A Stray Snowball

Luis Walker
8 min readJun 18, 2023
Title card: a ball of white fur in a field of dry grass, beside the story name and details: “A Stray Snowball. Features: fatball. Content: male/male.”

I tell ya, you never know what a new day’s gonna bring ya, not even if yer life’s the same day in and day out. The world just finds a way to throw new stuff at ya.

My favorite day like that happened not too long ago. I’m not too long out of school here — Pa’s still callin’ me College Boy — and I’m still on the ‘farm’ doin’ odd jobs for the family, mostly paperwork. (Pa always calls it the farm even though he never touched neither livestock nor agriculture. He just wanted a house in the country, and this one just happened to have a big red barn on the premises.)

Anyways, we were drivin’ back from Parsons’ with the weekly groceries, about fifteen minutes out and the town no longer in view, when I caught sight of what looked like a big ol’ snowball rolled up by the side of the road.

O’ course it was the warm side of May already; there wouldn’t be any snowballs this time of year. I asked Pa to pull over, and we hopped out to investigate.

As I thought, the ‘snowball’ was no snow. What we had before us was a big waist-high mound of somethin’ covered in pure white fur.

“Oh,” Pa said. “One of those.”

“Whatcha mean, Pa?”

He shook his head, no doubt runnin’ the usual rant in his head about ‘Didn’t They Teach You Nothin’ At That School, College Boy.’ You know the one.

But he only let out a sigh and started climbin’ back into the truck. He started runnin’ it, so I had to jump in as well.

“It’s one o’ them…fatballs.”

He spat out the word with the kind of contempt he generally reserved for the mythical blue-furred Millennial he thought still haunted college campuses. He saw my blank look though, and went on:

“People who give up being people, give up life an’ limb to be freak sex toys for other freaks.”

It sounded like one of those urban legends, but he was actually pretty mad about it, so I just said ‘mm’, turned on the radio, and paid the strange ball of fur no further mind.

The next day though, I was driving back into town to fetch a parcel from the post office, and it was still there — a good deal closer to the road than last time. I worried it might end up in the street and get run over; pervert or no, nobody deserved that, so I pulled up alongside to see if I could give it a roll in a safer direction.

The mound of fur didn’t seem to respond to my approach, and I worried if it were okay to move it. No sense tryin’ to save a thing from one ill only to lose it to another. I’d forgotten to learn about people like this the night before, and the weight of my ignorance prompted me to pull out my phone.

Fatballs. The search engine was useless; half porn sites, half shopping. Fatballs wiki, I tried. First result was a fan site, some kind of catalogue of favorites. The second was actual Wikipedia:

Fatball modification is a magical[1] procedure whereby a person’s head, tail, and other limbs are removed or absorbed, and their bones extracted or dissolved, leaving only a softened torso[2][3]. In most patients who choose the procedure, the remaining mass is mostly fat, either from their prior life or post-conversion feeding.[4]

There was a photo of a round ball of tiger-striped fur.

Almost all[5][6][7][note 1] fatball modifications are pursued as part of a fetish lifestyle, and as a class fatballs have won the right in most Western countries to be treated as objects, surrendering the right of usufruct to their owners. Exceptions, such as fatballs confirmed converted by rogue practitioners, are marked with a tattoo or sure-dye on their topside as well as at every orifice.

There was a world map where countries and territories were labeled different colors for the status of unmarked fatballs: “property with usufruct surrendered”, “property with usufruct and abusus surrendered”, “citizens, but procedure legal”, and “citizens and procedure illegal”. Illustrations of the franchise marks.

I looked over the ball of fur. It was — well, not *pure* white, after rollin’ in the dust and dirt these past few days, but it was definitely unmarked.

“I guess you’re mine now,” I said, touching its softness for the first time. “Finders keepers, they say.”

It was a good deal of effort to load my new Snowball onto the truck. I had the ramp, so I could just roll it in, but it must’ve weighed hundreds of pounds. The last time I’d seen a belly anywhere near this big was on one of my college math teachers, Mr. Cartmile, a gator who would sometimes fall asleep after giving his lecture. And he must’ve been at least 600 lbs by the way he moved; even with half its body gone, my Snowball could easily outweigh me by more than double.

Luckily Pa was out when I pulled up to the farmhouse — a note on the door said he’d gone to help the neighbors — so I didn’t have to worry about being seen while rolling the round body of the polar bear off the truck, through the front door, and all the way back to my bedroom.

The ball of fat looked a lot bigger here, indoors among my stuff, than it did out under the open sky.

Pa will kill me if he sees this.

I grabbed a spare blanket and covered my Snowball, making it look something like a big bean bag. If he asks, I’ll tell him my old roommate sent it to me.

And after a moment of considering it, I took a seat.

The fatball was soft and yielding under my rump — comfortable, even. For me, anyway. How must it feel?

I pulled out my phone to check my messages. At the top of the list: A new device has tried to connect.

‘Polarball.’ Didn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what that meant. Some fatballs, I’d read, were into the sensory deprivation that comes with having one’s head removed, but a lot of them took implants that let them go online.

I accepted the connection, was prompted to download the app, and I was in.

Welcome, $owner.

There was a setup button, which came with a prewritten note from my new fatball:

Hello.
I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.
You and me won’t meet as people; I wanted to be, as much as possible, an object to be owned.
I give you the gift of my body, and I hope you enjoy it.

An illegible signature was below.

It didn’t look like there was any way to access the mind inside; a lot of the possible options were grayed out. I did rename it though — unoriginal as it was, it was already Snowball to me.

I wondered whether my Snowball would know its new name, or if its will had been to keep it oblivious. If it wants to be an object, though, it probably doesn’t want me to think about its wishes.

So I didn’t. I sat on my nice comfortable Snowball and worked on job applications till Pa was ready for dinner.

I was antsy all through the evening, of course, both with the anticipation of alone time with my new toy, and with fear that Pa would find out. If I’d had to hold up conversation myself, I’m sure I would’ve given myself away, but lucky for me Pa was otherwise occupied. All through dinner he was grumbling about spending most of the day tracking down a wild hog that one of Mrs. K’s grandkids had let out of their pens, and I let him go on, and then he said he needed to unwind, so he went off to watch a game and I went back to my room to give him some peace.

I tried not to think about Snowball — it wouldn’t be safe to play with till Pa was asleep — but I was tenting my shorts anyway. That I could feel this way about something so soon after hearing about them for the first time was a bit of a surprise. Sure, I’d enjoyed a lot of porn in college, but I never thought I’d be into anything kinky.

And now here I was, ready to sink my dick into a living ball of fat, an object that had once been a person. That still had a person inside, really.

Someone that wanted to be a sex object, to surrender any other option other than to be used by whoever wanted to get off… Hole worn out? Too bad. Dick too big? Too bad. Your new owner fresh out of college and too inexperienced to be any good at sex? Oh well…

I might’ve started worrying then, but I broke it down: either I accepted the framing, and this was my toy, and that was that…

Or Pa was right, and this was just a perv and a slut who deserved everything he got.

Either way, I’d be unloading in that hole tonight.

I couldn’t help it; I was stroking myself, eager to get off. Waiting, listening —

Pa’s steps came down the hall. I pulled my paw from my pants and pretended to be studying when he came by the door.

“Gonna turn in for the night. Sleep well, son.”

“Good night, Pa.”

Step, step, step step…click.

Silence for a while.

I stroked my cock through my pants, cautious, waiting…

Then came the heavy snoring of a big badger man.

Quietly I moved to the door, shut and locked it, and tore off all my clothes.

I was still scared to pull the blanket off my Snowball. If Pa woke up, I’d have a lot more explaining to do if I was humping something that was visibly the fatball he’d seen in the street. So I pulled a corner back and felt around for its hole.

Warmth and softness yielded to my fingers.

Huff.

I grabbed a tub of pawing lube from my bag and greased up a couple fingers with it so I could test the former bear’s hole for depth and readiness.

Regardless of how long it must’ve been for it, however long it’d been lying in the street, my fingers sank in easily. When they bottomed out, the fatball’s ring squeezed them encouragingly — letting me know, for the first time, that it knew I was there.

I straddled the ball of soft fur buried under the blanket and lined up my shaft, greasing it up before plunging the whole of it in.

I trembled at how good it felt, taking as much of the fatball in my arms as I could and squeezing it to me, rolling over with it as I humped in, the musky scent of sex enveloping us, bear and badger, ass and grease lube. I tried to keep quiet in my worry of waking Pa, but it really was too intense to hold back; I could only pray he was sleeping sound tonight.

And then the fatball climaxed. There was no outward sign — no limbs to tense up, no cries of pleasure, no release of cum — but my cock buried deep in its hole felt it, the fluttering of pulsing muscle all down my length as my thrusts pushed it over the edge.

But that was just my toy. I wasn’t done yet.

I rolled over on top of the ex-bear, slamming in with my weight as I got myself close, gasping as my ball of fat sloshed under me, each movement bringing more of that sweet soft hole before finally I pushed in hard, balls tight and unloading the first of what I hoped would be many loads into my new toy.

And I just lay there, on its softness, sleepy and recovering my breath, till I figured I should be getting ready for bed.

I pulled my softening cock out of the toy, pulled the blanket back into place covering it, and crashed hard for the night.

Find me elsewhere: linktr.ee/muskwalker

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Luis Walker

I write kinky erotica involving fat gay furries. I might have some opinions too. Writing Twitter: https://twitter.com/muskwriter