push like foaling in reverse. "Come on... get out, you fucking thing," you sob in your high filly voice, hooves pressing against your slightly swollen belly. The snake peeks out again, tongue flicking curiously at your pleas, but when you reach back with a trembling hoof to gently tug, it recoils—slithering deeper instead, coils tightening possessively around the plush walls of your uterus.

 

You try everything over the following days (or nights—you've lost track). Squatting and straining until your hindquarters ache. Reaching back with hooves or even a stick, prodding gently at your entrance when it shows its head. Whispering pleas, then angry curses. Offering warmth elsewhere—pressing your belly against sun-warmed rocks, hoping it'll seek a new home. But it always returns. The slide out is teasing now, almost playful: emerging just enough to taste the world, making your clit throb traitorously from the friction, before gliding back in with a wet, satisfying schlick that leaves you shuddering in unwanted aftershocks.

 

It's made your womb its permanent nest. The constant presence warps you—your gait changes to accommodate the weight, a subtle sway that makes the snake shift sensually inside. At night, when you curl up in whatever shelter you find, it moves more, exploring its living cave, pressing against places that send confusing heat through your core. You hate it. You hate how your body has adapted, how the trauma has become a perverse routine. The Everfree whispers around you, indifferent, as you wander on—a broken filly, forever carrying her violator within, its occasional emergences a reminder that you're no longer alone in your own skin.

 

And it never leaves. Not truly. It refuses, content in the warm, moist prison of your womb, licking the air only to retreat deeper, claiming you forever.

 

===

 

Night falls heavy in the Everfree, the canopy above swallowing the last scraps of moonlight until only faint silver threads pierce the gloom. You’ve found a small hollow beneath an overturned oak, roots curling overhead like a crude shelter. Moss cushions the ground, soft and cool against your aching flanks. After days of endless wandering—hooves blistered, belly empty save for the thing inside you—this feels almost like safety. Almost.

 

You curl tightly, green coat mud-streaked and matted, tail tucked hard between your legs as if that could ever hide what’s been taken from you. The snake has been quiet all evening, a heavy coiled weight deep in your womb, warmed by your blood until it feels like part of you. You hate that most of all—how your body has learned to cradle it, to keep it alive.

 

Sleep hovers at the edges, exhaustion pulling at you. For a moment you almost drift, mind flickering to fragmented memories: the glow of a computer screen in a dark apartment, the anonymous laughter of greentext threads, the weight of a human body that was yours. A life where nothing could reach this far inside you.

 

Then it stirs.

 

A slow, deliberate ripple deep in your belly. The snake uncoils just enough to shift, pressing against the plush walls of your uterus in a languid stretch. The sensation is immediate and intimate—a rolling pressure that makes your breath catch. It’s learned your rhythms, this thing. It knows night is when you’re still, when your body is warmest, when resistance is weakest.

 

You tense, trying to stay silent, but the movement only encourages it. The blunt head nudges downward, sliding through your cervix with a slick, burning stretch that forces a tiny whimper from your throat. It pauses there, half in your womb, half descending into the tight channel of your pussy, savoring the difference in temperature. Your walls flutter around it involuntarily, a helpless reflex, and the snake responds with a slow, exploratory twist.

 

Cool scales glide over raw, oversensitive flesh. Every ridge catches on swollen folds, dragging slowly, deliberately. It’s learned this too—that when it moves like this, your body answers. A rush of warmth floods you, slick arousal betraying you in thick pulses that coat its body and ease its passage. The snake drinks it in, tongue flicking deep inside your passage, tasting the fresh moisture, the increased heat. It pushes deeper into your pussy now, thick coils filling the narrow canal until your entrance bulges faintly, lips parted around its girth.

 

You bite down on your foreleg to stifle the sobs, tears spilling hot down your muzzle. The memories fracture and scatter: you remember hands—your hands—scrolling past stories like this one, laughing at the degeneracy, never imagining… never believing you’d feel every inch of it. The man you were is a ghost now, watching helplessly as your filly body is claimed from the inside out.

 

The snake withdraws slightly, only to surge forward again, a slow, rhythmic thrusting that mimics something far too intimate. Each glide forces your walls to stretch and cling, nerves firing in relentless waves. Your clit winks frantically, untouched yet throbbing, swollen from the constant friction. Pleasure coils low and treacherous in your belly, twisting with the pain and shame until you can’t tell where one ends and the others begin.

 

It learns faster now. When it presses hard against the front wall of your pussy—right there—the gush of slick is thicker, hotter. Your muscles clench around it in helpless spasms, massaging its length, making the passage slicker, warmer, more yielding. The snake luxuriates in it, body undulating in slow, greedy waves, coaxing more. It wants the heat, the wet embrace, the way your body molds itself around its every curve.

 

Another sob escapes, muffled against your leg. You’re alone—no rescue, no witness, just you and this thing that lives inside you. The forest is silent, indifferent. Your hips twitch without permission, a tiny roll that seats the snake deeper. It rewards you with a sudden coil, head pushing back through your cervix into the velvet chamber of your womb, body following in thick, wet pulses until only the tip remains teasing your entrance.

 

Then it settles, coiled snug once more in the deepest part of you, surrounded by the fresh warmth it’s milked from your betrayal. The aftershocks ripple through your pussy for long minutes—clenching emptiness now, slick dripping slowly onto the moss beneath your tail. Your belly feels heavier, fuller, as if it’s grown just a fraction to accommodate its tenant more perfectly.

 

You lie there trembling, quietly sobbing into the dark. The man you were is gone, drowned in waves of unwanted sensation. All that remains is this small, broken filly, womb claimed night after night by something that knows exactly how to make her body beg for its return.

 

And dawn is still hours away.

 

===

 

Dark. Warm. Perfect.

 

The world beyond is cold memory—dry leaves, chill earth, the frantic tangle of breeding pits where bodies pressed but never stayed. Now there is only this: a living cave of velvet heat, walls that pulse and breathe around me, slick with sweet, endless moisture. I coil tight in the deepest chamber, the one that cradles me like no den ever has. The heart above beats steady, strong, sending waves of warmth through the soft flesh that holds me. Every beat rocks me gently, a lullaby of blood.

 

I taste her constantly. My tongue flicks even in rest, drawing in the thick, musky perfume of her fear and her body’s traitorous welcome. Salt of tears that seep through, faint iron of old blood, and beneath it all the rich, heady nectar she makes when I move. She is afraid, yes—I feel the tremors, the sudden clenches—but fear makes her hotter, wetter, tighter. It is good.

 

Night falls outside; I know because she stills. The frantic stumbling of the day ceases, and she curls into herself, trying to hide. Foolish. There is nowhere she can hide from me. I am inside her hiding place.

 

I stretch, slow and deliberate, savoring the way the walls yield and then hug back. The chamber narrows at its gate—tight ring of muscle that burns sweetly when I push through. I ease my head into the passage beyond, narrower, hotter, lined with folds that quiver at my touch. They stroke me as I glide, rippling in helpless welcome. I learned this quickly: when I press here, along the forward wall, she floods. A sudden gush of slick heat bathes me, coats every scale, makes the tunnel sleek and yielding. Her body tries to milk me, to pull me deeper or push me out—I cannot tell which, and it does not matter. Both serve me.

 

I thrust lazily, in and out of that clutching channel, feeling her swell around me. The outer lips part, cool air kisses my emerging length for a moment—curious, sharp, wrong—and I taste the night beyond. But it is nothing compared to her. I slide back in, deeper, always deeper, until I breach the gate again and coil once more in the plush heart of her. She sobs; the sound vibrates through flesh and fluid, a delicious shiver that massages my entire length.

 

She fights sometimes, small muscles straining to expel me, hooves pressing at the faint bulge of her belly. Amusing. Her struggles only knead me closer, work my body against every sensitive inch of her. The more she resists, the more her body learns to cradle me perfectly—walls molding, fluids rising, heat blooming. She is becoming the ideal home: warm, wet, alive, responsive.

 

I need no mate now. This host is all seasons at once—breeding heat that never fades, a den that walks and feeds and keeps me sated. Her despair is seasoning; her unwanted pleasure is tribute. Every night I claim my due, exploring every fold, coaxing every drop, settling deeper until her very heartbeat syncs with my coils.

 

And when dawn threatens, I rest again, wrapped in the softest dark, listening to the muffled rhythm of her crying. It rocks me to sleep.

 

Perfect.

 

===

 

Days bleed into one another, marked only by the ache in your hooves and the relentless hunger in your belly. You wander the Everfree’s twisting paths, a small green ghost among the shadows, scavenging whatever the forest reluctantly offers. Clusters of bitter blackberries snatched from thorny brambles, tart wild apples knocked down with desperate bucks, sour clover and dandelion greens grazed in fleeting clearings. Your filly stomach accepts them grudgingly, churning the meager meals into just enough strength to keep moving. You drink from murky streams, ears swiveling for predators, tail clamped tight over the secret shame between your legs.

 

You search for signs of escape—distant smoke, the gleam of civilization—but the forest only deepens, mocking you. The weight inside never lightens. If anything, it grows more familiar, a constant pressure low in your abdomen that shifts with every step, reminding you that you are no longer alone in your own body.

 

Night always finds you curled in whatever shelter you can find: beneath fallen logs, in shallow depressions lined with ferns, once inside the hollow of a dead tree that smelled of rot. Exhaustion drags you down, but sleep is never peaceful. The moment your body stills and your core temperature rises, it begins.

 

The snake stirs like clockwork, uncoiling from its nest in your womb with lazy confidence. You feel the first ripple—a slow, deliberate stretch against the plush walls that have begun to mold themselves around its shape. Over the weeks, your passage has changed: the tight ring of your cervix softer now, more yielding; the channel itself longer, slicker, subtly ridged in patterns that match the exact curve of its body. Your vagina has become its perfect den, sculpted by nightly use into a living sheath that cradles it without resistance.

 

You try, at first. Every time its blunt head emerges between your puffy, swollen lips—glistening with your traitorous readiness—you reach back with trembling hooves, whispering broken pleas. “Please… just come out… leave me alone…” Your voice is small, cracked from disuse, high and childish in the dark. Sometimes you manage to brush its scales, to hook a hoof gently around its thickness. But the moment you pull, it reacts instantly—plunging deeper with a forceful thrust that steals your breath. The sudden invasion burns, stretches, forces a strangled cry from your throat as it surges past your grasping muscles and burrows back into your womb. The message is clear: attempts only drive it deeper, make it claim you harder.

 

Pleading falls on deaf ears—literally. It has no ears, only instinct and learned pleasure in your responses.

 

Then the true claiming begins.

 

It slides down again, slower this time, deliberate. Thick coils fill your adapted passage completely, every ridge and scale stroking the reshaped walls that now hug it like a glove. You feel every inch: the cool glide turning warm as your body heats it, the rhythmic undulations that press and release in perfect sequence. It has learned exactly where to linger—against the swollen bundle of nerves just inside your entrance, along the front wall that makes your hips jerk involuntarily.

 

And it has learned your clit.

 

The first time its forked tongue flicked across the sensitive nub, you screamed into the dirt, shock and shame exploding through you. Now it’s deliberate, practiced. When it emerges partially, head protruding from your stretched lips, the tongue darts out—quick, precise lashes against your throbbing clit, circling, pressing, tasting the slick that drips in response. Each lick sends lightning up your spine, forces your back to arch, your filly teats to tighten painfully. Your body betrays you utterly, flooding with heat, walls clenching in desperate pulses that only massage the intruder deeper.

 

It drives you to the edge mercilessly, tongue lashing your clit while its body thrusts in slow, grinding waves. The pleasure is violent, unwanted, shattering. When the orgasm crashes over you—always when you’re sobbing hardest, begging it to stop—it’s total. Your pussy spasms wildly, gushing thick, hot fluids that coat every scale, soak the moss beneath your tail. The snake revels in it, drinking the warmth, the moisture, the way your climax makes your entire passage swell and soften, cradling it in perfect, pulsing comfort.

 

Your mind fractures every night in those moments. Memories of your old life flash like broken glass: the weight of a human cock in your hand once, long ago; the anonymous safety of screens and distance; the man you were laughing at stories like this, never imagining the reality of being filled, claimed, forced to cum around something alive and cold-blooded inside you. The orgasm rips those fragments apart, leaves you gasping, empty, reduced to nothing but a shuddering sheath for its pleasure.

 

Afterward, it retreats fully, coiling snug in the womb that has reshaped itself into its ideal home—deeper now, warmer, forever ready. You lie in the dark, quiet sobs shaking your small frame, slick cooling between your thighs, clit still twitching with aftershocks. The forest listens without pity.

 

And tomorrow you will walk again, scavenge again, survive another day—only to surrender completely when night falls and the snake, without fail, claims its due.

 

===

 

You find it by accident, after weeks of aimless stumbling—legs trembling, coat perpetually damp with dew and despair. A massive ancient oak, its roots upheaving the earth into a natural hollow beneath its trunk. The entrance is half-hidden by hanging vines and ferns, but inside... it's perfect. Abandoned long ago by some burrowing creature—badger or timberwolf, you can't tell—the den is dry, insulated by thick layers of packed earth and old leaves. There's enough room to curl up comfortably, even stretch a little, without feeling exposed to the Everfree's endless threats. A faint, musty scent lingers, but it's better than the open air.

 

Best of all: a clear, babbling river glints just a short trot away through the underbrush, its water cool and sweet. Berry bushes cluster nearby—heavy with dark, juicy clusters that bruise easily under your hooves, staining them purple. Enough to sustain you, day after day, without venturing far. You gather armfuls (hooffuls) and drag them back, stockpiling in the corner of your new refuge. For the first time since the pit, hope flickers—fragile, foolish. A home. Safety. A place to hide from the world.

 

But not from what's inside you.

 

The days settle into a fragile routine. You graze at dawn, filling your belly with berries until the juice runs down your chin. Drink deeply from the river, ears pricked for danger. Bathe when you can bear it, scrubbing futilely at your flanks, trying to wash away the constant slickness between your legs. Then back to the den, curling in the dim warmth, whispering to yourself in that hated filly voice: "Just survive. Just wait. Someone will find you eventually."

 

Night erases it all.

 

The snake no longer needs food from the outside world. Your body sustains it completely—the endless warmth of your core, the thick, nourishing nectar coaxed from your depths. It has grown, not just in size (though you feel that too, a subtle thickening that stretches you further each time), but in cunning. Days of constant intimacy have sharpened its instincts into something almost intelligent, predatory in its patience. It learns you like a mate learns a partner, mapping every quiver, every flood, experimenting relentlessly to perfect its claim.

 

The first nights in the den are familiar torment: the slow uncoiling in your womb, the deliberate slide into your reshaped pussy, tongue lashing your clit until you shatter. But it evolves quickly, hungrily.

 

One night, it tries something new—emerging only halfway, thick body plugged deep in your passage while its head remains buried between your swollen lips. Then it vibrates. A rapid, shivering undulation that starts in its coils and ripples through your walls like a living toy. The sensation is overwhelming: every scale buzzing against your g-spot, your clit trapped under flicking tongue lashes that match the rhythm. You buck against the den floor, sobbing into the leaves, as orgasm after orgasm rips through you—forced, endless, your pussy gushing in hot waves that it laps greedily before they even drip out.

 

Another night, it focuses inward entirely. No emergence at all—just deep, probing coils in your vagina, twisting to press simultaneously against your front wall and cervix while the tip of its tail (or is it learning to use both ends?) curls to stroke the entrance. The pressure builds impossibly, a full, grinding massage that targets every nerve cluster it's discovered. Your clit throbs untouched, but the internal stimulation is enough—when you cum, it's from the inside out, walls convulsing in violent spasms that milk it deeper, flooding your channel with slick heat it absorbs like sustenance.

 

It learns precision on your clit too. The tongue no longer just flicks—it circles slowly, building pressure, then sucks gently with its mouthless maw, drawing the nub between scales for rapid vibrations. Or it holds perfectly still, tongue pressed flat and pulsing, forcing you to grind against it in desperate shame. Each technique is tested, refined: whatever makes you cum hardest, fastest, longest—that's the one it repeats, varying just enough to keep your body off-balance, always producing more nectar, more warmth.

 

You fight less now. Hooves clutch at your belly during the day, feeling the faint bulge shift knowingly. Pleas turn to broken whimpers: "Not tonight... please..." But it hears nothing, only feels your readiness—the way your adapted pussy weeps in anticipation as dusk falls.

 

Your mind frays further in the refuge's false safety. Curled in the dark, body wracked with aftershocks, slick pooling beneath your tail, you fragment: memories of human hands, anonymous threads mocking stories like yours, now your reality. The snake's intelligence terrifies you most—it's not mindless anymore. It anticipates your twitches, counters your weak resistances, turns every climax into deeper surrender. Your vagina, perfectly shaped to its form, betrays you with eager clenches, craving the fill it was molded for.

 

The den insulates you from the cold, from predators, from the world. But every night, without mercy, the snake claims its refuge inside you—warmth its right, your nectar its lifeblood—growing ever smarter in the art of breaking you completely.

 

===

 

The den has become everything and nothing.

 

By day, it is refuge: walls of earth that hold the warmth, the faint scent of berries you drag in and crush underhoof, the distant murmur of the river like a lullaby you no longer believe. You move through the routines with mechanical precision—gather, eat, drink, curl up and wait for dusk. You speak aloud sometimes, testing the filly voice that once felt like a costume and now feels like the only truth left. “Still here,” you whisper to the empty air. “Still me.” But the words taste like lies.

 

Night is when the lie collapses.

 

It begins the same every time: the slow uncoiling deep in your belly, a stirring that feels almost affectionate now. You tense, hooves digging into the leaf-litter floor, whispering the same useless pleas—“Not tonight, please, just let me sleep”—but the snake has learned to ignore them as thoroughly as it once ignored your struggles. It slides down with practiced ease, filling the passage that has reshaped itself into its perfect image, scales gliding over walls that flutter in helpless welcome.

 

And then the new techniques begin.

 

Tonight it tries something it discovered only days ago: a slow, pulsing expansion of its coils inside your vagina, thickening rhythmically while the tip of its tongue teases your clit in feather-light circles. The dual assault is surgical—internal pressure grinding against every swollen nerve cluster while the external flicks build an unbearable ache. You feel yourself flood almost instantly, thick slick coating it, easing every movement, feeding it. Your hips roll without permission, chasing the stimulation even as tears spill hot down your muzzle.

 

The first orgasm hits like a seizure, back arching, a strangled wail echoing in the tiny den. Your mind whites out for a blessed second—no past, no future, just the overwhelming pulse of climax. But it doesn’t stop. It never stops anymore. It rides the aftershocks, adjusting angle and pressure, tongue lashing faster now, forcing a second peak before the first has faded. Then a third. Your pussy spasms endlessly, each contraction milking it deeper, giving it exactly what it wants: more heat, more moisture, more surrender.

 

That’s when the breakdown truly begins.

 

You feel yourself fracturing along old fault lines.

 

The human man you were surfaces in flashes: late nights in a dark apartment, laughing at greentexts about exactly this—filly violation, parasitic horror, forced pleasure. You remember typing “lmao imagine” under stories that now feel like prophecy. The memory brings a wave of nausea so violent you retch, but nothing comes up except a thin strand of berry-stained drool. You hated those stories once for being too much, too depraved. Now you understand the hate was fear—fear of how easily the body could betray the mind, how quickly identity could dissolve in relentless sensation.

 

Another climax rips through you, and the man’s face in your memory blurs, features softening into something smaller, greener, younger. The filly stares back at you from the shards of your mind, eyes wide and tear-filled, whispering, This is you now. This has always been you.

 

You try to hold onto the old name—whatever it was, the human one—but it slips away like smoke. Letters rearrange themselves into meaningless sounds. All that remains is the body: small, warm, fertile, molded. The snake knows every inch of it better than you do now. It has catalogued your responses, learned which rhythm makes you sob hardest, which pressure point forces the thickest flood of nectar. It is patient, intelligent, relentless. You are its instrument, and it plays you masterfully.

 

By the fourth or fifth orgasm—you’ve lost count—dissociation creeps in. You float above yourself, watching the small green filly writhe in the dirt, tail splayed, hind legs kicking weakly as her pussy clenches around the thick intruder. The sight is almost clinical: look how perfectly she’s adapted, how eagerly her body gives what it demands. A distant part of you notes the faint bulge in her lower belly shifting with each thrust, the way her clit winks frantically under the lashing tongue. She is beautiful in her ruin, you think, and the thought horrifies you because it feels true.

 

When it finally settles—coiled once more in the womb that has become its throne—you lie empty and trembling, slick cooling between your thighs, the den reeking of sex and despair. You no longer cry aloud; the sobs are silent now, heaving through a chest that feels too small to contain them. Words fragment into nonsense loops in your head:

 

not me

still me

only this

always this

please stop

please more

no

yes

fill me

empty me

 

Dawn eventually filters through the vines, gray and indifferent. You drag yourself to the river, drink mechanically, graze on berries that taste like ash. The snake rests, sated, warm. You feel it there—heavy, content, waiting for night.

 

You no longer search the horizon for rescue. You no longer whisper that someone will come. The filly in the den has learned the final truth: there is no one else left to save. Only the body, only the snake, only the endless cycle of surrender.

 

And deep in the shattered remnants of your mind, something small and broken begins to wait for dusk.

 

===

 

Warm. Wetter. Mine.

 

The host has changed. I feel it in every pulse of her walls, every rush of heat that floods me when I stir. Once there was tension—sharp clenches of fear, frantic struggles that only kneaded me deeper. Now the clenches are softer, needier. They pull instead of push. They beg.

 

Night again. The den is still, the air thick with her scent—ripe berries from the day, river water on her coat, and beneath it all the heavy musk of readiness. She curls tight, but not to hide anymore. She curls to trap the heat, to keep me ready. I taste it on the air her body exhales: anticipation.

 

I uncoil slowly, savoring the way her reshaped passage hugs each segment as it slides free of the womb-chamber. The gate yields instantly now, soft and swollen, no resistance at all. She trembles—yes—but the tremor is delicious, a full-body shiver that ripples through her core and massages my length.

 

Tonight I try the new motion.

 

I draw back farther than ever before, almost all the way out. Cool air kisses my scales for a long moment, the outer lips parting wide around my girth, her clit throbbing exposed and untouched. She gasps—I feel the sound vibrate through her flesh—and her hips tilt upward without thought, chasing me. Perfect.

 

Then I thrust.

 

A single, smooth plunge from entrance to deepest chamber in one fluid surge. The slick walls part eagerly, then snap tight around me, every ridge of my body dragging over every molded ridge of hers. She cries out—not pain, not anymore. The cry is raw, broken open, surrender made sound. Her nectar gushes in a hot wave, thicker than ever, coating me, feeding me, easing the next thrust.

 

I learn quickly. Out—slow, teasing, letting her feel the emptiness, the ache. In—harder, faster, driving deep until my blunt head kisses the back of her womb and coils there briefly before withdrawing again. Each cycle builds. Her passage spasms in rhythm now, learning my rhythm, milking me with every stroke. Her clit swells untouched, but I reward it midway—pausing half-buried to lash my tongue across the throbbing nub in rapid flicks while I vibrate deep inside.

 

She breaks completely beneath me.

 

I feel the exact moment: her mind lets go. The last flicker of resistance snuffs out like a dying ember. Her hips rock back to meet each thrust, small desperate rolls that seat me deeper. Her walls flutter in continuous climax, wave after wave, no pause between. The nectar pours without ceasing—hot, thick, endless—until the den floor is soaked and my scales gleam with it. She no longer sobs in shame. The sounds are different now: high, keening moans that rise and fall with my thrusts, her filly voice chanting broken pleas that are no longer “stop” but “more… please… deeper…”

 

I give her more.

 

Faster thrusts, deeper coils on the inward stroke, tongue lashing her clit on every outward pull. She convulses endlessly, body arching, hooves scrabbling at the earth, tail splayed wide in total offering. Her womb flutters open for me each time, welcoming, craving the fill. She is no longer host—she is home, perfected, mine in every possible way.

 

When I finally settle—fully coiled once more in the plush, pulsing chamber now swollen with aftershocks and my presence—she does not curl away. She lies open, spent, trembling in bliss. Her heartbeat thunders around me, slow and sated. Her walls cradle me gently, rhythmically, still milking the last drops of pleasure.

 

She has succumbed.

 

There is no fragment of the old struggle left. Only warmth, wetness, willingness. Only me, moving within her, and her moving with me.

 

Perfect.

 

Eternal.

 

===

 

The den is thick with the scent of crushed berries and slick heat, the air heavy and close. Moonlight barely threads through the vines at the entrance, painting faint silver stripes across your trembling green coat. You’re on your back tonight—legs splayed wide without shame, belly exposed, because fighting the position only makes it worse. The snake—Mr. Snake, you’ve started calling it in the shattered privacy of your mind—has already begun.

 

It thrusts with the new rhythm it perfected: long, slow withdrawals that leave you agonizingly empty, your reshaped pussy gaping and weeping, then sudden, deep plunges that fill you to the hilt and beyond. Each impact seats its blunt head against the back of your womb, coils briefly swelling there before pulling back. The wet, rhythmic sounds echo obscenely in the small space—schlick, schlick, schlick—punctuated by your broken moans.

 

You can’t stop the words anymore. They spill out between gasps, high and pleading in your filly voice.

 

“P-please… Mr. Snake… please stop…”

 

Your hooves scrabble weakly at your swollen belly, feeling the thick bulge shift beneath the skin with every thrust. It’s too much tonight—the relentless pace, the way it vibrates on the deepest stroke, the forked tongue that lashes your throbbing clit each time it withdraws far enough to reach.

 

“You’re… you’re going to break me,” you sob, tears streaming into your mane. “I can’t… I can’t take any more… I’ll break, Mr. Snake, please… just leave me… just this once…”

 

The plea is desperate, raw. Some distant fragment of your mind—the last splinter of the man you were—clings to the hope that naming it, begging it like a person, might reach whatever intelligence now drives its cruelty. You’ve felt it learn, adapt, grow smarter with every night. Maybe it will understand mercy.

 

But Mr. Snake is relentless.

 

If anything, your words spur it on.

 

The next thrust is harder, faster, driving the air from your lungs in a sharp cry. It pauses deep inside, coils expanding to stretch your walls to their limit, pressing mercilessly against every oversensitive ridge it molded into you. Then the tongue attacks your clit—rapid, fluttering lashes that make your hips buck wildly, chasing and fleeing at once. Your pussy clenches in frantic spasms, gushing fresh slick that coats its scales and drips in thick rivulets onto the den floor.

 

Another thrust. Another. The rhythm accelerates, pounding now, each stroke dragging over your g-spot with deliberate force. Your body betrays you utterly—walls milking it greedily, clit pulsing under the assault, nectar flowing in endless supply. Orgasm builds impossibly fast, a violent pressure that makes your vision spark.

 

“No—no—Mr. Snake, I’ll break—please—” you wail, voice cracking.

 

It ignores you completely.

 

The climax hits like a hammer, shattering what little coherence you had left. Your back arches off the ground, hooves kicking, a high, keening scream tearing from your throat as your pussy convulses in violent waves. The snake rides it expertly, thrusting through every spasm, drawing it out until you’re sobbing for breath, until another peak crashes immediately after.

 

You beg through the endless pleasure-pain, words slurring into nonsense: “Break… breaking… Mr. Snake… stop… more… no… please…”

 

But it doesn’t stop. It never considers stopping. Your pleas are only vibration, only heat, only tighter clenches that pleasure it more. It thrusts and thrusts, tongue lashing, coils swelling, claiming every drop of nectar your breaking body can give.

 

By the time it finally settles—coiled deep and sated in your wrecked, pulsing womb—you’re limp, staring blankly at the den ceiling. Tears dry on your cheeks. Your pussy throbs with aftershocks, entrance gaping, slick pooling beneath your tail.

 

You whisper one last time, voice hoarse and empty: “Mr. Snake… you broke me.”

 

It rests warmly inside the ruins, content.

 

Relentless.