FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

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Chapter Two

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He didn't really have a place in mind, so it was time to wander until a window display caught his eye. Downtown was a bust, so he moved to uptown and the higher end shops. Jacob wasn't too familiar with this part of town, and all the shops had changed in the years since he had last been here.

Briefly, he wondered what style he wanted, with nearly everything imaginable to choose from. Dressy, casual, preppy, that god-awful "metrosexual" shit which was too close to gay in the horse's mind and ...nerd clothes? When did those card-playing, computer licking pillowfuckers get to be cool? The world had definitely gone down the drain, if that was the popular kids now. Never would have happened when he was in school.

With a heavy sigh, he kept walking, deciding to stick with what he was comfortable with. Now he just needed to find a store. After trying all the standard mainstream stores, he had come up mostly empty-handed, save for the iced coffee he was currently sipping on. The thought to give up was just starting to enter his head when he caught a familiar scent. Wood smoke, spices, and the juicy dark temptation of slow roasted meat. Barbacoa! It always brought him back, it was one of the things he missed dearly about Texas. Following it, he found a sign above the door featuring a massive 5-pointed star. 'Home' he thought, looking at the name of the place: Jackalope's.

It had been awhile since he ate, so he went and ducked into the place to check it out. As soon as the doors opened and he first stepped in, he was hit in the face with the full force of the wonderful smell. Nostalgia rolled over him, brought on by the wholly unique combination of spices, chilies, grease, wood smoke, beer, and tortilla that only authentic Mexican Barbacoa meets Texas Barbecue made.

Everything on the menu looked amazing, and he was more than happy to have the chance to eat something infinitely better than the shit at Blitz Burger. He decided to go simple this time and order their chili. A tradition he missed, honestly, sitting down with the team and watching movies with a big bowl of chili. When he had first gone down from Ohio, it surprised him, having grown up on the so-called "Cincinnati Chili" or the dishes relatives brought from out of state. No cheese? No onions or beans? The base wasn't thick either, but more stew-like. On all accounts he had been sure he'd hate it, but it quickly became one of his favorite dishes.

As he ate and the warm feeling of contentment grew in the belly, he spotted a leopard at a condiment counter nearby wearing a windbreaker-like outfit. And in Jacob's head, a switch clicked, and he knew he had found the style he had been looking for. Unlike the usual styles thought of when the word "windbreaker" came up, the fabric looked almost like a hybrid of the nylon from the 1990's and latex. Giving it a wet, eye catching look in addition to the trademark bagginess of that era. Half sporty, half casual fetish gear, and all 100% right up his alley.

As the leopard passed, Jacob caught his arm to get his attention, ignoring the glare he earned for it. "Hey bro, that's a fuckin' awesome look! Where'd you get the outfit, man?" His voice sounded a bit excited, and he felt the need to catch himself. "I mean, you know, it's a pretty sweet jacket. Thinkin' about tryin' one on. I wasn't, like, checkin' you out or anything."

The feline cocked an eyebrow and pushed Jacob's hand off his arm. "Right. You just go around grabbing guys all the time, asking about their clothes. Sure." his lip curled over his fangs in a half snarl for a moment before he shook his head and continued. "Anyways, I got it all from the store across the street. Some of the best shit I've gotten anywhere."

Before Jacob could retort or ask anything else, the guy turned back towards his table and walked off. So Jacob sat back down and finished his meal. He hoped the place wasn't too pricey.

The massive sign above the door didn't help his hesitation at all, but it did pique his interest. MAMMOTH screamed out over the street, and Jacob agreed. The store had plenty of space to brag about, and something told him that it wasn't just clothes they sold. And as soon as he walked in, he was proven right. The first thing he noticed was that there were no women on staff, but that made sense, since the place was definitely geared towards dudes. The signs around the place advertised cologne, watches, shaving kits, soap, body wash, shampoo, skin care, bags, luggage...anything and everything a man could possibly need.

It was a lot to take in, and with a quick shake of his mane to clear his head, Jacob started to look around. Colors, lights, smells all bombarded him, and a lot of the little extras were tempting, but he had come with a goal, and he was going to achieve it.

30 minutes later and he still hadn't found what he was looking for, so he grudgingly decided to ask for help. A quick glance around and he found a small blonde opossum in a baggy hoodie and pants being helped by a tall gray cougar with crimson tattoos, dressed in sharp dress pants and a black waistcoat. Making his way over, the buff feline caught his eye and held up his finger to ask him to wait.

Which, of course, he didn't. Instead, he shouldered the suspiciously feminine looking opossum out of the way and started talking. "Hey; where's the clothes? I'm looking-"

The cougar cut him off with a smoothly practiced, professional boredom. "Sir, I am currently helping this gentleman here. If you'll give me just a moment?" The words were spoken gently, but the body language and coldness to them showed a more wolf-is side to the man. A hybrid? Jacob snorted, but kept quiet. He didn't need to start a fight here, but something wormed around deep inside, angry. He checked the guy's name tag: "Singe" was his name apparently. Were his parents hippies or something? Or was this guy just trying too hard to be cool? The feeling in his belly wormed some more.

Singe turned back to the embolism and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "You okay, Evan? Got everything you need for your date tonight?" The way he said "date" sounded more like "hookup" and Jacob felt himself shudder in disgust.

Evan caught that, and a small grin danced on his face as he spoke. "Yeah, I should. Thanks for helping me out, bro. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll end up in a mating press tonight, and I can show off all the bruises tomorrow." He made sure he said every word clear enough for the draft horse's benefit, and Jacob's stomach flip-flopped as he almost gagged.

Singe just laughed and nodded. "I've got no doubts you would, too. I'll see you later." As Evan walked off, his ass swaying to draw attention, Singe turned to face his latest, rather rude, customer head on. His gray eyes did a slow once-over and his posture shifted as a slow smile spread across his muzzle. "Now, as you were saying, sir? You were looking for clothes, I believe?"

The undertone in his voice said he was fucking with the other guy, but Jacob missed it as he took his chance to talk, finally. "Yeah. I saw this outfit in the place across the street, the guy told me he got it here." He gave a rundown of the look, and Singe nodded. He scribbled some notes down in a pocket notebook before he pushed his glasses up and motioned Jacob to follow him.

"This way, sir. I know just the collection you're speaking of." And off they went into the labyrinth of racks. Up 3 floors, past the cologne, and into an alcove Jacob had missed before. He was a bit out of breath from trying to keep up, but he hid it.

As they reached the rack containing his prize, Singe turned around and pulled his pen out once more. "This is our EX Collection. It includes the jacket, pants, shirt, full head mask, and jock. Perfect for clubbing, everyday casual, or a more one-on-one intimacy." He pulled a measuring tape out of one pocket of the vest and continued. "Do you know what size you wear in our system, or would you care for help measuring?"

Jacob didn't know what size he wore at all, actually. He had been in sweats and his old jock for so long. "I...don't know. I could try on a few and see ..." he started, but the cougar shook his head.

"I'm afraid we cannot allow you to try on the jocks, sir. And the rest of the collection is usually selected by a general size, and can then be altered for a tailored fit, as with all our clothes." He stepped behind Jacob and wrapped the tape around his chest to begin the measurements. From the grunt he made once the tape met itself, he was apparently impressed. "52 inches, okay. Next, shoulders...60 inches. You're pretty built, buddy! What do you do for a living? Play some sports?"

Jacob frowned, almost curling in on himself as he slouched. "No. Not anymore, but I used to. I played Fullback in high school. Coach thought about making me a Defensive Lineman. Said I had the build for it." The measurements continued as he spoke. Belly, inseam, arm and leg lengths.

Singe stood up with a whistle. "I believe it. You look like you hit like a truck. Now; bear with me for this next part. I've got to take your pouch size." He looked down at Jacob's crotch as he said that, eyebrow cocking at the sweatpants.

Jacob's cheeks burned as he growled. "No way! No one's getting near my junk unless it's a chick." Who the hell did this guy think he was? Was...was he hitting on him right now?

Singe just gave a small laugh and waved the comment off. "We can continue without measuring, of course. We just prefer an accurate sizing. We pride ourselves for having the most comfortable, flattering undergarments available."

Mulling it over for a minute, Jacob couldn't see the harm in giving his sheath and balls a snug place to rest. And if it doubled to draw more attention to his package from the ladies, that was just a bonus. He spread his legs a bit, but Singe stopped him, rubbing his chin.

"Actually, this might be easier to do in a changing room. Right this way!"And with a flick of his long tail, he started off towards the booths. Leaving Jacob to stand there fighting the urge to bolt and forget this whole thing. But...he really wanted those clothes. And if the guy tried anything, he'd just deck him and leave. Right. He could do this.

Taking a breath, he ducked into the cubicle with Singe and closed the door. The hybrid kept his detached mannerisms as he set his notebook down on the bench and retrieved his tape once more. "If you could remove your trousers, please? I can't get an accurate measurement through sweats."

And so Jacob peeled off the stained, grease-impregnated blue pants, feeling a sticky layer of film left behind on his fur. His jock hadn't fared much better over the years, but at least the off-white, yellowing fabric was whole as it enclosed his stallionhood in a rather impressive, almost obscene bulge.

Singe's eyebrow popped again, and he turned his head with a slight cough into the back of his left paw as his doubly strong predator's nose picked up the mix of old fry stock, stale urine, even staler cum, and musk coming at him all at once.

"What's the matter?" Jacob sneered, taking the chance to get the other man on the back foot. "You saying I'm gross or something?" His right hand went down to grab his jock and bounce the bulge lewdly. "Or you just never seen a real man fill out a jock this well?" He laughed and kept up the show, looking to embarrass the salesman.

Still Singe kept his composure. "No; just a bit of a cough. My apologies if I offended." He cleared his throat and took to his task, wrapping the tape where needed. Length, girth, dimensions, etc. All the while keeping his distance as much as possible. Hands moving with deft precision as his eyes took in every detail.

And then, Jacob's hand shot out and clamped down onto his head, keeping his nose close to the crusty material. "You know; I used to know guys like you back in high school. Always staring, trying to get a peek when you thought no one was looking. A sniff here, quick touch there." He spoke slowly and in a low voice. "Do you know what I did to them? I made them wear my jock on their face, after I'd worn it a month solid. Games, practices, screwing, all that sweat built up fast." His grip tightened. "And if I really didn't like them? If they really pissed me off...I'd make them eat it. Is that what you want, little kitty? Want to taste this nasty strap?"

With a motion as fluid as his words, Singe sank his thumb into the base of the horse's wrist, pulled it off his head, and slammed Jacob against the wall. With his left arm pinning the horse's neck and lips pulled back into a snarl, he growled out: "Don't think that just because I'm being polite and professional, that you can pull that "Alpha Male" bullshit on me, hoss." His eyes glowed as hard as steel as he spoke.

Jacob gulped quietly as the cougar continued. "So. What's going to happen is simple: We're going to finish up here, you're going to try on your clothes, buy them, and leave. And if you ever come back here, you make extra sure to avoid me. Are we clear?"

Jacob's answer came in the form of a shove back and a grunt. Singe snorted in response and handed Jacob his notes and a key to the dressing room. "Your sizes are all listed right there. I hope you find everything without too much trouble, sir." The last word was laced with as much venom as Singe could muster without losing control, and the meaning was not lost to the horse.

Jacob snatched the list from Singe's paw and watched as he left before going to find his clothes. He didn't see the need to bother with the mask, but he did get several jocks and two of everything else. Thankfully, they were rather reasonably priced.

Going back to the booth, he sat the clothes down on the bench and stripped off once more. As his shirt cleared his head, he caught his reflection in the mirror and stopped.

Staring back at him wasn't even a shadow of who he used to be. What was once rippling 8-pack abs had softened and begun to turn into nothing but flab hanging over his waistline. His pecs following suit, the beginnings of man-tits. His mane, which he had kept in a buzz cut with a bit of length and dyed honey gold, was shaggy and had patches of his natural chestnut fur color showing through. His eyes were bloodshot and crusted, and overall he looked like he had never heard of the invention of soap.

He turned away quickly, fighting down the heat in his gut. The fiery squirming from before slithering its way into his veins. He attempted to distract himself by trying on the clothes, but by the second pair of pants he couldn't stand it anymore. The rage broke through and took control, causing him to grab the bench and hurl it straight into the mirror.

Glass rained down on him as he panted, feeling tears rolling down his face. He wiped them away hurriedly, before punching himself in the stomach with everything he had. Men didn't cry, dammit! He had to get out of here before anyone found out. Getting dressed, he grabbed everything and made his way out to the registers.

No sooner had he paid (and slipped a bottle of cologne into his pocket when no one was looking) then Singe suddenly reappeared. His face was completely distorted with unbridled hatred as he pointed at Jacob. "You! You trashed that dressing room, assaulted and sexually harassed an employee!"

With his nerves as burnt out as they were, Jacob started to take a step back, but stopped. Singe drew up right into his face and kept snarling. "I want you out. Just leave, before I have security come and escort you out."

His first instinct being to slam a fist against Singe's jaw, their little standoff earlier gave the impression that not only might he hold his own, but he may even lay Jacob out flat. So the horse simply grabbed his bags and left, making sure to flick his tail in mimicking mockery of the feline.

Once he got out onto the street, he checked his phone and scrolled through his last calls, until he got to the name "Short Stack". It was time to visit his dealer.

An hour later, he was sitting in the MX-5 stewing. He'd saw people give him looks on the street as he walked back to the car, and not the type he usually got. Not the type he liked, either. Sure, he got the normal looks of disgust, pity, and haughty dismissal. But then there were other people. They would look at him, then the black bags with the white mammoth skull logo stenciled on, then back to him...and laughed. Or stepped aside quickly looking revolted. A couple men even gave him looks he could only describe as "confused arousal". As if he weren't pissed enough already.

So now here he sat, waiting on Short Stack to text him to meet up. She'd been his dealer ever since he got back to Toledo four years ago. They'd met at Crux, and she got Jacob what he needed, when he needed it. No questions asked, no being in each other's personal lives. Just text his list, meet, pay, talk enough to make it look like friends meeting up, leave. Simple and clean, it suited him fine.

Which also meant Short Stack was the closest thing Jacob had to a friend these days. Staring at the ceiling, he turned on some music to try and drown out that thought. It worked, somewhat. He needed her to hurry up and get here, he was starting to get antsy again. Grabbing a magazine he'd thrown in the floorboard, he started reading...had to keep his mind busy. Had to make sure he wasn't too focused. Hurry up!

What felt like hours slowly oozed along. Snails across thick blackstrap molasses. Where WAS she!? Finally, FINALLY, the sweet sound of his text tone. 'Alleyway. I'm here.' It was about time! He'd been sitting here for ...five minutes? He double checked the clock. Shit, if he was that far gone already, he was worse off than he thought.

Practically exploding out of the car, he nearly sprinted across the street. And there she was, leaning against the brick of the right-hand wall, not a care in the world.

Short Stack was, of course, her street name. Jacob vaguely recalled her real name starting with an A. Or was it a K? Truth be told, when she told him, he was distracted at the time. Both with a snowy slope and with picturing her riding the bronc for well more than the full eight seconds. 'And who could blame me?' he thought.

Standing at 5'1" the Red Panda was chubby, or ...what was it they said these days? Juicy? No ...thicc. That was it. She was thicc, with wide hips, curves for days, and a bustline he would happily get lost in. He remembered when he used to make fun of 'fat bitches' ...like the one who came into the burger joint yesterday. But he would never call Short Stack fat. Not since she broke his nose the last time he tried when they had just met. Tattoos peeked out of her Daisy Dukes, proudly dominated her arms where they were framed by the sleeveless black crop top, and continued randomly across her stomach, back, chest and sides.

Jacob also happened to know that those 38F cups were pierced, though he had been sworn to secrecy about it. That, and the labia piercings. He slouched against the wall across from her, raising his right hoof up to make it look casual. For her part, Short Stack yawned and pulled out her phone.

"You're getting more than usual. Who'd you rob to cover it?" she asked, as if she were just reading him an interesting news story.

Jacob's scowl could have melted the bricks behind her, had he not been so impotent. "No one." he huffed out, letting his displeasure of the insult ride the short syllables.

The panda sighed heavily and looked away. "I told you, I'm not giving you any more freebies, samples, bumps, spots, hold overs or credit anymore. You want your shit, you pay."

With a snort, Jacob tossed the wad of cash he'd set aside for this to her. "Relax; I've got the money. No point in asking where I got it. It's clean. No heists, no jacking anyone, not even a boosted car." He waited as she counted it out, knowing she was double checking everything he had just said as she did. If the money had been dirty, chances were she or her bosses would have already heard about it by now and put the word out. For street dealers, they ran an incredibly clean and tight ship.

Once she was satisfied, she reached into her bra and tossed him his order. Never once looking back up from her phone as she slipped the cash into the same space. To anyone watching, just a couple friends meeting in the alley, out of the sun. Which was still pretty odd, considering it was almost the middle of Autumn, but not overly so.

"So what's new? Anything fun planned for tonight?" Jacob asked, tucking the cocaine into his pants. Short Stack gave a little laugh at the question.

"Nope. Not that it's any of your business. You're a client, not a friend. And you know the rules about business between clients." Her tone was matter-of-fact. No ill will or malice, but no friendly warmth either.

Never one to leave well enough alone, Jacob gave her a grin and reached over to rub her head. "Hey hey now, don't get all frosty and professional on me. What about our special night?"

Before his hand ever touched her, Short Stack's paw grabbed his wrist and she snapped her boot into his gut, snarling. "Don't EVER touch my hair, colt dick! That was one night, and it was only because I had just recovered from getting my baby bakery yanked. We were both high, drunk as hell, and I needed cock. You just happened to be the closest one. Didn't even stretch me all that much, either." If Jacob's earlier look melted bricks, Short Stack's would have glassed a planet.

Jacob fell to the ground, everything around him spinning, fire in his belly and lights popping in front of his eyes. He couldn't help but puke, ears ringing. After he wiped his face off, he tried to get up, wobbly. His hand lowered and reached for his right hoof, but the panda was quicker on the draw.

Before he knew it, there was a straight razor under his chin. No choice then. He raised his hands, showing they were empty, and the blade lingered for a few more minutes before snapping shut and vanishing back to wherever it had come from.

He got the message, loud and clear. "Alright. I got it." He coughed out, staggering to his feet. "No need to get all twitchy, Short." It was far and away the thinnest of hopes that his joking tone was believable, considering he was still drooling chunks.

"My name is Mei, jackass. At least it is to you. No one calls me Short Stack or anything different without earning the privilege." Even with having to bend nearly backwards now that Jacob was standing back up at full height, they both knew she had the upper hand.

Shoulders bunched, Jacob started to walk away. "Right. Whatever. I'll text you when I need more." He made sure he was out of earshot before she could reply. He slid into the car and moaned, gut and bowels feeling like they had been hit by a train from the kick. He turned the key and gunned it, driving until he could at least breathe without too much pain. It was 6 O'clock. Haven opened in two hours. He had better get home and get ready.

Pulling into the hidden garage he used so no one could find him if they knew the car, he grabbed his bags and made his tender way inside. The damn things were heavy just for clothes, and the alley had done him no favors. So he hit the elevators and pressed the button as another coughing fit hit him. It wasn't until it passed and he looked up that he saw the Out of Order sign.

Fuck.

Sometimes, the view from the 12th floor wasn't worth this shit.

By the time he made it up the stairs, his heart was trying it's best to rip it's way through his sternum, his lungs felt like his left side ribs had impaled them, his knees were throbbing, and his guts felt like he was about to shit himself. He collapsed outside his door and tried to catch his breath, panting hard and wishing to god the pain would just stop. Today had sucked ass, and nothing could possibly make it worse.

There's a saying about tempting fate.

"STANTZ! Get your ass up, boy. We're gonna have some words." The voice was deep and sounded as if the owner had gargled gravel, cigarettes, and vodka for the better part of 3 decades. Which, pretty much summed up the giant Russian Kodiak currently taking up almost all visible space in the hallway. Jacob's landlord.

Mr. Petyr Zima was a good friend of Jacob's father, Oliver Stantz. As cold and stony as his name suggested, he was massively built with a layer of thick fat. But when he threw that "fat" around, it showed itself to be hiding muscle beyond belief. People always described him as loud, large, and deceptive. "As all good Russian things are!" he would joke. To him, being open and transparent in all things was a sucker's game, and it was he who had taught Jacob to be stoic and patient as a child. Although; that was because he wanted the young colt to be a good listener and help others.

Instead, 'Spitfire', as his mother had called him during the good natured preschool years, had decided to use those talents for intimidation, harassing, abuse, and to gather humiliating secrets. In other words, to become a total shitheel.

So, seeking to fix that mistake once he reached middle school, Petyr had instead taught him American football. Which, at least, helped him open up and be more cheerful. Shame it only showed more ugliness inside. And now, here he stood, glaring at his friend's child and wondering how the two of them could ever have been related.

"What? What happened now?" the sentence dropped from Jacob's mouth as practically a whine, but he was too exhausted at this point to do anything more than kick himself internally. He was hurt, angry, still wheezing, could barely raise his head or open his eyes to stare at the giant bear, and was pretty sure he might leave some blood in the toilet tonight.

Petyr growled and spat at Jacob's hooves, only seeing disrespect in his continued laying on the floor. "I checked your place today, making sure everything was up to code. The place is completely ruined, Stantz."

"It is not!" Jacob protested, leaning his head against the door and feeling the world wobble. He might throw up again. "A few beer cans, maybe some clothes here and there."

Somehow, the already massive form of Mr. Zima loomed even larger. "It's a sty, Jacob!" He roared, slamming a palm into the wall with such force that it was a minor miracle in and of itself that no hole appeared. Although several neighbor's heads did pop out of their doors like prairie dogs, looking out to see what was going on and watching the spectacle. "Dishes molding in your sink, beer cans and liquor bottles thrown everywhere, clothes that could choke a musk ox in high summer literally sticking to the carpet. You've got food rotting in your fridge, on the tables, god knows where else. Your "bed" is a breeding ground for diseases that haven't even been discovered yet. They should have it sent to a lab and studied. Maybe you'll have an STD named after you. Your toilet looks like some maniac managed to mainline all the city's sewage directly to your bowl, the tub is black, and don't even get me started on that bedroom closet!"

Winter in all it's icy glory slammed home into Jacob's spine. Oh god, no. Petyr had been in his closet? Suddenly, the pain, the aches, the wheezing, none of it mattered as much as the need to get out of this conversation and into the condo as quickly as possible.

"O-okay! Okay! I'll- I'll get it cleaned up, Petyr." he stammered, quickly but clumsily getting to his feet and fishing out his keys to unlock the door. It took him several tries to find the keyhole in the lock, and several more to find the right key.

Petyr leaned in and sniffed the air around his tenet. "You seem skittish all of a sudden... Like a foal caught in the sugar cubes again. Or a colt in the filly's room. Something the matter, boy?"

Through his suddenly very dry mouth, Jacob swallowed and wheezed out. "No. Just- just out of shape. Stairs took a lot out of me, got dizzy when I stood up." Lies and more lies, but he needed to get out of here.

The bear looked skeptical, but he didn't push. Just pulled his flannel shirt down a bit more and turned to walk away. Leaving Jacob in a cold sweat as he finally managed to unlock the door.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind him, Jacob hurled himself into the bedroom and ripped open the closet door. Thankfully, it seemed everything was untouched, left exactly where it had been thrown. Breathing a little easier, he leaned against the door frame and silently thanked whatever or whoever was looking out for him before he stumbled into the bathroom.

Sitting on the toilet with a trashcan held between his knees, he let the nausea and inevitable aftermath of his boundary pushing overtake him. Every ounce of it's heaving, sweating, gasping, shivering, splattering fury. Waves of tempest force from both ends leaving him unable to do much until they had passed.

With that disgusting business finished, he climbed into the shower, the floor spotted black as Petyr had claimed, and did his best to clean himself up. The hot water cascading over his head and down his back helped ease the aches and tension of the day, and he could finally stop to take a moment and check his stomach. Thankfully, it only looked and felt like it should be tearing itself apart. It would be bruised to hell and back for a good long while, but no tears or ruptures it seemed.

He quietly apologized for being so shitty to Coach and the school when they had insisted every member of the athletic student body take Sports Medicine for the entirety of their tenure on their teams. It wasn't foolproof by a long shot, and certainly no replacement for professional treatment, but it did in a pinch, and he had learned to identify most serious injuries over the years.

Scrubbing his fur out, he would almost swear the soap was taking more than just dirt and dead skin with each pass. Almost as if he were lighter, not as drained, stress swirling down the drain alongside large dark and unidentifiable chunks which fell out of his coat and mane. It had been a long time since he'd had more than just a whore's bath and body spray baptism.

As soon as he felt like his mind and coat were clear, he stepped out and dried off. Time to try on the new things he had gotten. Since he couldn't try them on at the store, he wasn't sure how the jock would fit. But once he got a good look at it, he had to hand it to whoever had designed it. It looked like they had been meticulously anal about every aspect of the design. The elastic had just enough give to retain its shape and provide a snug, supportive fit without cutting into the skin. The whole thing was made of a material as breathable as cotton, strong as polyester, and even had a sculpted mesh pouch for large balls and sheathes.

Seems Singe hadn't been lying when he had said the sizes were adjustable. And once Jacob slipped it on, adjusting everything as it needed to be, he could honestly say it felt like heaven. And with the way they framed everything so perfectly, looked sinful as hell. The theme continued with the rest of the outfit, and when Jacob looked into the mirror this time, he was happy with the reflection staring back.

All that was left was the cologne. A generous base of subtle musk with tones of wood smoke and bourbon. He slapped on a good splash and headed out.

It was time to go clubbing.

In Toledo's downtown Industrial District, right on the shore of Lake Erie and in the middle of a confluence of train tracks, there sat a large and imposing building of dark red brick, steel and glass. A former hydroelectric plant, it had been abandoned, and for years was only known as an eyesore.

Then one day, without any word or warning, construction began on the building. Most of the place had been gutted or retrofitted, but the generators, canal, and all the workings of the power plant had remained. This was to ensure the building was entirely self-sufficient, drawing power directly from itself using the lake.

And thus began the plant's new life as the mysterious club known only as:

Haven. The air surrounding the place was charged, like cream and electricity on your skin. Waking up every nerve as they sang in religious fervor of pleasure and release. The crowd outside was part of its siren call, never a line to get in, people seemingly just as happy to simply share the same space as the club.

The bouncers at the door accepted everyone inside. They were there to handle any conflicts that popped up, not to exclude people or keep them away. And once inside, the world changed.

Tinted soft electric blue with accents of dark cobalt from the lights, time slowed down and allowed the eye to take in every detail. Massive pipes that had once been hulks of steel now made of reinforced Plexiglas, allowing the water inside to be seen by patrons. Some had even been added to become part of the show, a series of dummy lines that snaked around the entirety of the place, twisting in on themselves with color changing lights. Sometimes small objects, flowers, and even performers of aquatic species were known to float lazily by while one relaxed. Providing a calming background or erotic temptation.

The generators had been relocated below ground, freeing up the catwalks and main floor to become a massive space. Now dominated by a dance floor, tables, cages and poles for the staff, and a DJ booth. Bodies slipped against and alongside one another in the dark, pulses of light revealing them in the most delicious ways.

Gold two-piece bathing suits, tight jocks with massive bulges, professional business suits, denim jeans and the oil stained white shirts of mechanics, sweat and sex, smoke and booze, raw heat and lust. All mixed together to create Haven's atmosphere. A place where anyone and everyone could, as the song currently pounding through the floor and walls demanded, "Become God".

Above all the other catwalks was one set apart, leading to the foreboding squat square of the office above. Every time Jacob came to Haven; he checked that catwalk to see if the "watchers" were there.

And they always were. Two figures, leaning against the railing or wrapped around one another. They were humans, or at least appeared to be. Silent and steadfast, it was common knowledge who they were. They were the Owners.

Tonight one of them stood vigilant, his ink black suit dull against the shadows that always seemed to cover his face, lower arms, and legs. The crimson shirt and black tie the only way to tell him apart from the darkness around him. Mr. A.

Draped over his shoulder from behind, arms wrapped around his waist and mouth currently busy biting at the side of his neck, was his partner in both business and marriage. Dirty blond hair draped down past his shoulders like a lion's mane, curling at the bottom to appear shorter than it really was. A square beard framed his mouth when he looked up. He also wore a black suit, but his held the iridescent sheen of an oil slick, a chartreuse shirt and white tie, golden hoops in his ears' cartilage. Four in the right, two in the left. In sharp contrast to his husband, he always seemed to be lit by a dim glow, no matter the time of night or the lighting. His name was Balgaire.

They were always together, and it caused some people pause that neither man's "unique lighting" ever seemed to affect the other's. It certainly creeped Jacob out. All of it, really. The way they lingered, or maybe lurked, the shadows, the glow, two men married.

He looked away when he realized he'd been staring, their twin gazes aimed right back at him. Well...he assured they were. He hated only being able to see one of their faces. Moving further into the club, he looked around to see what sort of crowd came tonight.

People drinking at the bar, watching dancers on their table, laying on couches with clouds of smoke around them. One of the calmer nights. Jacob knew full well only a few of those clouds were from cigarettes, and of the ones that weren't, even only a few of those were made from pot. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of a syringe as someone in a private booth began to shoot up.

It was, after all, an open secret that you could find, hear about, or get your hands on almost anything at Haven. Drugs, women, men, business contacts, some claimed to have gotten weapons, secrets, blackmail, favors, a wild night of sex that even the most shameless and braggart of perverts would hesitate to describe. All you needed was to know the right ear to whisper into. 'And your dreams will come true.'

Making his way to the bar, Jacob sat down and ordered, mostly by habit, a disgusting cocktail of vodka and an energy drink and a Kahlua chaser. It was an old standby that his teammates used to think was cool. The Kahlua was his attempt to mask the flavor.

As he waited, he scanned the club for anyone he would find interesting. He found two women sitting alone at separate tables, watching the orcas that filled the pipes tonight as they flaunted their nude bodies for the patrons. Both male and female, Haven never failing to provide equally. Jacob didn't see either woman waiting on anyone, both seeming to simply have come tonight to unwind.

He began weighing his choices between them, one a collie with a shining coat and business attire, definitely a professional and in a higher position. The other was a cheetah in blue track pants and a white tank with short spiked hair, staring rather intently at the dancer's breasts currently pushed up against the glass above her, a small smile framing her spotted features as she ran a claw down her belly. When in the back of his mind, Jacob felt a nagging, the feeling of being watched.

Shifting his focus back to himself from the 'show', he grabbed his first drink and started to sip it when he saw what was giving him the sensation. Next to him sat a satyr, looking to be head and shoulders shorter than him, though the height of the bar stool itself made it difficult to judge. His blue eyes almost blended into the club's lights until a change in song prompted them to shift to a harsh white, letting them be seen clearly. His chestnut fur an black horns shining in the new ambiance as if freshly oiled and polished.

He was a bigger man, some weight on him as his gut hung lower than Jacob's own inside a tight shirt and tighter pants. Jacob felt incredibly off-put by both his appearance and his staring as he began to drink faster. Eventually, his temper flared again and he wheeled around to snap at the other. "Did you need something, or did you just plan on staring at me all night?"

For his part, the satyr seemed neither scared nor disgusted by the equine's display, resting his chin on a fist and laughing as he looked him up and down lewdly. "Oh, don't get me wrong handsome. I could stare at you and that sexy gut of yours forever. But I was hoping you'd talk eventually." his voice was smooth and soft, each word carefully pronounced with a lightness to it. "My name's Baklava. You know, like the sweet?" his eyes sparkled further as he took the cherry from his own drink and snapped it off in his teeth before slipping the stem into his mouth.

"Your parents must be mighty proud." Jacob sneered, making his stolen Southern drawl as drawn out as possible. He looked back towards the women and saw that the Collie had just been joined by a Bengal Tiger in typical frat gear. Shit. Oh well, the cheetah was probably a better lay anyways. Glancing back at Baklava, he saw the satyr wink at him as he slid out his tongue, the stem now tied into three tight, neat knots. Jacob wasn't even going to touch that bomb. He pushed away from the bar, grabbing his drinks and heading over to the horseshoe shaped booth.

He threw his hooves up onto the glass table, folding his hands behind his head as he gave his best winning grin. If the woman ignored him any harder, she would have been made of marble. She was going to play hard to get, hm? Well okay then, Jacob knew that dance well enough. "Hey there, sweetheart. Saw you over here all alone, and I just couldn't stand to see you without a proper date. So I came to give you the best night ever." The words oozed confidence and 'I'm a sex god' appeal, pushed into every word as best he could.

The cheetah barely turned her head as she responded with pure ice in her veins. "You mean you're going to leave?" She raised her paw and pushed her claws out, examining them closely, and Jacob wished he could say that it was the first time it had happened to him.

And still he pressed on. "Ouch! You're clever, babydoll! Seriously, let me hang out with you for awhile and show you how much fun I can be." His hooves slipping off the table as he started to lean in closer, resting his muzzle in his palm. He still remembered the steps.

She seemed to know a few dance steps of her own though, as she simply pulled a bit of fuzz from one of her claws and then sat quietly and sipped her drink. Unashamedly, blatantly ignoring the efforts Jacob was putting in, as if he simply didn't exist.

So he stood up and put himself directly in front of her, blocking her exit. If she tried to push past, he could stop her. If she tried to make it to the other end to get out, he could block her there too. Even if she tried to use her feline agility to leap the table, he could catch her. Thinking of it like a block play in a game, he managed to cover any holes in his defense. 'Let's see you ignore me now, uppity bitch.' he thought victoriously, smirking. "My name's Jacob. Jacob Stantz. But seeing as you're such a pretty thing and all, you can call me Jake. Or if you're a good girl you can call me Daddy."

Of all the reactions he had prepared for that line to cause: A drink to the face, a slap, more sarcasm or threats, screams for help, being hit by a purse or punched, or even her actually falling for that bit ...The sudden sharp sensation of her claws sinking into his ballsack was definitely not one of them. Someone in the club, most certainly not Jacob, let out a very effeminate yelp of pain.

The cheetah's mouth was set into a snarl of fury as she growled low and slow. "How about I geld you right here and now and call you Jasmine? You ever speak to me like that again, and your balls end up in a jar on my desk. And the rest of you in a litterbox."

No sooner had the words left her maw than her expression changed to one of utmost sarcastic friendliness. "My name is Roxanne, by the way. And our little meeting here? It's gotten attention." She pointed upwards behind Jacob's head.

He turned to look and once again felt the molten glares of Mr. A. and Balgaire boring holes into his gut. Both leaning over the rail now as if birds of prey waiting to swoop down and snatch their victim. Roxanne simply let out a girlish giggle and shoved past him, waving up to Balgaire as she began to climb the staircase leading to the catwalk. With only a nod from him, security fell away, allowing her free access.

Well; if she wasn't off-limits before, she undoubtedly was now. He would fix that later. But for now, he had to check himself and his injuries over yet again. So he pushed through to the men's toilets, slipping inside a stall to tug his pants down and check for wounds. The claws had left small punctures, only enough to ooze a bit of blood, which he quickly grabbed some tissue and dealt with. Once done, he opened the stall and moved to one of the urinals to start purging those drinks.

He was in the middle of a strong, incredibly satisfying stream when out of nowhere a thick, strong hand gave him a hard slap to the ass, causing him to jump and splash everywhere. "WHAT THE FUCK!?" he roared, wheeling around to see who had the sheer balls to try that stunt.

Coming face to chest with a giant, heavy pig. His hairy pink flesh glistening with greasy sweat rolling down his fat frame and adorned with tattoos. He wore tight, ripped and faded jeans with black leather chaps and matching vest. The patches on which declared him a member of some gang or some such. His snout grinned down at Jacob as he bit down on the well-soaked end of a ¾ smoked cigar. His fly open and showing the tight white briefs underneath as the thick curve of his soft cock was peeking out of the waistband. He snorted hard before speaking. "Hey there, boy. Mighty nice ass you've got there. Pretty strong stream too." he looked down as Jacob fumbled with his own stallionhood, trying to stuff it back into his pants. "Why don't you show Poppa that dick, hm?"

Oh Fuck. So that's what that felt like. Jacob finally managed to get his cock back into his pants when it hit him....Wait a second, he had seen this guy in Haven before! He had never even looked in Jacob's direction, let alone spoken to him. Why was he pulling this shit now?

Jacob stared up at him, looking him in the eye defiantly. "What the hell is your problem? Slapping people's asses while they're taking a piss, especially when you've never met them before! I've seen you around, man. You one of those stalkers? Some kind of pervert creep?"

The pig actually looked hurt for a second, before he laughed it off. "Aw; I didn't mean nothing by it, baby brother! I just wanted to congratulate you on finally finding the courage to show your colors!" His hand clapped onto Jacob's shoulder as he spoke, a warm smile easing onto his face as he took a fatherly sort of air. "Name's Jack. I'm the Founding Father and President of the Broken Silence Motorcycle Club." He pointed to the patches on his vest as he spoke, showing each one as the name, rank, and title of the club came up.

Jacob was not impressed. "Right. Whatever. That still doesn't explain why you slapped my ass, bacon bits." He started to wash his hands, scrubbing a bit harder than really needed when he paused again. "Wait. My colors? You think I'm gay? Do I look like a fag to you?"

Jack's eyes narrowed and he grunted. "You're gonna want to take that word out of your mouth, you know what's best for you, boy. I don't care how you use it, slur's a slur." He looked over the draft horse again. "If you ain't gay, or bi, or hell at least queer, what are you doing walking around wearing Anders' gear?" His right hand motioned to Jacob's outfit before he crossed his arms across his chest.

"Anders?..You mean this stuff? Why would this make me gay? It's just some awesome clothes." He turned back to the sink and finished up washing his hands, still scrubbing as if he were trying to rid himself of a damned spot.

Jack's laugh was hearty and straight from his belly. "Oh, you poor thing." he rubbed his snout and started explaining with a heavy sigh. "MAMMOTH was created in 1976 by Anders Nillson, a Swedish gay man who took up fashion design and amateur skiing after giving up his career as a chef. It's been a brand by and for gays ever since day one. Around here, it's become a sort of silent signal. You wear MAMMOTH gear, you're a bottom looking for a Top, boy looking for a Daddy. That sort of thing."

An enormous, all consuming hollowness had just opened up in Jacob's chest as he physically gagged. No wonder he had been getting looks all day. The Satyr hitting on him at the bar. He'd been walking around wearing a giant 'I need dick' flag on his back, looking pleased as punch while doing it. The worm in his belly returned and he shook his head hard, pushing off of the counter to leave. Before he could, Jack's thick hand pressed hard into his chest to stop him in his tracks. He held out a business card. "Here. It can be hard coming out at first. Why don't you go to our website, check us out. You can call me when you're ready to heal or to do some good."

Before Jacob could tell the pig to go swallow a sword or take a dip in the deep fryer, Jack shove the card down the front of Jacob's pants with a small grin, patted his ass again and walked out. Jacob bolted, pouring on every ounce of speed he could still muster after all these years in order to get out of this place. Suddenly, haven didn't seem like much fun tonight.

Back in the car, slamming the hammer down. Roaring through the streets, somehow avoiding cops as he screeched to a halt in front of his building. Sprinting up the stairs, not winded this time. Kick the door open practically, slam the door and lock it. Ripping the clothes off and throwing them as far away as possible. Breathe, Jacob. Breathe.

Once he could more or less think a little straighter, he tore through the condo, ripping things apart to try and find a bottle of booze that wasn't empty. He finally found some tucked behind some books in the living room shelf. Ripping the cap off, he slammed it back and didn't come up for air until the whole thing was dry.

Thoroughly wrapped up in the warm blanket the rum had provided so happily, Jacob stumbled into the bedroom and threw himself bodily onto the mattress, causing it to fall off the crates and onto the floor before he, thankfully, blacked out.