FSE

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For some, one of the most frightening, exhilarating, and defining moments dawn when they first set foot onto a stage or a sports field.

In my case, it was a porn store.

Last semester, by accident I'd watched a couple having sex. It had been... hot. Ever since then, porn just couldn't hold water to the sensory buffet I had witnessed. I wanted more. After having seen that, I was so hungry for the touch of another, to be acknowledged and desired as a real woman, to see and experience. My usual avenues of release - the internet, my vibrators - had become a placebo.

But when you look like a nun-in-training with all the curves of a twelve year old, the boys don't come. This may sound a little harsh on the male persuasion, but I think that a girl walking up to a guy, taking the assertive role in the conversation and flirtation could feel threatening to his masculinity. So it's better to wait for him to come to you, be bait to lure them in. And I'm horrible bait; short little mouse, small breasts, narrow hips, scrawny.

Or maybe I'm just creating an excuse because initiating and holding a conversation, relating to another, is about as comfortable for me as a chicken at a fox convention. Either way, I end up with no males.

Initially I was able to deny the flame that my peepshow had ignited. That ignoring lasted for a few weeks, before frustration drove me onwards. I needed some kind of release. With the aggravation of no satisfaction, I was left day dreaming more and more about sex, fantasizing in class. Not only that but I was depressed. Something had to be done.

I found the listing of an adult theater on the other side of the city. Dressing as a boy (it's not that hard) so no one would recognize me, I would sit in at the theater and watch guys jerk off. The smells of male musk and then the inevitable orgasmic fluids, the muted sounds of their paws slapping the hardened flesh, put to the backdrop of the scene on screen helped me recapture that feeling of my first voyeuristic experience. Most of the guys didn't know I was spying, but a few caught my eye, and the fact they knew I was watching made me squirm all the more. It made me think my presence excited them, more than the movie, and one or two almost 'performed' in the way they worked themselves.

Going out to watch also kept my roommate off my back. Under the pretenses of turning me into a social creature, she had dragged me to the party where I saw the pair screwing. Now that I was getting out (and coming home smelling faintly of horny guys), I was free from her urgings of getting a life beyond school and my laptop. It was replaced by her hunger for details I was too embarrassed to share.

It was all going fine at first. I was satisfied, got my homework done, and then the semester ended. I went back home.

There in lies the problem: no porn theater at home. It wasn't an "everybody knows your name" small town, but the population hadn't been big enough to provide an economic base for a smut theater before the creation of tapes.

After two months, I was climbing the walls.

As I had done when I needed a dildo, companionship and fantasies, and doing homework, I went to the internet. There, I found an option. Saying it was bad was an understatement, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Desperate measures usually mean shameful acts.

An hour out of town was a more industrial city, and while they also lacked a mature theater, there was one thing I had never visited: an adult bookstore. Near the corner of a sad little strip mall, nestled between a liquor store and a dilapidated convenience stop sat the Bachelor's Library. The almost witty name didn't quite match up with the drab brown exterior, dank orange light from a lamp across the street cast a highlighting glow over the peeling paint. Bold black words on a garish yellow sign proclaimed "Movie Rentals and Adult Novelties" and another below that, the same aggressive font on glaring green demanded "$.25 Video Booths". The rest of the store front was too busy with posters of videos or books artfully chopped so that anything overtly dirty was overlapped by the next, leaving you with a collage of haughty, hungry faces and suggestive poses staring out at you.

A dozen or so cars ringed the parking lot, and a quartet of guys were hanging around the curb at the liquor store, talking and laughing with enough enthusiasm I could hear them when I drove past. I pulled into one of the weather-worn parking spaces left in front of a barren lot down the street.

Even with the miniscule chance I'd see someone who might have known me, I didn't want to be recognized. Over a pair of sweatpants and sneakers, I'd thrown on a hoodie big enough to turn what little breasts I had into a fully androgynous figure, a ball cap hid my dark hair, and sunglasses took emphasis off my delicate facial features. I nearly tripped over the curb stepping up to the store; maybe the sunglasses were a little overkill.

While part of me had worried about looking like a thief or a creep, once I stepped past the threshold and took a gauge at who had gathered within, there wasn't much to worry about. A fat badger sat behind a counter crowded with mini-lube bottles and a hookup bulletin board, watching the row of security cameras above his little area; likely keeping an eye on the glassy-eyed tom-cat in a long coat shuffling through the DVD aisles. Two otter boys, dressed like they'd been hit by the hot-pants and fishnet truck, looked too intently at the toy section, touching everything while whispered huskily to each other. Cigar smoke and whiskey clung to the graying hare appraising the shemale magazine section like an art critic.

The lighting, dusty florescent tubes on their last legs, left long shadows and a dull haze over the patrons and racks of movie cases with contorted bodies organized in every filthy topic imaginable, giving a wet dream-like quality to the place. While I'm sure the owner did his best to keep it clean, it smelled like a locker room. Musk from the aroused must have seeped into the very wallpaper.

By way of a snuffle, the clerk acknowledged me and went back to looking bored. I avoided eye contact and scurried into the store proper, drifting up the aisles, barely looking at anything. I'd been familiar at a glance with most of this stuff, so nothing really shocked me (except maybe the babyfur video in the Fetish section). Porn had never really held my attention - too graphic, too boring. I had paid attention to my toys, and steamy erotica. Though I did linger in the toy section once the two otters had moved on to gawking at the rack of gay movies.

I wasn't there to buy. After about twenty minutes of browsing, I slinked up to the counter, stared at the badger's chin, and said as easily and gender-neutral as possible, "I want to see the video booths."

"Five dollahs," he grunted.

It took a little will power not to wince. Among other things, I was frugal with money, but with resignation, I coughed up a bill and he passed me a token.

Against the back wall of the DVD area, over a door hung a sign with burnt-out little lights surrounding it proclaimed "Adult Arcade". Bolted into the floor, a turn-stile, like one would find at an amusement park, guarded the door. I slipped my token into the slot and walked through, then winced at the squeal of ancient gears. Every eye was palpable on my back as I went into the booth area.

Where the store proper had been seedy, the back area was downright sordid. Aside from the illumination filtering in from the front and dingy track lighting over the floor, near-tangible murk hung in the air. With the light so close to the linoleum floor, I could see the shine off of it like the bottom of a movie theater, and my shoes rasped as the soles partially stuck with every step. Cracks running up the paint faded from black to some nasty oil stain. The locker room smell had upgraded to a used condom. About six booths, like sturdy bathroom stalls, lined the room on either side. One was apparently active because out trickled the muffled sounds of bad porn music and vocalized grunts, peppered with a fleshy shuffling fap I'd became all too familiar with at the adult theater.

Just being in the back room gave my fingers a grimy feeling. Yet I didn't hesitate, pushing forward and slinking into the booth next to the occupied one. The dark interior was some hybrid of a changing room and a photo booth. Cramped, a floor so crusted it made the hall look clean, there was room enough for a single person to sit on a bench across from a bolted-in monitor. Just beneath the screen, three fat dirty buttons sat beside a hungry quarter slot that glared up at me with a sideways frown.

Dumping a half-dozen quarters into the slot, I selected a movie - something sluts four I think. As the flick started up, a heady mixture of feminine arousal and the more subtle scents of a girl in estrus filtered in from a vent underneath the monitor. Probably an addition for canines - more scent based than visual. No wonder the place smells like used sheets.

I hadn't come to watch the show, at least not the one on screen. Between the console and the bench, about waist high, a hole had been crafted into the wall. Roughly the size of a horse's fist, it had been rimmed with the dull grey shine of duct tape, stains turning the reflective material a faded eggshell. Sliding off the bench, I sank down onto my knees, wincing at the feel of the floor on my sweats, and peered through the hole.

From the light off the screen, I could spy the sable black fur on the guy next to me. It wasn't a uniform coloration - along the interior of a cocked thigh and along his stomach, the fur had went into a creamy off-white. Judging from the fairly big, striped tail curling around his hip, my money was riding on skunk. Had I been able to smell him, I could have made a better guess but that was impossible over the pheromones and residual stink. Since his pants were around his ankles, I could see everything - even the working, desperate roll of his dainty paw over the fat, pink shaft between his fingers.

Clearing my throat, I stuck my finger through the hole and wiggled it.

The response was slow. At first he just stopped and sat there, then after a moment of deliberation, rolled onto his feet. Shifting right up to the hole, the pink length of flesh thrust itself through the gap.

A website had told me about the protocols for glory holes. You stick your finger into the hole to alert them of your interest to get them off, and they accommodate. While there was no telling if The Bachelor's Library had them, but I had taken a winning gamble.

Initially I just sat and marveled at his dick. It wasn't the most impressive; he lacked the length of any toy I owned, and not the girth of a porn star or larger species. Yet it was the first cock I'd ever been this close to, and I could see in the dim glow of the monitor his pre trickling from the slit, the way a vein or two stuck out against the otherwise smooth skin. Even through the artificial pheromones I could smell his masculinity. My breath whispered over the tip while I got a closer look.

Thoughts of how magnificent this modest shaft was were broken when the owner shook it at me, and I could hear the impatience in a breath on the other side of the thin barrier.

Fearing that he might get too exasperated and give up on me, I grabbed him by the base and gave a smooth, steady jerking slide of my paw over the length. The attention let me get a feel of the warm, throbbing skin. At first I squeezed, explored, then caressed up to the tip, letting the ring of my thumb and forefinger tug up against the back of his head. The faint gesture had milked a pearl of pre from his tip.

With a tentative snaking of my tongue's tip, the bead was quickly snatched up. I winced. It would appear that one has to get an acquired taste for cock, or he was foul one, because the taste tickling my tongue was funky; remnants of urine lingered, along with other more organic oddness. However, I was here to do this, and so I leaned forward, started to roll my tongue along the underside, slurping it in an almost canine fashion before directing my attention to trailing the tip up and down, swirling over the head. After a moment, I popped his glands between my lips and started to suck.

He let out a noise, something harsh and high.

Oh shit, teeth.

I'd dragged an incisor over the top. No buck tooth jokes, please. For a second the tip was inspected, then I deemed it okay; just a scare.

An apology and soothing peace offering came with licking and little kisses over the spot before I made a careful second try. Keeping jaws wide while lips tight, my muzzle eased forward and began a suction that left cheeks indented.

Giving head is hard work. There's a reason it's called a blowjob. Between managing your breathing, keeping teeth off the delicates, being receptive to your gag reflex and watching their reactions, there is barely enough focus and motor control to really work at the technique. It almost feels like juggling or driving a stick shift in heavy traffic. At first it was a challenge managing everything, but after a few minutes I started to get the hang of it.

This was my first time going down on someone. I do admit, though, to preparing for this; watching downloaded videos, experimenting, and testing my gag reflex on Bruce before coming out here. Seemingly, the skunk attached didn't seem to care how novice my technique and experience was - he was getting attention and that's all that mattered.

Still, what got to me was just how different he was compared to a latex toy: hot, a little more yielding, the texture smooth when not threaded through with a vein, and so sensitive - every shift of my mouth seemed to coax his hips into a wiggle, stirring him around between my lips. The scent coming off of him seemed tangible; a heady, pungent musk that, with my nose practically in his crotchfur, was more powerful than the scent-stain of the booth or the scents of sex from that bedroom last semester.

He started fucking my face. When he first pulled back until almost escaping, only to shove himself as far as he could go into my mouth, he startled me. Almost hit the gag reflex too. Then I eagerly obliged. Holding my head still, it gave my anonymous lover the opportunity to piston away while I focused just on sucking. I'd made sure he wouldn't pop free by catching the rim around his tip with my lips, offering an eager tugging at it and spinning my tongue around it before he'd slam forward again.

By then the heat between my thighs had began radiating. Both paws peeled my sweats down around my knees, and spreading wide, I attacked myself. Those thrusts into my face had really lit that fire, so wet from the wanton wickedness of it, just a place for him to pump. And the bastard stopped thrusting! Moaning in frustration, I planted a hand on the booth wall and started bobbing my head with more enthusiasm. Breath, puffing through my nostrils, steamed down the wet shaft as my fingers stirred, thumb assailing my clit in tandem to the pair of fingers desperately tugging inside of me.

Yet as I continued to toy with him, there was a nagging feeling that something was missing. Pulling off, my paw grabbed him and started a swift jerking, the slick spit leaving a lewd noise as my palm slid up and down the shaft in eager pumps. I looked around, realizing the porn had stopped in my booth.

The website detailing glory hole protocol had mentioned that proprietors usually don't care what you're doing in their booths as long as you keep the money flowing.

With reluctance I pulled my hand from between my legs and stirred around in the hand-pocket of my hoodie. Ever try to pick up change with slick fingers? Not easy. Neither is trying to feed quarters with your off-hand while keeping up a steady hand job.

By the time I had selected a flick by just slapping a button enough times, my partner was panting quick. Hurriedly I dived down, wrapping my lips about his tip to siphon in earnest.

"Here it comes, here it comes," he strained through the flimsy wall.

Even with the warning I hadn't been properly prepared. A thick glob of gunk shot right into the back of my throat, followed rapidly by a second that ended up on the tip of my tongue. I coughed and gagged. I'd nearly choked on the initial shot, but what had me flinching was his taste; not just the salty sourness you hear most girls complain about, this was downright putrid.

Sputtering, I jerked my head back - right into the line of fire. Thick, viscous globs of white sludge splattered over my muzzle, felt hot and weighty over whiskers and cheeks. I saw a jet or two spurt from him just before my glasses were painted with an errant shot. By the time he was done, a ropey strand dangled from the brim of my hat, bouncing as it grew longer, eventually smacking against my nose.

I sat there, dripping, staring over my splattered glasses through the hole as the skunk sat back on his bench to huff and puff. Glancing around, I dully realized there was nothing to wipe this off with, and I dare not lick myself clean; the stuff not only tasted bad, but it reeked.

Without so much as a word he stood, buckled his pants, and walked out. I was left on my knees, nasty cum staining my fur, feeling used, tossed aside, and trembling with utter excitement.

Sullenly I masturbated. It just seemed to make the heat last longer. While it felt like ages, I didn't have long to wait. Someone walked into a booth across the room and started their monitor up.

Quickly I leaped from my booth into the one adjacent to the new arrival. Quarters in the machine - enough to not interrupt - and I was on my knees again, fingering the hole between the thin walls, this one with drippy stains around the wood.

As his pants came down, my nose wrinkled. The fur was matted and kind of greasy, a brown that looked as dirty as our surroundings. The smell that rose off of him wasn't any flattering. Would the homeless come in here, rather than throw money down for food or alcohol? He was a cat, that's for sure - the whip-thin tail, the short fur, the little bumps, like an organic French tickler, ringing just under the tip and around his base. Was it the shady tomcat that I had seen loitering around in the front entry?

I would like to say that beggars can't be choosers; I might have got in trouble if I had turned him down, and I grudgingly blew him. But that would be untrue. As soon as he shoved himself through the hole, I was on him, nursing away at his tip with an eagerness that should have been dimmed given how awful his shaft tasted. Moaning as I sucked, one hand worked around his base, thumbing the bumps as I imagined how they'd feel working over my labia with every thrust. Bet he could hit the clit if he really tried. The other paw stirred around inside my sweats, working me towards frenzy.

All of a sudden I broke off abruptly when the whip of my tail was grabbed and yanked. Gasping, my head jerked up and I looked over my shoulder.

Someone had come in after the cat, taking up the booth on the other side of me. He must have noticed us and wanted in on the action, since he'd grabbed my tail, dragged it through the hole, and while I watched with a gaping mouth, began to suck on the tip.

For a moment there was nothing but a sharp breath from me as I staring wide eyed into the hole while my tail tip disappeared between black lips. Then, feeling the moan like a banshee building up in my throat, I had to dive down on my partner's shaft, muffling the cry in a few inches of dick.

Having a mouth more expert than mine felating my tail, my lips wrapped around someone's shaft, and fingers inside of me, I came within moments. Fierce and primal, it tore through me like something rabid, and it was all I could do to not bite down. Back bowing, I hissed and broke off, melting to the floor in hoarse gasps.

But I wasn't done.

Such a furious peak was only the beginning. It rejuvenated me and threw napalm on the fire inside of me. I bouncing back up, took one look at the guy still gripping my tail, and a voice from somewhere below my chest, under my stomach, tapping that molten well of need, said "Give me your cock." The low, throaty, intimidating tone surprised me.

Surprised him too. He released my tail and started fighting with his pants. Turning back to the guy in my hand, I quickly started rubbing my paw up and down his shaft, squeezing it, thumbing over the head, and slid my tongue over the tip. He grunted. Then, turning around, I shoved the sweats downwards and bent over.

Turned around as I was, the newcomer's arousal had been laid bare to me. As I'd marveled at the skunk, I wanted to kneel down and worship this one. Thick, black, it dripped pre that forced it to glisten in the sordid glow from the monitor. I grabbed it and siphoned from the tip as though I were trying to get the antidote out. To be honest, I was too distracted to tell what he was, too transfixed with the only part of him I wanted to really care.

Meanwhile, I reached back between my legs, grabbing my other friend, and pushed towards him. That wet tip slid along the back of my thigh, then along the curve of my cheek.

"Your ass! Nuughhh."

That was about all the warning given before a hosing commenced over my butt. Sticky, hot fluid painted the tawny fur of the outer cheeks, and reinforced the white that went between. It was over in one quick second, a mess that weighed down on my fur, the perfect counter to what was crystallizing on my face.

I was not pleased. Pulling off the newcomer, I let out a frustrated hiss through teeth. I wanted that load inside of me!

In retrospect, it was probably better that he had spattered me instead of making it in. There's no telling what kind of disease clings to people who come here, and really, I don't need that anywhere near my intimate regions. Thus I sat up, dug around in my pocket, and thrust a condom through the edge of the hole from whence came the third shaft.

The newcomer complied with a disapproving snort. When he pushed back through the hole, the latex barely fit over that magnificent piece of organic artwork. Immediately I turned around, wiggled into place, and shoved backwards, kept baring down until the fresh spunk stained the wall where my ass met wood.

Another orgasm, this one more like aftershocks from the last, shot through my legs and forced my knee up onto the bench. So thick, so filling, good and warm and welcoming inside of me, I could have cried. Someone touching me. Two thrusts sank into me, tentative and testing, each one stealing my breath.

Then it was gone, torn out of me, and with it the wind in my sails; I crumpled.

"You're... You're a fucking girl!" The shocked scorn in every word was searing.

I wanted to die. Curl up underneath the bench and disappear. Every sound, from him buckling his pants, to slamming the booth open, to crunching down the hall and going through the turnstile, was like a prod in my stomach.

After that, I'm not sure how long I laid there. Well after the quarters ran dry. Someone else came in, but he stood up and took no interest in the finger wagging at him from the hole, paying all the attention to the monitors.

Picking myself up off the floor, feeling every speck of seed staining me, I stumbled out into the grimy hall. I felt sick, moving drunkenly through a numb haze. Through the turnstile, down the aisles of lusty faces and filthy titles, I sleepwalked in some perverse nightmare.

A snide, biting voice filtered into my ears. "You got somethin' right here," said the badger, tapping his chin with the smuggest, most vile expression of amusement I'd ever seen.

I left. No, "left" is putting it mildly - I ran. Ran out the door, ran into my car, ran with a foot on the peddle.

Not sure what I was running from: the fact I just sped out of a cess-pit of sperm, putting strangers inside me, destroying the vestiges of virginity in the name of a lonely need I can't get because I'm too scared of people, or the fact of what just happened back there still had my thighs sopping wet.