FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I wasn't always this way. I used to be a popular high school kid (at least I thought I was), a nice guy at work, and the kind of guy you could count on.

That's not the way I am now. Everytime I look back and try to find what started all the problems in my life, I think of what I once had, I think maybe I can get that back, maybe I can stop this thing that's slowly killing me, before its too late. I try to pace myself or stop doing it entirely, but the need slowly creeps back. It says its the only way I can feel anything good again, that without it I'm doomed to a life of misery and woe. I listen to the voice. I've learned to listen in my line of work.

At home, when I was a kid life was simple, take out the trash, stay in school, and don't do drugs. I always listened, I always walked society's line of what normal meant. I kept pedaling slowly down this mediocre life until that one night.

The night I keep avoiding, but the night that has repeated itself more times than I can count.

I'm a worn-out husk of a man. My fur gets mangy and scraggly unless I attend to it two to three times a day. I don't notice how I absentmindedly pull at the fur of my right arm. Underneath all the tan fur and black spots, there's a hole in my arm. A hole that started off small, unnoticeable, and now has turned to a throbbing purple bulge, constantly wanting my attention.

Giving that little hole in my arm attention wasn't cheap at first. After leaving my first job, I'd grown tired of each new one within a month. After a year of job searching I realized I shouldn't have been aiming so high. Maybe office and retail jobs weren't my kind of thing. About two months into my rampant job search I'd started smoking pot ("Just to relieve stress" I told myself.), and a month later I'd moved onto crack. I found that I loved the thin white lines more than the green plant almost everyday.

My arms weren't pricked and prodded then, until I finally gave up searching for jobs. Thus I came to find my only vice: heroin. It was a cheap high, and now I'm a fiend for it.

In my line of work, the guy on top of you doesn't see the aching hole in your arm, or the agony inside your head. He just sees an ass he wants to fuck, and when he's done, that's all he's done. The men I'm with probably think I use the cash they give me for everyday needs, and maybe a little extra. What they don't know is most of it goes towards that purple mess on my arm.

I always get a box of condoms before each man comes over (wolves and foxes have been known to accidentally tear the skin of one with a claw). Being clean is the only dignity I have left. Almost every night I'm on my hands and knees, my tail either moved to the side or in another man's grasp. Most of my clients can't hold themselves for more than a few minutes. They come, then they leave. No man who's met me at my motel room has ever stayed after long enough to say anything but thanks. No man wants a massage they all want my ass, or in the rare case a blowjob (so kind of a massage).

The first couple of nights I'd done this, I'd felt weird, I resisted each man. As the days went on I learned to sit back and let my clients have there pleasure. My own pleasure came to me in fleeting moments as the burning sensation of the needle in my arm slipped out as the fluid sped in. By the time I started prostituting myself out, I'd become so numb I barely felt anything at all from the men using me.

In a way I need them as much as they think they need me.

I have another client tonight, his bio tells me he's a muscular red fox, who grew up going to the same high school I did. He's a lawyer now. Something about the fox sounds familiar, maybe I can ask him about high school if he wants me to get handsy before he...

You know does what they all do.