FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Nothing to it. All I gotta be is my sexy self.

They say it's bad form to start a story by looking in the mirror, but He drew me so well this time that I can't go on without being a little narcissistic.

I think about a light and it's there, above me but sourceless, a bright spot shining down from nothing. And, since I thought about the mirror just now, it's already in front of me.

God, I'm gorgeous.

I'm proud of Him. He's come a long way since I was a brainless, limping stick figure with a tail and triangles for ears. Those were the dark days when I knew I existed, but little else. I would get a momentary glimpse of His bedroom when He opened the sketchbook to a fresh page, and then it would get dark again. Until He drew my new eyes. And I would come to again, slightly better, just that much more complete than before.

That was what, eight years ago? Before the messy traces of other popular artists, before He knew how to draw a paw correctly, before He bought His first tablet and got used to digital lines.

Look at those layers, though. You wouldn't think it took less than an hour to get through my sketch and line work, but the real effort is in the polish. He took some life-drawing classes a couple years ago and suddenly I could move around with actual muscles that looked like they belonged. My chesticles turned into pecs, my tail finally became an extension of my spine and--mercifully--my tailhole moved to a place that was actually practical for taking a dump.

Not that I've ever taken a dump, but you get the idea.

Everything works. The ears flick, the highlights glimmering in the right spots, the fur texture actually thick and fluffy instead of merely looking thick and fluffy. My eyes are deep pools of blue instead of an anime rejection. Am I ever glad his hentai phase is over. At one point I thought I was going to die a yaoi-flavored death. You try fucking with a black bar over your dick, you see what it's like.

Those poor, pixelated kemonos.

The boy did good. Dozens of layers and time spent in masking really paid off. The only outline, really, is on my edges. The rest is all shading, subtle but effective. I finally feel like a known entity. I mean, I have keyword status on e621, I have for a while, but today's activities make me feel like I've arrived. Yeah, it's silly to count pageviews, but the numbers don't lie. Neither do eighteen thousand watchers.

I am the epitome of sex. I appeal to the lowest common denominator, and don't let the terminology fool you. I can't get all the people off all of the time, but I can try. This is what the market demands: male wolf switch, smolder, confident, in ridiculous shape and hung like a god. Not a Greek god, those wimps. A fat sheath and grapefruits for testicles, impractical for moving around but great for posing. And most of what I do is posing.

I hear the voices up above. I hear my name called. It's time.

One more turnaround and a little fluffing for good measure and the mirror disappears because I no longer need it, followed shortly by the light. The platform beneath me vibrates slightly to give the impression of movement, though it's only because I envision myself being lifted to a stage. The voices get louder, the anticipation like a drug. What pose do I strike? Snarling hunter? Supplicating omega? Fear-inducing boner?

I think I'll just stand here and see what He requires of me.

Like a vertical wipe, the stage comes into view, followed by the audience. It's quite a turnout; I recognize a few high rollers but mostly anonymous people of various species. They're mostly male. He doesn't draw pussy, and I don't fuck it. Though herms are a grey area...at least they've got the dangly bits.

He speaks as the platform comes to a stop. Though there's nothing separating me from the crowd, they won't be able to see me until He wants them to see me. "You've clicked on the notices. You've put up with the journals. Now it's time."

The lights blind me for only a second. It's all shadows, whistling and catcalling beyond the edge of the stage. I do my best pinup, my sinews stretching and bulging under the various browns and creams of my fur. I wiggle my hips and my junk exaggerates the motion. More whistling. I think I hear some of them drooling.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" He says, already knowing the answer. He waits for them to calm down before continuing. "Most of you know how these work. For those new to the process, here's my rundown."

I feel a shimmer behind me, and I look back to see a bed shimmer in out of thin air. It's got masculine lines and colors, perfect for a guy like me. Seeing my cue, I jump onto the comforter, tantalizingly on all fours.

"He's versatile, so you can have him on top..." I thrust my hips, lipsticking just the tiniest bit. "...or on bottom." I raise my tail and bow down as the platform starts to rotate slowly. I'm the centerpiece, people on all sides. The only backstage is below me, and I'm not going down there anytime soon. "No females, and if bidding goes high enough you'll get a background in increasing complexity." No one seems to care about the first part.

As I flip onto my back and lewdly stroke my rapidly-filling sheath, I'm joined by a white figure that seems to have materialized out of nowhere. It's mostly featureless except for a heavy black outline, vaguely canine anatomy and two dead-looking circles for eyes. It climbs onto the bed next to me, on its knees, presenting itself as a proxy for nearly everyone in the audience.

I hear His voice again, seemingly from everywhere at once, like God. "Bidding will start at ten dollars and go in five-dollar increments. If it stalls, you can go a dollar at a time. No sniping! This is a fair deal."

A couple of exaggerated moans, but nothing more. They'll bid anyway. The proxy leans over me and presses his muzzle to mine, surprising but not unwelcome. Neither is his paw on my sheath. For a guy with no face, he's a good kisser. Without looking, I grasp around until I find what feels like his cock, which is a generic version of the idea of a cock. It exists only as an extension of the outline until I feel its mass. It's not even warm, which is slightly unnerving.

I get the feeling some of the "bidders" are just here to jerk it while everyone else shouts prices.

"Let's start it!"

"Ten!" comes a voice from somewhere. My lips tingle with the sprouting of fur, and my paw becomes much more occupied. A blue husky stares back at me when I open my eyes. Not a bad-looking guy, and one of those with a human cock. Big, but knotless. I barely get a good look before more voices join.

"Fifteen!" An otter with purple hair and a tribal fishhook necklace around his neck. They all have hooks around their necks. I'd like to see an otter on a farm or something, for once.

"Twenty!" My head nearly gets mashed into the mattress when the otter's blunt nose elongates and the fur peels back around a grinning black beak. Somehow he's still kissing me, albeit with more tongue than anything else, but he's handsome for a blue jay. The feathery touch on my dick is nice, too. He's got pretty yellow eyes.

I try to keep my position on the bed while the bidders go back and forth and my partner shifts through species quicker than a sparkledog. I can't assume that the person shouting even looks like what I see before me. It could be an alternate character, or even a bid on behalf of someone else. I suppose as long as the money comes in with permission for use, it's all good. Doesn't affect me much.

The bidding shoots up to fifty in no time. I get a shot of a cute, built malamute before he's snatched away, replaced by a pony. And it's not the sexy kind. Fortunately I don't have to live with that image for long. Suddenly the cartoonish muzzle fills with rows of serrated teeth and the proxy actually loses shape before molding itself into a sleek shark. My paw now holds two cocks, each of them dripping onto my thigh. This could make for some interesting angles.

"One hundred!" comes a voice from the back of the room. The shark shimmers and fizzles but he's still there.

"Five-dollar increments, you idiot," someone snarks. "Ignored."

"Comment hidden by the page owner," He says. I love Him.

In the meantime, Mr. Shark has crawled his way between my legs and thrown them over his shoulders. Grinning down into my face, he smears one of his lengths around under my balls, no question as to his intent.

"One ten!" This guy just doesn't get it. Either he hasn't read the rules, or...

"Shut up and quit posting!" the other voice yells.

I turn my attention away for a moment, struggling to see beyond the bright lights. It's all shadows, but I can see two people standing up.

"Haters gonna hate," says the shadow. "Put up or shut up."

It's not too long before He interjects. "If you don't like the rules, don't bid."

"Fuck you!" The guy looks about ready to pound somebody. The shark rolls his hips and finds my hole, sinking in a couple inches. I'm not loose, I swear. I'm just drawn that way.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," He says, poking around on his iPad. The troublemaker disappears in a dramatic puff of smoke. Well, if he didn't want to get blocked, he should have followed the rules. He's probably off on Artist Beware already, ranting to cool his head. Good luck with that. I can't be sure, but I think he was the pony guy.

Just as I'm starting to enjoy the tapered shaft's travel along my insides (and his hand on my dick, wow, sharkskin is smooth) He pipes up. "Shall we continue?"

"Fifty-five!" Ah, shit. Mr. Shark shrinks down to twink size, rippling and exploding into a ball of russet fur, turning an apple into a pear of a fox. He's got birthing hips, he's cross-dressed and I can't be sure but it feels like he has a PA. Pulling out reveals just that, a thick-gauged ring right through the end of his cockhead. That's a first for me. Felt good, which is a pity, because he's turning around and lifting his tail.

Foxes.

He curls the tail up over my shoulder as I move behind him and hotdog those creamy cheeks. My erection looks massive even surrounded by his ample rump. I could do without the transvestism, but a butt's a butt and I'm not exactly in charge. He spreads around me with no resistance; it feels like a tailhole, but more like what one thinks a tailhole might feel like before one's ever had sex. It's like fucking white.

Before I can get in too far someone shouts, "Sixty!" and the fox disappears like the picture on a bad television. The proxy gets off one good squeeze and then the broad back of a brown-haired horse is all I can see. I miss that nice soft foxtail fur on my cheek. But something's wrong down south. It's not tight enough.

A roar of hisses and boos erupts all around, making me stumble and almost lose my smile. Several figures thrust their paws into the light, pointing and shaking. I know it's not me, so I pull the horse tail away and look down to see myself buried to the hilt in vagina.

So that's how it feels. It's like fucking a roast beef sandwich. Warm but still unfulfilling.

"Sorry!" yells some guy. "Sorry, wrong ref. Gimme a second!" Something crashes to the ground, something that sounds expensive. "Comment hidden by its author!"

I can't do much while the crowd grumbles restlessly. I don't even want to move my hips, at the risk of turning off potential bidders. Some rich nerd might not appreciate the thought of me being even slightly bi. So I sit there and chew my lip, looking like a jackass, until the guy shouts again.

"Sorry! Sixty!" Double bids aren't allowed, technically, but I think everyone (including me) is just glad to see the mare grow some junk. I only get to see his back muscles ripple into a more masculine shape, but I can feel the fit grow more snug, more...normal. The now-stallion stays where he is, though, likely disappointing those who think horses are always tops. To be honest, I could get used to this.

"Sixty-five." Shooonk. Like a classic cartoon, the stallion shrinks limb by limb, lightening in color and becoming decidedly more fluffy. I have no ass to grab, and soon no tail either. When all's said and done, my dick's attached to a feral weasel not much bigger than I am. And I mean down there: someone apparently likes being a cock sleeve. I run my fingers over his stretched sides and swear I can feel my own throbbing veins.

He cranes his neck impossibly backwards and looks at me with beady eyes. "Dook!"

I wave my fingers. "Uh, dook." He grunts and sprays the bed with thin, watery ropes of cum. His whole tiny body spasms around me. I almost expect to see the head of my dick emerge from his muzzle.

"Seventy!" Back to the ocean, this time with an orca who crawls out from under me and pulls me close so we can frot while making out. That tongue! And not a hint of fish breath. He's even smoother than the shark, kind of like a living pool toy. Wait a minute...

Squeak, go my pads as they rub down his side. I break the kiss to make a surreptitious inspection of the cetacean's neck and shoulder area, and sure enough I find a heat-sealed seam of PVC. Feeling my way to his rump, the inflation valve sticks out like a misplaced third nipple until I press it in with my thumb pad. He makes a pleased squeaking noise in my ear, and it's not as bad as I thought it would be. I doubt He's interested in inflatables, but he probably wouldn't turn down a high bid if it came down to that.

"Sssssseveenty-five," someone susurrates from the side of the stage, almost near the curtain. The plastic orca elongates and begins to surround my body with his lengthening torso. His "skin" shimmers, making a soft rattling sound as scales pop out everywhere. The thick tongue draws itself along the side of my head, thinning and becoming more raspy. His friendly eyes morph into something more sinister, and even I'm surprised when his dorsal fin splits and blooms into a hood.

This is getting weird. It gets weirder when he starts suffocating me in a death coil.

The audience murmurs. Nobody's bidding up. Am I really worth only seventy-five bucks? For two characters? Much as I try, it's hard keeping a sultry face when I'm getting the life squeezed out of me. The end of the snake's tail nudges my legs open, the coils shift, and I feel a slimy prodding under my own tail. It goes in roughly and starts up with languid, forceful strokes. Too bad I can't breathe to enjoy them. I may be just some lines on a page, but damn if it's not uncomfortable.

Somehow some other part of his body reaches up to grab my neck and crane it to meet his gaze, which is oddly alluring. I can't tell whether it's the lack of oxygen to my head or those mesmerizing eyes, but I can't look away or close my lids. His lips move (do snakes have lips?) but all I can hear is wave upon wave crashing on the beach of my mind, a sound so relaxing it blocks nearly everything else out.

Those fangs are so shiny...

His...his mouth...so wide...

Fill me with your venom...

And then I'm back on the bed, on all fours, with a tongue lapping at my tailhole. Not that it doesn't feel good, but it takes me a few seconds to shake off the spell from the snake. That would have made for an interesting picture. With a jowl-twisting motion, I loll my tongue and flash the audience a sexy smile, fully recovered. That other tongue continues its work, forcing me open and loose and speechless with the exception of a moan here and there.

I rest my chin on my paws and enjoy this one, wiggling my ass up high. I don't even care who it is as long as he keeps up the attention. The assorted hollers and claps from the seats encourage us, and it genuinely feels like the bidding is slowing down. That, or people are getting too distracted to bid.

Claws dig painfully into my hips, followed by a substantial weight on my back.

Those aren't fingers. And that thing jabbing at my ass feels like a penis bone, not merely a boner. That drooling on my back is a bit too voluminous. But I quit thinking about that when the narrow shaft spears into me and starts pistoning, pinning me to the bed.

With my head mashed into the pillows I don't have to do much to see the feral Rottweiler on my back, complete with collar and leash leading to a floating transparent hand. His hips have a field day with my rump, shoving his rapidly swelling cock as far into me as he can without tying. It's easily the roughest sex I've ever had, and some of the most pleasurable. No distracting conversation, just good old-fashioned fucking the way nature intended.

A few people in the crowd shout epithets that have no place in a civilized auction, but they're pissing into the metaphorical wind of those who bellow encouragement, both to the dog and to me to take it like a man. Above the scent of my own body, the air in the room is stagnant with the musk of dozens of species. Along with the Rottie's dick it makes me dizzy and even hornier, if that's possible. Just my tip against the sheets sends sparks through my system.

"Eighty-five!" The dog's paws lengthen and purchase a better grip, while his hunching mitigates and ultimately stops. My ass remains pleasantly occupied. Once I've caught my breath I realize I missed the eighty-dollar bid completely due to the snake's charms. When I open my eyes and look back, I take in a handsome brown wolf in workout attire. He's the most normal one so far.

"This is fuckin' robbery," growls a nasal voice from near the back of the room. The sound of a hundred-some-odd heads turning in unison doesn't bode well for this dissenter. He continues, though: "Way too much money for just some porn."

Someone stands up. All eyes are on him.

The wolf's knot slips easily through my abused hole without anyone noticing. He holds himself there, his flesh pulsing against mine, as we both watch the silhouette with everyone else.

He's hard to see, but he's wearing a suit. I can tell that much. Broad in the shoulders, with a gifted bulge behind his pinstripes, he turns with the grace of a tiger, which he is. At least I think his stripes look like tiger stripes, black on white.

"Pardon me, but are you aware that artists are sorely underpaid in this fandom?" His voice carries even though he's facing away from the stage.

The other guy doesn't answer right away. I imagine him squirming in his seat while looking up at the intimidating feline. "Porn is porn. Art is art. There's a difference." I smirk; is this his first visit here? Or anywhere, for that matter? Did he just wake up and wander in?

Several shouts erupt from all directions, but the tiger silences them with a paw. This is more entertaining than the auction! Even the wolf watches, having gone a bit soft. I shift onto my elbows and join him.

"You could argue that, sure," says the tiger, "but you're mistaken, I'm afraid." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a dark rectangle that turns out to be a tablet of some kind. It's probably an iPad, from the way he talks. When the logo illuminates, I have my answer. He swipes his fingers across its surface, sliding screens to and fro, tapping this and that icon. I notice a familiar banner and start to smile, barely concealing the wag in my tail.

"Why would I want to pay two or three times for a pre-posed auction than I can pay for a regular commission?"

"That's not your question to answer, is it?" replies the tiger without a hint of malice. "Art is subjective. Would you say defecating in a paper bag and placing it in a white room is worth three million dollars?"

"Fuck no."

The tiger swipes to a new screen and holds it up for all to see, except me and my wolf friend. "Untitled 46. Installation art, first displayed in 1996 in Brazil. Shall I read the artist's statement?" Without waiting for an answer, he goes ahead.

"By demonstrating the omnipresent lingering of a 'corporate world', his installation references post-colonial theory as well as the avant-garde or the post-modern and the left-wing democratic movement as a form of resistance against the logic of the capitalist market system. His installations demonstrate how life extends beyond its own subjective limits and often tells a story about the effects of global cultural interaction over the latter half of the twentieth century. It challenges the binaries we continually reconstruct between Self and Other, between our own 'cannibal' and 'civilized' selves."

The room is so silent that I don't think anyone actually understood what was just said. I know I don't. And I thought people just liked drawing dicks a lot.

"So?" says the nasal voice.

"So," says the tiger, "art is subjective. Can you make sense out of that statement? No one can, because art means different things to different people. Though I doubt that makes much difference to you. Judging by your profile, you're a pretty enigmatic individual." He lifts his paw, palm up, and the lights raise. I see an impressive array of people in the house, but mostly I'm looking at the nasal-voiced guy, who's merely a cloak with no face.

"I bet you're not even bidding," purrs the tiger.

"I-I have a right to be here!" protests The Man With No Icon.

The crowd murmurs as more people look up the information for themselves. A bulky kangaroo stands up and points stiffly. "You joined two days ago."

"And you have six pageviews," pipes up a huge-eyed tanuki in a kimono.

"You're going to run out of customers if you keep ripping them off!" Even The Man With No Icon doesn't seem to believe his own words anymore. "You're pricing out your best clients!"

"Obviously not," the tiger says with a grin. "Look at you." Sure enough, all the specter's self-righteousness can't stand up in the face of logic.

I look over at Him, whose finger hovers over his own tablet. He smiles at me and taps the screen. The Man With No Icon disappears in a puff of smoke, and the room erupts in cheers. Three or four more sourpusses fade away as well, leaving only those who want the art the most.

"That, ladies and gentlemen," the tiger chuckles as he sits down, "is capitalism. Ninety." The wolf morphs effortlessly into a clone of the tiger, including suit with open fly, behind me. His bulge wasn't lying, not one bit. I'm pleasantly full back there, enjoying my first-ever barbed cock. The tiger in the audience thrusts lewdly, while his counterpart splits me open onstage. How did so many people get fooled into believing the whole barbs-equal-pain thing? It just feels mighty nice to me.

Mr. Tiger's little diatribe seems to have affected the crowd, or at least encouraged them. What follows is a flurry of bids so quickly replaced by one another that the proxy can't keep up changing his form. I can feel him kind of buzzing behind me, and especially inside of me, like a radio twirled from one end of the dial to the other. It does a pleasurable little number under my tail, and I find my paw going to my cock to release some of the electric tension.

I'm starting to lose it, and the bidders seem to know it. They seem to prey on it. The buzz in my rump settles into a vibration until the price breaks one-fifty, when several audience members poof out with mixed resentment and congratulations. In that moment of silence, the dick-that-isn't-a-dick morphs into something more solid but quite a bit smaller. In fact, it almost slips out, and I turn around thinking that someone's snuck in under the age restriction.

But the white blob grows a nose, a pair of piercing blue eyes, and some nice leather bondage gear. Oh, yes, and a cigar. You can't be a daddy polar bear without a cigar.

His belly extends up over my rear, pushing my tail to the side. I leave my boner and support myself with both arms. Though nothing short of deific, they tremble under the weight but hold firm. No doubt they're bulging in a drool-inducing way, so it's all good as far as the auction is concerned.

Grinning, he shoots a puff of smoke down at my upturned face, and thankfully it isn't real smoke--just a semi-opaque layer of light digital brushstrokes--and doesn't smell like ass. Don't get me wrong, there are some real choice cigars out there, but most of your run-of-the-mill types are just awful.

Give me a pipe any day. Speaking of which, where's that sexy white dad with the glasses and the pipe? I wouldn't be surprised to see him wandering around close by. That would make a nice picture, though he'd likely request a threesome...

"One fifty-five!" The polar bear shifts from America-fat to Ethiopia-thin in a flash, so fast that I almost buck him off my back from all the extra pushing I'd been doing. He holds on, however, black stripes curling around all over the place as he darkens in others. A raccoon with a swimmer's build, not too muscular, just shapely in all the right places. His tail swishes in arcs and circles behind him while he grips my hips and slides his now-average dick out of my hole, using our juices to stroke himself.

And then his tongue rapes me. Not like it's anything more intrusive than a dick, but man, it's long. And wet. And talented. He's got to be in there at least three inches, slurping at my insides like a retiree at a Vegas buffet. His fingers snake between my legs to grasp my length, pulling it back by the knot to milk me. That buzz--which never left, really--starts to grow and broaden, spreading through my groin like the birth of a tsunami.

I've never quite felt this way before. Looking at the audience, meeting some of their gazes, watching their paws and hands and claws handling all their different erections--it's really getting me off. I mean, I know I'm a hot dish, but flaunting it live like this is something else. Something better, in fact. I could get used to this.

Someone shouts something and the coon fizzles back to the fat polar daddy, who seems to have little trouble eating me out and smoking at the same time. He leaves my dick alone, though. It flops back and hits my belly, now stuffed into a spiked ring at the base with a cage of some sort around my knot. Chastity wear. If I come with this thing locked around me, I'm in for a world of trouble.

"Sixty!" A well-known cartoon character.

"Sixty-five!" A lion in a wrestling uniform.

"Seventy!" Back to the otter, who couldn't resist the allure. It's getting pretty pricey. I like it. My cock free again, I grab and stroke while the otter turns me onto my back, pulls out and straddles me down to my sheath. Nice how these proxies come pre-lubed. He's pretty flexible, bending backward while he hops around on my lap to give me an eyeful of my shaft stretching his hole.

He fires off a few jerks of his own before I realize the bidding's stopped. Murmurs ripple through the crowd. The glow of His tablet uplights His face like a movie villain's. His fingers hover over the screen, his smile eerily gleeful. If I didn't know any better, I'd say He was enjoying himself entirely too much. All the way to the bank, yeah.

Hook swinging crazily from shoulder to shoulder, the otter grins down at me with self-satisfaction. Right before he grinds right onto my knot, making an otter pop of himself. I'm having a hard time maintaining my composure , though the crowd's vocabulary has mostly switched from dollars to scents. If they don't shut up, I'll "Breed his ass" just like they want me to.

A look past the stage, past the glaring lights, reveals a largely empty room. Outbid and probably relieved not to be lighter of pocket, the familiar faces that have fucked about with me tonight have left. A couple I wish had stayed, most of them of no consequence, however. The tiger in the suit sits with his legs crossed, a single finger playing along his chin. If he's waiting to snipe, he's out of luck.

Slick, warm flesh slides along my shaft, milking the inevitable from me. Struggling to control my hips, I try to look as toppy as I can. Kind of hard to do when your power bottom is drilling himself onto your dick, I know. Then it hits me that I don't have to show off to entice bidders anymore, and that makes it easier to lay back and enjoy the ride.

The room gets pretty quiet after that, the few remaining stragglers sticking around only to bust a nut in their seats. Hey, it's a free show anyway, they're just not going to win.

I decide to take a more active role and replace the otter's paw with my own, stroking the thick thing. He's got one of those weird uncut-dick-even-though-he-has-a-sheath ones, which is kind of overkill to me but as long as it works I'm fine. He lets out a moan in a smooth voice that might be fun to listen to over dinner. If he were real. Chances are his player is the complete opposite. Which gets me thinking about chubby otters. Okay, yum.

"Is that all you got? Oh, yes?" I glance over to see Him talking to the tiger in the suit. The tiger's got his muzzle up near His ear, only his lips and whiskers visible in the light from the tablet. I can see His face working, the gears turning behind those eyes I've grown used to in all the years of staring back at him from the paper, then the screen. They light up. He nods. The tiger smiles and retreats back to the shadows, where he bends the ear of someone else I can't see at all.

The tension behind my knot is maddening. I can feel the spasms starting, begging to be pushed over the edge, but I can't quite get there. It feels like I'm waiting for the next thing. _Any_thing. Not like I don't enjoy being held on the edge.

Static snaps immediately to my left. The air is charged there, and when I look I swear I can see it ripple. Through the distortion the tiger leans in close, a smile wrapping his words up into a pretty package. The shadowy figure nods emphatically and shakes paws with the tiger. For just a moment I catch the brown fur, the webbing between the fingers.

Oh no, he didn't.

"Anyone else?" He asks the room. I have a feeling they all know it's over. The ones who've got their cocks out don't really care. They're just waiting for the cum to fly.

"Three hundred," says the tiger. "If no one else cares to bid one seventy-five."

No one does. The fizzle next to me metamorphoses into a clone of the tiger again, suit and all, just in time for him to shove his dickhead down my throat. Those barbs tickle a little and add a nice texture.

The dam breaks. A shockwave goes through the three of us onstage, and it clicks in my head that this is the final bid, the deciding factor. Our counterparts in the audience have struck a deal, not only netting Him a chunk of change but satisfying everyone involved. Well, soon.

The otter takes back control of his cock and aims it at my face, rolling his hips against mine. I'm already well on the way to the finish, and I try not to let that affect the way I suck on Mr. Tiger Suit. He turns my head and goes deeper. If he had musk (and I'm sure his player smells real nice) it would be drowning out the mixed scents in the room. But I get off because they're getting off, and the cycle perpetuates itself. I have a suspicion we're working toward a specific look.

Pushing off from the bed, I hunch up when the otter pounds down, as if he can go more than a couple inches without being stretched all to hell. I grasp his feet with my paws and hold him there, jackhammering until I feel my balls let go. When you need enough cum to leak out of a tailhole, you feel it all the way through. It splashes around me and slicks up the passage nicely, drips sloshing out and matting down my sheath fur just as planned.

The tiger grunts and floods my mouth with his load, copious as well, so it dribbles out the sides of my muzzle and down my neck. It's gotta look good, after all. He leaves his dick between my lips while I make a show of loving the taste, which I do, but still. There's a nice pool of it in the back of my throat I can't swallow just yet.

Finally, the otter holds himself still in time to paint the both of us. The first volley hits the tiger's pants, leaving a nasty stain. The second douses my chin in warm seed. I push the tiger cum out of my mouth around the barbed cock for more effect.

"Sold!" He says, punching the button on the tablet that ends the auction. Instead of the bang of a gavel there's a massive flash that washes away the stage, the people, and my two current fuck buds.

If there's a third load from the otter, I never see it. It's probably frozen mid-shot, likely given the trend of what's desirable in a porn pic. I didn't expect to be spit-roasted, but I think the commissioners got their money's worth. I know I did, from my position on the matter.

Even so, I won't know what the final product will look like. It'll get the views, and the favorites, and probably net Him a dozen or so new watchers. Judging by how much fun we had, I suspect this could turn into a regular thing.

And I can't wait to see the sketch.

2/1-4/21/13