FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Byron was pretty sure he found the right bar an hour ago. Unfortunately, without realizing, he mistakenly typed 'St.' instead of 'Ave.' into his GPS. He could have discovered this information when he arrived if he hadn't broken the first bar stool he sat in with his fluffy bovine girth the second he sat down. Distracted and flustered, he put his phone away. The bartender was nice enough about the incident. The black bear offered him a new, sturdier stool and allowed him to help clean up the pieces (after some insistence on the scruffy bull's part). He slid a free beer across the bar that the sheepish bull nursed while he waited for his date. Fifteen minutes later, he received the text that informed him he found the wrong location.

He typed a message to his boyfriend, having to scroll back whenever his trembling, rodlike digits smashed two keys at once. 'Sorry. I'll head over.'

'Nah I have the car. I'll come to you. Sit tight hun <3' came the response. Byron sighed and took another sip. Anxiety shot through him. With deep breaths, he resisted the urge to text another apology.

As the hour went on, he noticed the bar becoming more populated. He scratched the back of his neck in a nervous twitch. Byron wasn't delusional. It was only natural for a bar to grow more crowded as the sun descended lower over the horizon. He at least expected Bastion to be present to take the edge off the gathering crowd. If that weren't enough, he had to endure the embarrassment that he also mistook exactly what type of bar this was. When tens upon tens of burly men in full leathers filtered inside, he thought he might fade away with humiliation. Then the staff started to set up a stage on the far side of the facility and he knew what kind of tavern he found.

"You look lost, little ox," said the bartender. The bear placed a pair of clean glasses behind the counter for easy access. "First time at a leather bar?"

"Yes and no..." the bull sighed as he tried not to look at the men, raising their brows towards him. He heard a few wolf whistles and the self-conscious bison shrank as best as he could with his massive frame. "There's n-nothing wrong with it, of course. The truth is I'm in a...similar line of work as your p-performers. I just got off a shift, actually and I was looking forward to a quiet v-vanilla night, y'know? I still can't believe I got the wrong bar."

"Haha, no worries. It happens. More than you think actually," said the bear. He leaned on the counter with a sympathetic grin. His face melted and shifted through a set of emotions before landing on a realization. "Hey, if you're feeling out of place, you can head backstage and put on a couple leathers. That should take some of these eyes off you while you wait for your partner to get here. How does that sound?"

Byron's ears twitched. He mumbled, thinking it over. But as he locked eyes with a group of seven staring directly at him, he meekly snapped up. "Where do I go?"

"Down the hall, third door on the left. Basically the one that doesn't have a bathroom sign on it," the bear winked nodding towards the hall.

"Thanks so much for this," Byron said, stiffly marching down the hall.

"No worries!" The barman called after him.

The moment the bison entered the backstage area, the odor of leather wafted over him like a fog. He'd worn leathers before, during theme weekends at the Bonanza, but it wasn't a look he went for in his off hours. He didn't mind leather--just wasn't his thing. He maneuvered his great bulk around sets of fully geared men, some with hoods and some without. In either case, he apologized to several on his way to the dressing room as he accidentally bumped into them. He wondered if they were doing this intentionally for a second. Every performer seemed to walk in the direct center of the hallway with the same rehearsed, almost robotic gait. They didn't even respond to his apologies before carrying on with their day.

That rudeness aside, the bison entered the dressing room, which was lined with closets and wardrobes. A stronger wave of leather stench crashed over him and the bison held his nose. Get in, grab your articles, and get out, he told himself. He walked inside, approaching the nearest closet. Leather harnesses and chaps hung from hangers and he saw some leather caps on hooks in the back. On the floor, lined up in ascending order of size, sat multiple pairs of boots. Byron grumbled, frozen with indecision. Almost everything here required him to take some of his clothes off. The most modest clothing present were the caps and those wouldn't let him blend in too well.

Still, he had to start somewhere. He reached out and placed the cap on his head. To his surprise, the hat fit rather comfortably between his horns. He hadn't realized how cold his head was a few seconds ago.

The nerves began to depart from his body. That didn't feel so bad. In fact, the hat felt just right on his head. However, he sighed when he spied the remaining garments. He gulped and gradually shed his shirt one button at a time. His thick, bristly fur coat did little to hide him from the chill in the air. He hung his shirt up neatly and reached for one of the vests, but didn't grab one. He hesitated. His arm hung between a modest black vest and a spiked leather harness and collar. For some reason incomprehensible to him, he felt a sudden need to put on that harness. He fought back the impulse and grasped the vest. He slipped it over his shoulders and immediately felt a shiver go through his body. He inhaled the sweet, sweet aroma on the air with acceptance and surrender. The vest fit over his shoulders like a glove. Yet, he couldn't help but frown. Now that the chill had disappeared from his body, he missed the freedom offered when he had no shirt. He felt silly. Only a few seconds ago he was so reluctant to take his shirt off at all. He shook his head. There was no need to think so hard about it. He returned the vest and gently slipped the harness on. As the latch closed shut around his chest, he felt a tingle run up his spine. Correctness flowed through his bloodstream. The message was clear. Leather was sexy. Leather was mighty. He rolled his shoulders to adjust to the new weighty feeling the harness provided. Yes, this was right.

He probably would've blended in fine at that point, but better safe than sorry. Unclasping and tossing away his pants, he scooped the cool leather chaps up his calves and thighs. His bovine genitals and ass flopped out for the world to see, cupped with shiny, aromatic leather straps. The gust of wind on his rump felt liberating, calming. Byron secured the belt and felt another rush--another sensation of confirmation go through him.

Vaguely, he felt something else beginning to slip up his thighs, held up by two ursine paws but who could worry about such things when there was more leather to try on! He slipped leather bands over his arms, clicked a leather collar shut round his neck, doused himself in that wonderful, inviting, rugged scent.

Something like spandex snapped tight around his cock. His body went rigid, arms clapped to his sides. He stared forward into the middle distance, expressionless as the feeling of the leather speedo conforming to his contours instilled within him a deep belonging, clouding his thoughts. A fog washed over him that corroded his need to understand or think. Every piece of leather began to feel like just another part of his body. His worries about fitting in were far away, the bison only concerned with how much leather he could fit across his shape.

He marched out of the room. Number thirty-five's arms pumped robotically at his sides. He wasn't certain why, but he had to join his brothers on the main stage. The bison had to fall in line, because the line was where he belonged. Performing with the others would help him fit in. Fitting in was so important to him.

The scent of leather forever pervasive in his nose and a speedo wrapped around his cock with the number '35' painted across it, Byron made his way towards the sound of a raucous crowd and the blinding stage lights.

"NUMBER THIRTY-FIVE, Y'ALL!" came the announcer's voice as Byron parted the curtain, expressionless. "Startin' the biddin' at ONE THOUSAND! ONE THOUSAND! DO I SEE A ONE THOUSAND!"