Dear reader, this is a work of erotic adventure fiction, containing furry, anthropomorphic animals with human intelligence having sex with our human hero. If this isn't for you, please read one of my other stories.
All characters, furry or otherwise, are over eighteen.
This chapter introduces us to a parallel world that seems idyllic at first.
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Tom led with his eyes shut as came to his senses. His head hurt. This alcohol-free hangover was just like an alcohol-induced one, so bad that you're afraid to move as you know it will hurt.
What the fuck happened?
He tried to remember what led up to last night's events.
His ex had screwed him over BIG time. He failed university spending time and money on her, so had dropped out after failing his third year. She got him a job working for her father, for him to find out later that he wasn't being paid the same as his co-workers.
Now he had nothing to his name except his tent and what was in his rucksack. Thank goodness he had avoided a shared bank account. Although she had begged him to share his money, "Because, he worked for her father." She had argued many times.
When he tried to save money, she'd gotten bored and preferred his best mate. He didn't know how long they'd deceived him, but once he'd caught them, it deteriorated fast. She left Tom to move in with his mate the same day because he had a car and earned more.
Then Tom lost the apartment. "There's no need for it to be in both our names," she had also said. Then her father mysteriously decided he needed to downsize his successful business, with only Tom losing his job. There was no way he was going to return to living with his elderly parents.
He had only meant to walk for a few days, to clear his head. That was weeks ago. Without the pressure of work or targets to achieve, he found the peace and tranquillity rewarding. As a result, once he reached the coast, he continued to follow it, wild camping, with the odd night in a campsite, to shower and shave.
He had met a few other walkers along the way. One pair of gorgeous female students were promising company, but they preferred each other.
Last night like every other night he found an isolated spot, off the coastal path, away from the cliff's edge. He'd pitched his small tent, one of the few things remaining from his failed relationship with that ex-bitch. Then overnight without warning, driving rain and a howling wind had blown up, causing the tent to flap and twist wildly.
But now, this morning led in his tent with his head aching badly he didn't want to move. He opened one eye to see that the tent had collapsed around him. The tent was warm and bathed in bright sunlight, which was encouraging. He opened the other eye, confirming the tent was down. He lifted his arms to raise the tent enough to find the zip and then tried to slide over, whilst still in his sleeping bag.
'Whaaaat?'
He wasn't on hard ground any more. The floor of the tent wasn't supporting his weight. His bum dropped into a growing hollow beneath him, now sat on what felt like a patch of sticks poking at the sewn-in groundsheet. The same happened as soon as he leaned on his hands or elbows. He unzipped himself out of his sleeping bag as the ground beneath him was collapsing. He slid over to where the door should be to find the zip.
He leaned forward as he slid the zip open. The floor collapsed again, and he fell out, rather than crawled out of his tent, straight into a bush. After a small fight with thorns and branches, he stood to find himself in a thicket of bushes. Standing in his socks and boxers, looking at his tent perched on the top of the thicket of bushes.
"Whaaaaat?" He exclaimed. Where was the clearing from last night? That wind couldn't have blown the tent clear off the ground. Could it? With his head hurting as much as it was, he must have hit something when the tent flying around in the air. At least his head distracted him from his sore socked feet. His exit from his tent scratched his feet after being stabbed at by sticks and thorns. His feet were sore and still had a few thorns stuck in them.
He leaned back into his tent and dug out his boots. Then in an awkward balancing act, lifted the sorest of his feet and slipped his sock off, locating and removing each thorn. Now and then having to place the foot down on top of a boot to balance and avoid catching more thorns. He then cleaned one sock free from debris and more thorns. Replacing his sock and slipping on a boot, he could now stand on one leg, thorn free.
He then repeated the dance with his other foot, still not quite rocking the one-legged crane-like antics in his boxers. Finally, standing in both boots, he could gather his tent. He wrapped it up with belongings inside, into a huge loose tent ball. He held it over his head and climbed out of the bush thicket onto what should be a wide-open path that was there last night. But today it was a narrow path through the deep undergrowth.
He walked along the path until clear of the undergrowth to unravel his balled up tent at a wide flat grassy area, shaking it empty of his belongings. But he couldn't find his phone or watch. He double-checked the inside tent pockets where he would place them overnight, but all the pockets were empty.
He hoped there wouldn't be any walkers passing by this morning to see him, with wild camping being frowned upon. He'd been caught by disapproving walkers before whilst packing his tent away and standing in his boxers would give them something extra to tut about.
Whilst tanned, Tom's legs were lily-white above his knees. He didn't have an inch of fat on him after many weeks of walking. His blond beard and hair now direly needed trimming and was no tidier than the bush he had fallen into. This all added up to make him feel silly stood his full 5-foot 10-inch height in his grubby boxers and boots. So he pulled his baggy shorts up over his boots and slipped on a T-shirt.
He had left his camp stove and billy tin outside the tent last night to cool after heating a tiny meat pie. He walked a short distance, hunting up and down. But there was no evidence of last night's camping spot, no stove, no clearing, not even a flattened grass rectangle to show where he'd pitched his tent.
He ate what scraps he had left, crisps, cheese and something for his headache washed down with water. He packed everything into his rucksack and rolled his tent up, strapping it to his rucksack.
Ignoring his sore head, Tom Looking around and pondered on the day. The sea looked calm, with a light breeze and some clouds in the sky, but nothing hinting at the storm last night. Everything was very much like yesterday morning.
Whilst it looked familiar to where he camped last night, things didn't look or feel quite the same, but Tom put that down to his headache. Oh well, there is a cove a mile or two up ahead, with a village and pub, he'll feel better after some pub grub.
Tom lifting his rucksack onto his shoulders walked onwards, hoping the fresh air would clear his head a little. After a while, he came to a spur of land and a breeze brought the hint of a sweet aroma to his nose. Not an overpowering odour. Like a freshly baked pie's steaming aroma pulling a cartoon character along, it encouraged him onwards to round the bend in the path.
Walking around the spur, he began to feel a little light-headed. Ahead of him lower down he saw a row of cottages overlooking the path and cliffs, a cove extending out beyond, tucking inshore to a few houses. The land curved down and around onto a beach and then turned back out to sea, returning to high cliffs. The scene created a picture-perfect view of a Cornish fishing village, very twee, almost a postcard or biscuit tin lid image.
