FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Success wears Benjamin Franklin's name and comes in groups of fifty. That's my fee, 5k, cash on completion. The characteristic, deliberate smile that creases my muzzle as funds change paws is more a testament a job well done then to the excess cash finding its way into my fireproof lockbox. In my line of work it pays to be wary. Some think of me as paranoid, but I'm just a conscious fox, I take a moment to sniff my way around corners; I listen to what my whiskers have to say; I cross my t's; I dot my i's; I don't meet, which is why I'm in a nondescript bar in downtown Denver. I have a computer algorithm cycle through a list of pubs to add a hint of randomization to my local, each place has a back door, and if my mule is late I'm out of it, end of story. This time the lemur I paid to fetch my fare isn't going to make it. I can tell because I hacked into his smartphone and I'm tracking it with Google latitude. Maybe he's running late. Maybe he was delayed. I don't know, and the money is not enough to keep me. Curiosity, on the other hand, gnaws at my bones. I want to know why, but I've been down this path before living this life without rules leads to getting caught, and even if you can get away you have to burn your identity like a bridge and turn ghost. I'm not willing to do that again. I like Denver.

The alley out back sends an ominous shiver down my spine. Ever since being attacked in one of these a while back I've been jumping at shadows. The handle of the Taser in my hoodie pocket reassures me and I shuffle out to the street.

My paws begin naturally taking me towards my flat, but I stop when I arrive at the gate, my paw hovering over the keypad. Something is wrong. I can feel it in the twitching of my whiskers. My other senses give meaning to the warning, someone, coyote by the smell, mouth breather by the sound, is lurking on the opposite side of my complex's gate. Instinct drives me to back away, slowly.

Suddenly my earpiece starts screaming out messages at me, "Proximity alert, subject entering immediate vicinity."

I had Alistair, my marginally intelligent artificial intelligence, set to tracking my cash mule. The squeal of tires in the parking lot behind me corroborates the AI's report. Uh oh. Compromised, again. The gate in front of me opens to reveal the form of my uninvited coyote guest. He's a big fella, and his muscles look about ready to burst out of his suit.

"Well if it isn't a fox caught in a trap. My employer would like to meet you," Muscles says. He's got a slow drawl, and his accent isn't American born. I'm getting the Eastern European vibe off of this guy in waves. Not good.

"I don't meet."

"Yes, you do." He pronounces it "yis". The whole thing is half comical as if I've been transported straight into a Bond movie. Unfortunately, I doubt that I'm keeping my cool half as well as Shaun Connery or Pierce Brosnan. Plus, this guy's really big so give me a break at least I don't have urine streaming down my leg in rivulets. I can hear the heavy beat of approaching footsteps from behind me now, decision time.

"Sorry to disappoint you buddy, but I don't meet," with that I dive to the side, come up on my feet, and book it. I'm a fox so when it comes to outrunning douchebag predatory coyote types I can hold my own, presuming that I can keep Muscles from pounding his fists against my skull.

Muscles doesn't even try to catch me. He lets the goon squad coming up on me from behind do that. I make for the entrance of a nearby club. I helped the owner with a case of identity theft he had a while back, so I can typically get in with just a nod to the staff. It works for me this time, and the bouncers even step in to lend a hand when I point over my shoulder at the cheetah and raccoon pursuing me. I know Hector and Vance won't let them in, which means that as long as I don't leave I should be clear.

An hour later finds me drowning my sorrows with a bottle of vodka. A full sized bottle not one of those little teaser things, benefits of knowing the bartender. Problem is I won't be able to come back here. At least, not for a while, the Russian mob has now drawn an association between this hangout, and me. The bigger problem is that they know where I live. It just so happens that individuals with my skillset are in heavy demand by gangs in the criminal underworld. Nevertheless, regardless of what they are willing to offer me I'm not interested in working with the mob. On the other hand, if I refuse I might find myself in a pair of cement boots on the bottom of the Colorado River.

I've abandoned my glass and begun taking quaffs direct from the bottle when another fox catches my eye. He raises his glass at me with something of an awkward, shy grin. I take it as an invitation, and stumble my way over to the empty chair next to him. His cup's almost empty so I plop my bottle bar.

"Wanna help me finish that off?"

His eyes get a little wide, and he tilts his head regarding me in that exclusively canine fashion. Coming to a conclusion he pushes his glass out in front of him and I fill it up. "You okay there, fox?"

"Um yup A-Okay, it's just one of those drown your sorrows kind of nights. Ya feel me?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind." He says it nonchalantly with so little voice inflection that I'm not sure I heard him right. Fortunately, the look on his muzzle, and the cant of his eyes is enough to dispel even my intoxicated bewilderment. A vulpine grin creeps its way onto my visage despite my best attempts to return his insouciance in kind.

"Wow and I didn't even have to get you drunk to get you to say that."

"You look drunk enough for the both of us."

"Not yet," I say taking another drink from the bottle.

That response elicits a chuckle from him. "Castor," he says sticking out a paw.

"Cyril," his grip is firm making me think of my paw as something of a limp fish by comparison. I take a moment to size up the canine in front of me. He's fit. More so then I am. The highlights in his russet fur complement aquamarine color of his eyes nicely. His ears are focused on me with an intensity that I find daunting. There's no question he's interested. The question is how much petting do I have to do before he takes me home?

I'll tell it straight. I'm a hacker, and a pretty good one. Sometimes a hack involves more then just playing with machines; good hackers can play people too. The first rule of social engineering: lie. You have to bind almost exclusively factual information into your interactions with your subject to come across as genuine, but giving out personal information leads to emotional ties that must be avoided. For a social engineer nothing is more important then information. You need to get a handle on your target's barriers, fast. Nothing puts a mark off so resoundingly as personally rubbing them the wrong way. Your setting can give you incite into their personality profile, as well as their immediate interests. A club that plays electronic music sporting a full dance floor definitely means that my vulpine compatriot probably enjoys the scene; honestly how many people sort of like techno music, you either do or you run away with your paws covering your ears. Being that he's at the bar and not on the dance floor I can assume that he enjoys the scene, but isn't confident enough to join in. His attire; however, tells a slightly different story. He looks comfortable wearing a deep burgundy sweater with a collared shirt underneath, and at some point in the day he took the time to make sure that the colors match, not a club rat then. His manner suggests that he interested to see where this is going, but not overbearing, so I know that he's here to unwind and he wants me to make the next move. Job? He's probably a doctor, or something, and he probably came here straight from work. I'm guessing it was a bad day and that this is abnormal for him. It's my job to make him think of me as a way to make the night better if I do then I've found a place to crash tonight.

I take my time checking him out, eyes lingering on his crotch to get his blood pressure up and, yes, because I enjoy it too what's a profession without perks after all? I don't meet his gaze, focusing instead at the tip of his muzzle. Meeting a marks gaze to strongly will make them self-conscious, which I want, but will also make them want you to go away, which I don't. Instead I settle for my standard opener a gentle yet personal insult. "You don't look like you dance much."

"What makes you say that?" He tilts his head a bit more enough that it's abnormal, and... cute. I'm finding it difficult not to grin at him like a besotted puppy. It is not; however, the response I was looking for. I find women so much easier to manipulate. You see men are solid like rocks. If you insult us too hard we snap and it's over you can give up the mark. Women on the other and are much more flexible, you can insult the hell out of them, and they'll keep coming back for more thinking that eventually you'll stop. Naturally, as a good con artist I will, unfortunately with men you have to wear at that hard layer rather then smacking it with a hammer, which means I've got to build this veiled insult in layers like a finger of water prying its way into a cliff, and then freezing to wreck havoc.

"You just don't look like the type," I wave my hand at the air, "A bit prissy, too high and mighty to rub shoulders with us common folk. You don't really belong here."

His ears flick back before locking forward again a frown creasing his face, yup desired effect solicited. "What are you even talking about? Anyone can do the crap you call dancing."

I can't stop the wry smile this time as I lean in almost touching muzzles, but that's okay I would have had to fake one otherwise. "Show me."

We're on the dance floor, and he's doing this extraordinarily conservative, awkward dance, you know the one where you shift from paw to paw and move your hands entirely below your waist. It's a struggle not to laugh, but the offend stage is over, and I don't want to lose him, time to compliment and encourage.

I bump my hip against him and put my hands in the air sneaking my tail around his leg. It's far too intimate a gesture for the moment, but I cover it by whispering into his ear. "Everyone can dance Castor. It's just about finding the gumption to get on the dance floor." With that I slide myself in front of him, and pull his paws onto my hips wriggling back against him. Last lesson in social engineering, sex, when you can there's nothing like a raging libido to get your mark eating out of your paws. You don't think this fox keeps fit for nothing do you?

His hands tighten on my hips, and I can fell him relaxing in waves, by the time we part he's legitimately dancing on his own. Who says I'm not a good life coach? I catch his eyes following my tail, time to go. "Hey Castor, it's getting sweaty in here wanna go get some air?"

"A-air?" His muzzle is making a large O shape. God he's cute, I'm going to have to be careful with this one.

"Yeah, air, you know the kind you breathe."

"Is that all we're going to do?" He says wrapping his tail around his leg, and adopting a pensive frown.

Uh oh. Not good. I apparently didn't pour enough sex into the pickup to reduce his self-control so many ashes, but I can't back off anymore. Showing a lack of confidence would be infinitely worse. On the other hand, I can try to bolster his confidence to make him feel in control, some guys like that.

I meet his gaze this time, slowly licking my lips, "You tell me cowboy?"

Apparently that does it, because next thing I know I'm backed up against the passenger door of his car with his tongue down my throat, his paws kneading my sides, and I might be gripping his butt too. Let's just say that if I did it it's soft and firm and satisfying.

There's a warning blaring in the back of my head, but the vodka must have left me more muddled then expected because I've forgotten about it, until suddenly it smacks me full in the face along a heavy cane and a Russian accent. I go down like a sack of potatoes. From my position on the ground I can see Castor crouching over me, and wonder of wonders he's defending me from the mob. It's heroic, but I don't think that he'd still be standing there if he knew whom he was dealing with.

"Back away," my fox's voice is low and dangerous. If I hadn't pegged him as pretty and harmless my hackles might actually stand on end. I try to stand up, but my center of gravity is off or something and I fall flat on my ass, again. I hear a something slam into the car and I wince on Castor's behalf, but I look up to see him laying into the Cheetah who chased me earlier. I try to yell out a warning, but it comes out like a squeal. Fortunately, it's desperate enough that Castor spins away from the cheetah and only catches a glancing tackle from goon number two, the raccoon.

I've finally gained a measure of my senses, though not enough to know to run away. Reaching into my pocket, I yank the Taser free and dive for the raccoon's exposed leg fur. His exclamation is more of a choked gurgle then a scream, but at least I know that I got him. I roll onto my back with my tongue lolling out and a bit of a grin on my face despite everything, courtesy of mister raccoon's more then adequately satisfying scream. I think I'm in love with Tasers; they make me feel so tough. Looking up makes me feel something else, though, and I'm not sure I like it.

"Can we go?" the question comes out more pleading then I intend it to.

"Shouldn't we call the police?"

"No, why? It won't do any good, and I don't want to stick around for their big buddy to come back."

"Big buddy?"

Damn. I forgot to lie. Oh well, looks like I'm all in. "Um... yeah they chased me into the club."

"Did you steal something from them?"

"No, I... well actually considering what I do, maybe," I follow that sentence with what I hope is an endearing smile.

"Get in the car," his voice is low, but I can't accurately judge his tone. Of one thing I am certain, my smile must not have been endearing enough.

"Where's home?" he asks as we pull out of the parking lot.

"Can't go back there," I manage to force out, "They were waiting for me there. Just let me out somewhere away from here."

We're sitting at a traffic light, and I can feel his eyes boring holes into me. I don't even have to play at being distraught and vulnerable anymore, I'm pretty much as close to it as I've ever been.

He stops the car a couple minutes later and turns on the interior light. I give a little jerk when he touches my muzzle and turns it towards him. "Hold still," he says, gently. "He hit you just above the eye, and you're bleeding like a stuck pig. You do not appear to have a concussion, but you should have someone monitor your condition just in case. Do you have anyone?"

See doctor, I called it. Unfortunately, even being right doesn't manage to regenerate my characteristic flare. I feel very alone when I meet his eyes.

He sighs, "You can stay with me tonight, in the morning we'll see what there is to be done about this."

My ears flick full forward, "Um, what?"

He doesn't answer just grabs his keys and opens the car door. His apartment's a shithole across the highway from downtown, but it's surprisingly fastidious on the inside, even his furniture is nice.

"The bathroom is through there. I'll set some towels on the sink and some of my clothes beside them you look about my size. Leave your clothes on the floor and I'll put them in the wash."

It's when I get in the shower that the shaking starts. Some sound outside the shower door set me off, and before I know it I'm sitting in the shower hugging my knees and having some kind of episode. The cheetah's face won't get out of my head.

I guess I must have made a sound or something, because Castor's knocking on the shower door asking if everything okay. For some inane reason I find his voice reassuring. "No, I'm cool." I curse myself for a pathetic fox and manage to make it through the rest of the shower in one piece.

I do receive a critical once over before Castor proclaims me fine. "You can have the bed," he says pointing down the hall. "I'll sleep on the couch. I can get you some water if you like, but I wouldn't recommend anything heavy."

"I... uh can I maybe sleep on the floor in here with you?" I'm cursing myself as soon as the words are out of my mouth; I mean seriously what the fuck is up with me today?

"May as well use the bedroom that's what it's for," he says. "I'm not going to poke my head into your business, but I hope that whatever it is; it's worth it. You don't look like you fight much. A bit to prissy, too high and mighty to rub shoulders with us common Neanderthals. You don't really belong here."

That gets a nervous laugh out of me, which is embarrassing, because my nervous laughs come out all kinds of squeally, and I'm already feeling pathetic. "Why are you helping me?"

"You looked like you could use a good turn."

"Yeah, but why help me?" I say. "You don't even know me."

He just shrugs, and for whatever reason I leave it like that. "You know I only insulted your dancing because I wanted to get you on the dance floor."

"Still want to?"

"Not right now, honestly, no," I say rubbing my head ruefully. "I think that I've been bashed in the head enough for one night."

The peal of his laughter is pleasant. It chases my demons away. I reach for paw and raise my muzzle as I pull him into a kiss. The alcohol has faded from my senses, and I can really smell him for the first time, oleander and spice. My paws slide under his sweater and clash with his undershirt before I work my way underneath that as well. His fur feels good to the paw. It's softer then mine, but it's the passionate moan my claws elicit from him that sends my heart racing. I haven't had a kiss this good in... ever.

He puts a paw between us and gently pushes me away, "You don't have to do that." He's eying me hungrily, and I see his thoughtful eyes dart to the bedroom though he tries to play it off with a toss of his head.

I get my first genuine full on smile of the night, "I want to."

I reach for his belt buckle, and use it to pull him against me, grinding back hard, "Bed," he breathes, turning me around so that my back is to him and pushing me down the hall into the bedroom.

I hop up on the bed when I see it and get up on all fours arcing my tail and smirking back at him. The urgency with which he throws off his clothes and fumbles the lube out of a drawer only deepens my smirk. He's already fully out of his sheath by the time he gets the cap off of the bottle, but I push it to the side leaning off of the bed and pulling his hips forward as I take him into my muzzle. That's when I get my first whimper out of him. It starts out as a deep whine, and builds into a shuddering gasp. I speed up; I can't help it he's just so damn hot.

"C-C-Cyril," he's patting my shoulder with some urgency, so I slow easing him down, and then pulling back.

"If you thought that that was good you should try the main course," I say with a sly grin.

As I shift back onto all fours he gets behind me holding my hips in a feverish grip. A couple thrusts later I gasp when I feel him slide under my tail. Then he reaches around to grab my sheath. Feeling his fingers on me almost gets me off right there, but when the rhythm of his thrusts matches that of his paws I know that I'm not going to last long. From the sounds of his deep panting over me he isn't either.

His knot slides into me with a click and Castor collapses on top of me sinking his teeth into my neck fur and thrusting wildly. The extra weight pushes my chest into the mattress, and the feel of his teeth sends me tumbling over the edge my rough barks joining his muffled yips.

When we roll onto our sides, and he wraps an arm around my chest nuzzling my cheek ruff I can't help but push myself back against him. This feels right, happy, hot, and safe. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or the day after, but this right here? This is good.