FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

this is a part 2 of this story. There's more world in this one.

This story contains content that might harm some readers. Please be gentle and kind to yourself; if this is not something you can handle right now, please don't read this story. Specifically, this story contains coercion, stalking, non-consent/rape, rough sex, messing with medication, public sex, sex between strangers, risk of pregnancy, pregnancy, breeding, forced breeding, D/S vibes without negotiation, altered states of mind and the manipulation of a main character in altered states of mind, very intense heat, group sex.

If this story strays into harder or more niche kinks (mostly pregnancy or medical), those parts may only be posted on a limited access platform.

Ciriaco is transmasculine. This story does not call him a cunt boy, but that is also how he identifies. It describes his genitals in graphic detail, and uses the following language in reference to his genitals: t-cock, cock, pussy, cunt, lips. There is risk of pregnancy re: the trans character. He is NOT misgendered at any point in this story.

I do writing commissions and copy editing, hmu if interested.

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“Good. You came back."

It is true. Ciriaco has come back— has walked here, back to this train and this stallion, with no visible or physical coercion forcing his path— wearing only a hoodie, soft pants, and the illusion of choice, all veils with which to cover the intensity of these sensations from the intrusive and voyeuristic gaze of strangers.

He hadn't wanted to come back— not really, not with the then-rapidly-dissolving parts of his brain that could form a coherent thought louder than his cunt. The encounter on the train had been terrifying, leaving the spaniel with intense feelings of shame and violation and horror— horror that was only growing, parallel with the screaming of his heat, threatening to override his thoughts and the context of the sensations his body was experiencing.

Ciriaco could feel the cum. The cum that Tyge had spread across his cunt, pushed into his body with painfully large fingers that took what they came for at their own brutal pace. Ciriaco's raw, overstretched flesh was slathered in it, quivering in the shallow rests between sharp unbearable spikes of pleasure, as his swollen pussy spasmed periodically, dutifully drinking the semen the hippogryph stallion had forced inside his body. It had been so distracting all the way home— the first sign that this heat would be like nothing he'd ever felt before— all he'd wanted to do was step into an alley and push fingers into his slit, feel the thick fluid coat them—

He's in tears, frustrated, by the time he's through his doors and shucked his clothes, barely remembering to shut and lock the apartment behind him. He should go wash himself out, empty himself, reduce the chances that the sperm might take; he goes to the bathroom, turns on the shower; he watches the water run down the glass doors of his shower, finger straying to rest on his still-stiff t-cock;

His phone buzzes and he looks at it, distracted. A single text sits on his illuminated screen, demanding his attention as gently as the fingers had. “Show me." The text reaches inside of him, gripping some burning internal part of himself that adds tears of desperation to those streaking down his cheeks.

He takes too long to respond, and the phone admonishes, “now." The four characters are stark, somehow carrying the displeasure of their sender for having to wait. Ciriaco yelps, grasps desperately for the phone, and never thinks to question how the stallion had acquired his number so quickly.

It takes him a moment to struggle into a reasonable position, wincing from the soreness and hunger so deep in his body. Nevertheless, he opens his legs, hips twisted to catch the light, and braces such that the phone has a clear view of his aching cunt, of the desperate shuddering of his hole, straining to keep Tyge's load inside. When Ciriaco opens Tyge's text window, he sobs slightly to himself: there's a '…' at the bottom, an icon that stops periodically and resumes with the pace of someone's typing; he races to send the invitation, and hopes the little happy chirp his phone makes when the connection has been established indicates the feed landed in time—

The '…' disappears, stays gone for several long moments, and then returns briefly, ahead of a firm “Good boy." Ciriaco keens to himself, but there's relief in the sound, the softest undercurrent of pleasure and joy beneath the fear. The dots disappear, replaced with the connection beeps, and then the crackle of some elsewhere's room-noise, and Ciriaco is horrified to feel his breath catch, to momentarily comprehend how very inexplicably and terrifyingly important it is to him, that this stallion be pleased by his gestures of submission. “Beautiful. You yield to me so beautifully, accept what I give you so readily." The voice is low, commanding even through the hazy distortion of their digital voice connection. “You'll look so good, round with my kits. Fuck. Spread for me."

Again Ciriaco cries out, regards the demanding expectation in the hippogryph's burning eyes. Hesitantly, he drags his hand down his front, blushing red to encounter the dried evidence of the hippogryph's claim on his soft belly, its slope yet still gentle and unstrained. But Tyge's patience is not long, and Ciriaco jumps to action when a sharp growl comes from the phone, contorting into a position to give the phone full visual access to his entire cunt. He hesitates again, squeezing his eyes closed, and the voice coming from the phone becomes soft, losing no firmness to the sudden gentleness. “Oh, lovely man. Make me want to breed you tonight, can't wait for the fucking train tomorrow. Show me."

And so Ciriaco does, pressing two fingers against the swollen entrance to his cunt, spreading the puffy, tender flesh harshly apart. Ciriaco's own walls attempts to resist him, cunt squeezing against the two fingers, the contractions of his channel on full display, pushing out gobs of cum that ooze down his thighs in an uncomfortable, viscous trickle— and still there was more, he could feel it inside him—Tyge had forced so much of it inside him, forcing exhausted muscles to be pliable and receptive. He hated how hard the thought made him squeeze—

Ciriaco was lost to time, lost to the game they were playing, enraptured by the pace of instructions and the praise and the sharp demands, all the way into the small hours of the morning. Type walks an oblivious Ciriaco through a series of intense stretches and positions that mercilessly open Ciriaco's body, working Tyge's cum ever deeper. Only when streaks of dawn stretch across his shivering, exhausted body does Tyge abruptly stop, soft but firm. He commands Ciriaco to lay back and remember the sensation of Tyre's fingers on the train, to understand and reflect on the enormity of Tyre's claim, to do so until Ciriaco's morning alarm went off as normal, and to proceed down to the train thereafter.

“Do not bathe. Everyone is to know why you're here; your past and your future." He says, and then gentleness runs from his voice as he relays the last instructions. “Do not let another stud touch you." It was said with nearly a snarl, and Ciriaco whimpers quietly in submission. “The first kits in you are already mine; I'll make the decision about which litters of yours to share and which studs shall breed you at my leisure, not theirs." Ciriaco feels frozen, unable to muster a response, and then the voice is gone, the crackling room-noise with it, and Ciriaco is in his own bed, silent and alone and aching and scared. He wants so many things— his body wants so many things so badly, and it is so hard to know what he wants in all this, or which he he even is right now—

He is out of tears when the alarm finally rings, some span of minutes-or-hours thereafter. He is hollow, shivering, simultaneously cold and overheated, and so so—- there is no word for this hunger deep inside his body, the hollow in him that aches to be bred: to name it would be to make it terrifyingly real to those who do not experience a breeder's heat, would confirm that it is possible for someone to so deeply lose control. The suppressants had been a kindness, but not one he'd been afforded. Or had afforded himself?

But it doesn't matter, because Ciriaco has an imperative; the burning emptiness drives him, panting, as he sobs dryly from the dual pressures of obeying the stallion's last dicta— to not be touched by other studs (as if that was something he had if he had any ability to control; he did not, and even he knew that)— and from remembering that there were any dicta at all. It was so hard to keep any coherent thoughts in his head.

He tries to be sensible, to leave later in the morning, as close to his expected time as he dares to not risk missing the train— he doesn't even want to entertain the idea of so totally failing to offer complete submission and obedience— but the silence of the room and the remembered relentlessness of proprietary fingers forcing their way into his body has made him too aware of his situation— of his body — leading inevitably to circulating thoughts of how empty he was and how much he needed the stallion to—no, how horrifying it was that he was so easily sucked into such thoughts— the sensation of fingers and the imagined smoothness of the cock that replaces them—

They are too much. He pushes as long as he could, but the strength of the sensations are too intense, his body near-vibrating, and he leaves earlier than he intends to. He has to get out, has to get to the stallion, has to break the rules that have defined his life for so long because the stallion's told him too. The clothes he's barely managed to pull on are sensory hell, the hoodie's normally-comforting pillowy softness as necessary for its warmth as it is persistently electric on the tender, too-erect nubs of his nipples. He is so overwhelmed with tactile hypersensation that he doesn't notice the addition of wetness and chill gathering in two spots against his flat, newly-puffy teats, marking him among the 12% of breeders that experience early lactation upon entering their heat.

It's a lucky omen to any watcher who knows these signs: such breeders are prized, thought to be particularly fertile and receptive. They are lucky, and luck is showered on whoever claims them.

And he is lucky, most of the way: lucky, that his commute to the train is so well-practiced that his feet have carried him the right direction without his conscious involvement; lucky, that the morning was is so young that the the gloomy sky and still-long shadows can easily hide him; lucky, that the paths he walks were mostly empty, devoid of anyone who might force a claim. It is hard enough to focus, to preserve the part of him inside desperately trying to revolt, to find his energy or reach his limbs; the part being locked further and further away, that knows deeper than his bones that one _should never go outside when in heat. _

His memory is in then in snatches, disorienting shudders of coherence in otherwise dark seas of sensory awareness.

The hands start once he's reached the station. It is quiet, just a couple early morning commuters on an otherwise unremarkable day. One looks at him as he crests the platform, scents the air, and quickly shuffles further down the station, intending on getting on the car furthest away; the two others watch him, very still and no longer relaxed. They board his same car.

And then there are hands. He tries to shuffle, to bark, to cry— but still, there are hands. First petting him— almost tempting him to melt, so soft and warm and everywhere— but they stray, over clothes, to his cunt and they press, gather the moisture pooling there; he cries, twitches, shoves them away. Again they hesitate only seconds before returning, and there are more of them; two slip underneath his shirt, rolling it upwards to show all the other hands the treasure they have found, the puffy nipples that bead with milk when squeezed and pulled.

The hands are getting harder, more demanding. He kicks and lashes out, and the hands grab his limbs, hold him splayed. One struggles with his pants before pressing something cold and sharp against him, cutting them off, and then he is splayed naked on a train seat, drooling his own fluids and traces of the stallion's semen from a cunt that advertises his fresh fertility.

Ciriaco keeps his eyes closed, body clenched, fully expecting to feel the sensation of a cock forcing its way inside. He doesn't want to see it happen; he can't really prevent it, but he doesn't want to disobey the stallion (doesn't want to be bred, doesn't want to get pregnant, doesn't want any of this), and he won't watch it happen. And, indeed, the blunt head of a cock does poke gently around his hole, pushing a gob of white that had been gathering there back inside, clearly intending to chase it— but it never presses further, instead is replaced with fingers that spread his cunt out wide again, displaying the inside of his body for those gathered, the semen still pooling in its creases. He whines, tries to cover his holes with his tail or tuck his hips down, but the fingers are relentless and forceful.

And then they are gone, and he is cold and empty again—

His attention snaps back into place when a heavy heat suddenly presses into his kneeling body, forcing him forward, head down and ass in the air. The body is familiar: the hippogryph stallion covers him completely, easily keeping him down. Tyge's hands do not handle him gently; rather, their harshness conveys anger, as they force his hips into position and split him to press the unmistakable hardness of a growing erection across the entire splayed length of him, from straining t-cock to swollen, twitching, drooling hole. “You're lucky you're such a good boy." The stallion says, beak pressing sharply into Ciriaco's neck as he whispers into the prone spaniel's ears. “You came back, and you kept so much of my cum inside you that it's still there, marking you as mine." He presses his hardness painfully against Ciriaco, and then pushes back, letting the heavy weight of his cock fall to the side as he pierces Ciriaco's exhausted cunt with fingers on two hands. Ciriaco wails again, stiffening in an arc, clenching down on the aggressive fingers in protest. “I should let them have you." The stallion hissed into Ciriaco's ear, “I told you not to get touched. You're a lucky, good boy— a lucky, good, pregnant boy—" this accompanied by a sharp pull at his nipples which had Ciriaco wailing again, red with humiliation, as streams of milk hit his arm and chin.“to have carried my spunk so well, or else they'd've all fucked you already."

Ciriaco's eyes are pressed closed, but he can feel the weight of Tyge's cock drag across his stiff t-cock, feel the heavy, fist-like head of Tyge's penis pressing against his opening, covering it and then some. His tiny cunt stretches and spreads, hot flesh going thin as it tries so hard to open to him. The squeeze is intoxicating, Ciriaco's hole grasping enough to bury his tip; he presses further, trying to force his way inside, carefully leveraging his weight into the push, giving Ciriaco's hip a warning squeeze until the spaniel ceases his squirming attempts to lessen the brutal pressure. Too small, too inexperienced; he can't get inside without tearing his prize. Frustrated, Tyne strokes his shaft, pressing again. He makes it in an inch, Ciriaco shivering and nearly insensate. “Guess I'm going to have to let them fuck you after all," he says, mostly to himself, in disgust.

Ciriaco cries out, tries to press recklessly against Tyge's cock, to do what the stallion wasn't willing to and force it all inside. In warning, Tyge bites down on Ciriaco's shoulder, delivering another warning squeeze to the spaniel's hip. Ciriaco cannot see himself in this position, and thus interprets the statement as a punishment; Tyge pulls out his phone, bucking his hips forward and causing Ciriaco to cry out in pain, the sound and its matched long stretch of Ciriaco's hole around his glans perfectly captured on camera. Tyge leans down, shows it to Ciriaco, watches as Ciriaco's eyes widen with hunger and frustration and drives forward again, pressing in time with the recording. He stays as deep as he can get, moaning at the way Ciriaco's pussy clings and flutters and sucks at the amount of inch he can get inside; panting, he chases the crest of pleasure, pressing in another slow inch in shallow, agonizing thrusts before he moans and falls off his own edge, spilling cum inside. Fuck, he's going to enjoy whenever he finally manages to breach this pussy, he thinks, watching Ciriaco stop thrashing and roll his hips back in even motions, face contorting with pain and need, trying unconsciously pull the entire load into his womb.

Tyge leans forward, pressing Ciriaco down face-first into the seat again, his hand slipping between them to hold the soft curve of Ciriaco's belly, letting his imagination wander to how this same flesh will feel, stretched over his thrashing sons: “You will take me— all of me— tonight." He promised, “but first, I think I'll let these gentlemen have a taste of you." He pulls away, pulling the tip of his cock free with a wet pop, spilling across Ciriaco's cunt and ass in messy streaks. He waits until he's done— until the claim he exerts on this little breeder is clear in every sticky stripe of white— to step away, stroking his still-stiff cock. He motions to those around him, his sharp eyes holding Ciriaco's desperate gaze as the hands return, reaching to hold his limbs and spread his legs, holding him still while the stallion's big hands drag heavy ropes around him, binding him in place.