FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The fox took a sip from his glass of wine. Not the greatest wine, he surmised, but decent enough for a train journey. Probably Spanish, lacking the depth of the Italian stuff, he reasoned. Enough to get his thoughts flowing, either way. There was nothing wrong with it; it just wasn't remarkable, which was almost a greater offense than simply being bad.

He glanced out of the window, towards the landscape scrolling by. It was a long journey to where he was needed, but his entire job was to travel where the money was. Murderers didn't willingly stay near him to make themselves easier to investigate, and as a private detective, what else could he do but take jobs from those in need of his services? A drizzle of rain warped the landscape into flowing rivulets and droplets of water, and he closed his eyes to just think about the job ahead.

“Anything else I can get for you, sir?" a feminine voice interrupted him. Next to him stood an otter, dressed in the classic stewardess uniform, the short skirt barely reaching her knees, her rich brown fur perfectly kept. “We should be arriving at our destination soon."

She seemed familiar, with her long hair and husky voice, but the fox pretended not to notice. It would've ruined the fun, after all, and she had put a ton of effort into this.

“Nothing for me- actually, I could do with a biscuit if we're more than a few minutes away," the fox smiled broadly, not wanting to disappoint the otter. He could already smell fresh biscuits. “They do help me think."

“My pleasure, sir," she smiled, and produced from her trolley a little tray of biscuits, proudly holding it out for the fox, who quickly snatched one up. They tasted like rye and vanilla; sweeter than the average, but very crumbly, almost dissolving on his tongue.

“Thank you, dear," the fox replied, slowly getting used to his role.

The otter left him with another biscuit to enjoy along with his dwindling glass of wine, but that was okay; outside, the wilderness scenery had already changed to a town. His destination wasn't far from the station, which he was fine with. It meant he could put more energy into solving a murder than he did into getting to the site.

The train slowed down as it approached the station, and the fox took the opportunity to get up and make his way to the doors, well before they would actually open. First on, first off, that was how he liked doing things. Not that anyone else was traveling here; the murder had supposedly spooked the entire countryside, and indeed, he was the only person to get off at the stop.

He was quickly met by the person who had hired him. She was an otter, in a long, flowing, black dress. Again, with that perfectly groomed fur, though this one had a much more grim, perhaps jaded expression casting a shadow over her features.

“Detective Scaltro, at your service," he greeted her, adding a little bow for courtesy.

“Thank goodness you're here," she said. “I hadn't wanted to alert the authorities, what with my family's recent activities… well, you know why you're here."

Indeed, he had been informed that the countess' – she was an important figure around here – family had some shady dealings. Nothing that warranted prison time, they assured him, and certainly nothing for the authorities to concern themselves with. They paid a premium for his silence regarding such matters, and he was alright with that. Enforcing the law wasn't his job; solving mysteries was.

“I know. So, what's the situation?" he asked.

“I'll tell you as we make our way there. That mansion on the hill," she gestured towards a house. “Let's go."

They walked in silence for the first few minutes, with the countess perhaps considering how to best present and portray the situation. Eventually, she took a breath of the crisp air and began to sum up what had happened.

“Alright. My beloved daughter was found dead last morning. We contacted you immediately – and thank you again for coming – and the scene has not been disturbed," she began.

“I'm sorry for your loss, it must be a difficult time," Scaltro commented, though the countess seemed to not really be bothered. Perhaps she didn't feel much in the way of empathy, not even for her own offspring. “Who was she with at the time of death? What was she doing?" he continued.

“Nobody. As far as I know, she was alone, eating dinner. She never much liked spending time with the rest of us," she replied.

“Who prepared her dinner?" the fox asked.

“Our chef. He's a famous chef who works for all the rich families in the area," the countess explained. “I doubt he had anything to do with it!"

Maybe not. But Scaltro committed the details to memory. Everything was, or could be, important in cases like this, whether it was the chef's usual routine or the dish he had made. Either way, he had no other leads yet, and didn't even know how she had died.

“What did you have for dinner?" he asked, presenting the obvious question before it fled his mind.

“Sushi. Very fine sushi, the kind only our chef can make, even if my surviving daughter has ambitions of reaching his level one day… she's not quite there yet," the countess lamented. “Oh, the fish was to die for. If you'll excuse my choice of words."

Scaltro was very aware of her choice of words. It almost felt as if this entire investigation was merely a show for the galleries. But then, why invite a private investigator rather than the police? It might also be that even if the countess lacked any genuine attachment to her children, she wanted to ensure that she didn't meet the same fate. Justified means and ends, if purely for the wrong reasons.

“How did she die, if you don't mind telling me?" Scaltro continued, probing the countess for any information that she might possess but was unaware of having.

“We don't know, yet. There's no visible damage. I'd say poisoning, but who would poison her? Everyone loved her!" the countess groaned, and this time, Scaltro could hear some pain in her voice. Pain, but not sorrow. “Natural causes, too, but she was young. In her thirties. I'm not willing to accept that her heart gave out. All we saw was that she suddenly began to talk about things that weren't there, pupils wide as saucers, lost consciousness and then toppled over, dead!"

Scaltro wasn't, either. If it was a heart attack, there'd be no case, and he knew there was a case. There was a mystery to be solved, or he wouldn't have been here. What there wasn't, however, was much to go on. He'd have to investigate the crime scene himself with his keen, vulpine eyes.

“Who else was in the house when she died?" he asked, presenting her with the final question he'd have before his investigation could get properly started. “Who are the possible suspects?"

“Well, there was the chef, Mr. Hawthorn. There was my other daughter, Cindy. Our butler, Gerald. And I suppose there was me, but…"

She trailed off. Naturally, if she was innocent, she couldn't suspect herself, and if she was guilty, she couldn't express any suspicion. Either way, Scaltro had some leads. Now he'd just have to examine the crime scene itself.

They walked the rest of the distance to the house, where the countess unlocked the door. The house smelled like old wood, with a hint of smoke coming from the fireplace that kept the residence warm. The countess quickly excused herself.

“I can't bear to look at her body," she explained. “But she's in the living room. Come find me in the study once you're done."

With that, she was gone. Dutifully, Scaltro waited a few moments, taking in the atmosphere. Any clue, no matter how small, could be what solved the case. For example, despite the warmth radiating from the house's hearth, there was a cold draft. Right now, such a draft meant nothing, but combined with other hints, it could eventually be part of the answer.

He turned around and headed to the living room. Indeed, next to the dinner table – this family ate in the living room rather than a kitchen or meal area, he mused – the victim lay sprawled out. Another otter, naturally; young, with her features untarnished by time. He knelt down to examine the corpse, ignoring the fact that he could just barely see her breathing. That wasn't part of the mystery; in it, she was definitely dead, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth regardless.

The otter had no visible signs of trauma. No wounds, no bullet holes, no blood, not as much as a mark on her beautiful body. So that meant whatever had killed had to be internal. Maybe it was the food, poisoned or ill prepared. Maybe she had choked to death on it, or on an ice cube in her drink. Gas was a real possibility, as well, but Scaltro couldn't smell anything off. There was only a faint aroma of fresh fish, presumably their dinner.

He'd have to ask exactly which type of fish they ate, but then, if the chef was some kind of celebrity, he'd be unlikely to make mistakes with his cooking. Then again, even the greatest of professionals couldn't avoid all mistakes.

The fox leaned down. His whiskers almost brushed the otter's cheek. Oh, how beautiful she was, he thought. “What a shame a beauty like yourself was extinguished like this," he whispered, knowing full well that she – well, not her, but his beloved, playing a role for his amusement – was in fact still alive.

But again, it was part of the fun to pretend otherwise. And to get to lay it on a little thicker than usual. He looked around the room one last time. Nothing seemed unusual. The otter's lips were dry, and her body was supposed to be cool, so everything seemed to line up as expected.

More datapoints, from which a conclusion would inevitably synthesize itself. No matter how much a killer would try to cover their tracks, they would always leave some evidence behind. Scaltro knew he had already seen at least one thing that would be relevant to the case. But for now, he wanted to meet the others. The chef, the older sister, and the butler.

He doubted the butler had anything to do with it.

Next up was the sister, Cindy. She was waiting in another room, though Scaltro took another little break to wait for her to get ready. When she was, he gently pulled the door open, only to be met by a downright smoking hot otter in a bodycon dress that hugged her every curve – and every lack of curve – while leaving nothing, not even her nipples, to his imagination. Scaltro swallowed, hard.

“Well, you're the handsome detective my mother hired, aren't you? Would you like to interrogate me?" she purred, in a low, husky tone.

Scaltro fixed his eyes to hers. Greyish blue. He couldn't let her distract him from his task, or maybe he could, as long as he remembered the most relevant parts of the case even through some… pleasure.

“Not interrogate, my dear," he smiled his most charming foxy smile. “Just a few questions."

“Well, alright. Would you like to sit down while we talk? Maybe with me in your lap?" Cindy grinned, striking a seductive pose in return.

Maybe it'll be alright. Just gotta focus on the case while having fun, Scaltro told himself, and took a seat on the large, soft, and deeply comfortable loveseat. The otter immediately jumped into his lap, pressing her body against his.

“I'm sorry if the questions kill the mood, but I'm paid to ask them," the fox sighed. “Where were you when your sister died?"

“In the living room. Just like the chef, and my mother," she replied, straddling the fox.

“And did you see how she died?" Scaltro continued probing, though his body was happily responding to the otter-woman's soft, sensual touch.

“Well, she seemed to start hallucinating, and then toppled over," Cindy recalled, matter-of-factly. “I think someone poisoned her."

“What makes you think that?" Scaltro asked.

“Well, it reminds me of… people getting poisoned. Like with, mm… I don't know. Maybe the chef made a mistake…"

She trailed off, as if trying to come up with something to say. But when nothing appeared to come to her mind, she instead focused her attention on the fox himself, and then promptly reached straight for his sheath. With deft yet soft fingers, she quickly freed his manhood from the prison of his pants, and cooed in delight at how it readily hardened against her palm.

“Mm, I'm sure you'll find whoever did it," she huffed, giving him a rather carnal, affectionate squeeze. “And I'd like to reward you for doing so, up front…"

Well, he could hardly say no to such an offer. Maybe if the circumstances were different, he wouldn't have, but this was clearly something that the otter wanted to roleplay, taking the role of such a seductive minx.

That was the fun part of it all. None of this was actually happening. Well, it was happening, in that he had a mystery to solve that his partner – acting out all of the other characters for him – had set up with attention to even the most minute of details. But nobody had actually died.

And that meant there was no reason not to get a little frisky with this nymphomaniac woman in red. It wasn't cheating when it was roleplay with his partner, but saying it out loud would've ruined the moment, and so the fox didn't.

“You're quite welcome to," he huffed. The otter had saved up to rent the entire mansion for their little game, if only for one night. That meant there was no risk of anyone walking in. He slid his hand under her dress and squeezed those modest, but oh-so-soft and seductive breasts.

There was just one thing. This little encounter was probably also a clue. Why did Cindy want to seduce him? To make him forget about something, or to get preferential treatment? He had to keep that in mind as the two heatedly pulled each other's clothes off, until she was naked in his lap, panting eagerly, and leaving his snout covered with little lipstick-marks.

That said, there was probably not going to be a hint or clue of anything during their moment of passion, so Scaltro permitted himself to file away everything he'd learned so far for later. Right now, he focused his attention entirely on the goddess of an otter grinding against his lap.

“God, I hope you catch whoever did it," she moaned. The fox's rock-hard shaft slipped between her legs, the length of it rubbing against her folds. He didn't need to look to know she was soaking wet, probably more from anticipation than any particular touch.

“I'll try my very best," the fox huffed.

There was a very real chance that she was the murderer. She was also leaking her love-honey all over his cock, so for that brief moment in time, it didn't matter. They could afford just being animals in heat together. She pulled his head into her cleavage, and he readily caught a nipple between his lips, gently suckling on the nub and making Cindy moan even louder.

That was exactly why she rented the entire mansion. The otter always got loud when her nipples were involved, and the fox could never resist them.

His fingers dug into her hips as he guided her upwards, blindly, and then down again, a few times, until his tip was just at her entrance. Then, aided by gravity, he pulled her down, and they both moaned in unison at just how slick the penetration was. Her heated body engulfed all of him effortlessly and eagerly, but at the same time, she was so familiarly tight that the fox couldn't help but groan against her breasts.

Sometimes he wondered if he'd recognize his partner just from how her sex squeezed him. She might be able to hide everything else with clothes and makeup, but that intimate little detail would always reveal who she was. And he was perfectly happy with that. Not everything had to be a perfectly acted scene, as if written in a book. Imperfections only made everything hotter, like how her legs trembled as she tried to slowly start riding his cock.

“Allow me," he whispered, grasping her hips once and again lifting her onto the nearby sofa, without his cock ever slipping out. And then, with the otter comfortably on her back, her beautiful red dress crumpled up beside her, he began to properly rut her, giving his… no, he had to think of it differently to really immerse himself. Giving the seductive, cunning minx exactly what she wanted.

She was, perhaps, taking what she wanted, picturing herself as the mastermind in their little play. Cindy probably expected preferential treatment for letting Scaltro fuck her. That indicated something. At the very least, she wasn't very bothered by her sister lying dead a few rooms over. It wasn't the sexiest backdrop, but what did a pair of animals like themselves care for propriety? She was soaking wet, and he was hard, and that was all they needed to join together in sweet carnal ecstasy.

And so, he fucked her, harder with each passing thrust, watching her shapely breasts bounce as he both gave her what she wanted and took what he wanted, letting his mind relax by focusing it purely on the physical. Her tight squeezing, her wetness, the way her entire body shivered and trembled as he kept fucking her. A finger crept down to swipe over the otter's clit, and she moaned all the louder, more needy and more passionate.

He kept rubbing. It wouldn't do for a gentleman detective to cum before his partner did, even if the partner might've been in the guise of a potential murderer. It didn't take long. The most impulsive, passionate, steamy encounters rarely did; soon, she was squirming, moaning out his name in stuttering gasps, flexing and tensing and grinding and bucking beneath him as her pleasure only grew and grew.

“Cum for me," he whispered.

She obeyed, or perhaps, had no choice. The next breath, she was thrashing about wildly, her sex gushing around his cock and milking him like a sensual vice, begging for his cum inside her. He wasn't about to hold back, either, and hilted himself inside the otter, letting his knot swell to tie them together. Then, he throbbed, joining her in release and filling her wanting womb with thick spurt after spurt of his seed.

It was sweet ecstasy, filling her like that, twitch after twitch, rope after rope, and she seemed to agree with how loudly the otter moaned in the throes of passion. Yet, before his orgasm even ended, Scaltro was already going through everything he had seen at the crime scene again, now with the added post-orgasmic clarity of having emptied his heavy balls into the victim's sister.

Yeah, maybe it felt a little awkward. Maybe it made him a little dirty. But with how good it had felt, he knew he'd make the same choice if it was presented again. What he wouldn't do was to allow it to cloud his judgment. Still, even then, for a moment he allowed himself to simply enjoy her warm, tight, and incredibly wet embrace, making no movement and saying nothing. She seemed content with much the same, and so the two, even though one was a detective and the other a suspect, enjoyed a brief moment of solace amidst his investigation.

But he'd have to continue it.

Slowly, Scaltro extricated himself from the otter's embrace. It took some wiggling of his hips, and some insistent tugging to get his knot to pop free even once the swelling began to go down.

“I do have a job to do," he sighed. “And I hope none of what I find point towards you."

“Oh, no, it hardly will," the otter giggled. She tugged her dress back down, over her chest and then her belly, taking a moment to wipe up the excess deluge of seed drooling from between her legs. “Unless you make a mistake. And mm, you don't feel like the kind of man who would make a mistake like that."

That was one problem with happily engaging in sensual moments with suspects. They began to think that you would never accuse them, no matter how clear the evidence. If it was the kind of behavior that Cindy expected, however, she was gravely mistaken in her plans.

In fact, as good as she had felt, wrapped around him, her eagerness to fuck him only made him more suspicious of her. Yet, be that as it may, he was the type to only consider the evidence; sentimentality was for his home life, for family reunions, for close friends. When engaged in business, which for his part mostly involved catching murderers, adulterers, and fraudsters, he never let emotions cloud his judgment. Or so, at least, he told himself.

Scaltro pulled his pants up, buttoning them tightly over his retreating, softening cock.

The next person he had to talk to was the famed and rather highly appraised chef, Mr. Hawthorn. After waiting the customary amount of time for the “chef" to get ready – that is to say, for his partner to pull on her best clothes for the role – he entered the kitchen, where a mustachioed chef stood, kneading a lump of dough. Coincidentally, he was also an otter.

“Greetings," the fox opened. “You're the chef of the house, aren't you?"

“This house and many other houses, yes! Mr. Hawthorn, at your service," he replied, pausing his task. “Terrible tragedy, that whole affair. I can assure you that it was none of my doing, however."

“You're very quick to deny it, I've not made any accusations yet," Scaltro informed the chef. “What makes you think I would?"

“Last night's dinner, before the young lady died, was sushi. You are aware of the one ingredient all high-class sushi includes, are you not?" the chef said, some exasperation in his voice.

“Fugu," the fox replied. “Toxic if not prepared correctly, and it is difficult to prepare."

“Precisely!" the chef exclaimed. “And that is why I am in charge of doing such things. I would make no such mistake."

“Cindy thought she had been poisoned," Scaltro pointed out.

“Poisoned, maybe! But not by my fish," the chef scoffed, outright offended at the implications, now. It was understandable. He was a proud craftsman. Scaltro, on his part, would've been equally offended if someone said he made a mistake in his investigations.

But even the most professional of men made mistakes sometimes. It was unavoidable. If people could be perfect, the gods wouldn't be needed to be perfect in the myths. The world also be a significantly better place, likely one where murders and foul play never had to occur at all.

That was a sidetrack, though. Scaltro shook his head.

“Anything else you can tell me?" he asked.

“The young mistress handles ordering food sometimes, alongside with the countess herself. I'd prefer them not to – Cindy did not quite manage to pass the examination to get into culinary school – but I make sure that what we receive is quite safe and prepared as best as it can be," Hawthorn assured him.

More points of data to consider. He'd have to also make sure that what the chef said was eaten was in fact what was eaten, by looking at leftovers. He'd do that later. The only person remaining was the butler, then, who hadn't been present for the death itself, but would have plenty of opportunities to administer a poison.

It was never the butler, Scaltro knew that much, simply because it being the butler who did it had become such a common concept. Nowadays, they could just about get away with murder owing to that. But he was part of the game for a reason, and that meant he had some sort of relevant clue to share.

Scaltro bid the chef farewell. The butler, he was told, would come meet him in the living room, and so the fox sat down on the luxurious leather sofa. For a moment, he almost wanted to pick up a pipe to complete the feeling of being a professional detective, but tobacco was always better smelled than actually smoked.

He glanced at the newspaper on the table. It was from today, and naturally, it mentioned nothing about the countess' daughter dying. It was, however, from another year entirely, which suggested that it, too, was there for a reason. The front page named a high-profile culinary school, which Scaltro seemed to remember that Mr. Hawthorn had mentioned, but it was purely about their accomplishments rather than anything hinting at systemic training errors.

“Ahem. You're the detective who wished to speak with me?" a somewhat deep and masculine voice called out.

Scaltro stood up again and turned around to face the butler, the last of the many otters he'd meet today, clad in a fine suit as one might expect. He had a stern expression on his face, the kind that told Scaltro that he'd seen entirely too much to really care about minor details. Though it could also mean he cared more.

“Yes, I believe you're Gerald, are you not? Is there anything you can tell me about the countess' daughter's passing?" Scaltro asked.

“No, I don't believe there is. They had dinner, salmon sushi as I recall and then, I hear that she died," the butler stated. “I'll miss her. But they don't pay me to grieve."

“Salmon? Mr. Hawthorn said it was fugu," Scaltro pointed out.

“No!" the otter squeaked. “I have all the respect in the world for Mr. Hawthorn and his divine cooking, but if he claims that what was served last night was not salmon, I'm afraid he must've been working with a cold!"

The butler insisted that the dinner hadn't been blowfish. But again, people made mistakes, and salmon sushi was hardly unheard of. What was becoming apparent was that someone was either lying, mistaken, or perhaps being sabotaged.

“Thank you," he told the butler. “I'll get to the bottom of this."

“And I hope you do, before the police show up!" Gerald replied. “If they do, and if they discover… well, I'm sure the countess expressed why she wanted none of them here."

Indeed, she had. Not in any great detail, but it wasn't difficult to guess. Tax evasion, stolen artifacts, the kind of things the rich and powerful always busied themselves with after amassing more wealth had become unrewarding. Still, that didn't mean she was a murderer; the jump from cheating the government to murdering your own daughter with poison was a yawning abyss, not a quick and easy leap.

That left one more consideration.

Scaltro made his way to the kitchen and had a quick look at the trash. There was no fish left, naturally, as a dynasty of otters would make short work of any such things. He did, however, see potato peels – green potato peels – and in that moment all of the clues fell into place.

He knew exactly who had done it, why they had done it, and how.

Scaltro went directly to the countess, and she gathered all of the suspects. Once that was done, they entered the living room again, now with empty chairs – each with a little note about who was sitting in it – representing the other characters, with the otter taking the role of the leader of the dynasty for the fox's reveal.

“I have investigated the death of your daughter, and I have arrived at the only conclusion that the evidence can possibly support!" the fox exclaimed, confidently.

“Well, don't hold us in suspense. Tell us," the countess ordered him.

“Very well! While a lesser detective would be likely to pin the blame on Mr. Hawthorn – and who could blame him, when things align so serendipitously – he is not to blame for this death. While he did prepare fugu," the fox began. “I have reason to believe that fish was never served."

The countess let out a gasp. The others, he imagined, could be doing much the same, and he really did feel like a detective for a moment.

“This is not only because Gerald, the butler, insists that he the dinner he smelled was salmon, instead."

“That's crazy," the otter exclaimed, in Cindy's voice for more immersion. “Salmon isn't poisonous."

“No. But the symptoms do not match blowfish poisoning!" the fox stated. “The countess says that her daughter hallucinated, which tetrodotoxin – the poison in blowfish – does not cause."

“And what if it did? One different symptom can hardly mean anything," the countess scoffed. “Could be a coincidence, or something about her body."

“Indeed. But you also described dilated pupils, and that she dropped dead while animated. Tetrodotoxin would not cause that, and in addition, it would paralyze you well before death occurs. I conclude that your daughter was not poisoned by blowfish."

Another gasp.

“In fact, you didn't even eat blowfish, but I'll get to that. Countess, did you know that your pantry has green potatoes in it?" he asked, as he had noticed from the peels.

“P-potatoes? What do potatoes have to do with anything?" she asked, flabbergasted to even hear potatoes mentioned.

“Cast your attention on the family of nightshade, which the humble everyday potato is a member of. Potatoes can contain solanine, and her symptoms match solanine poisoning exactly. It is something that you have plenty of access to, in a place like this," the fox continued, narrating the deeds of the one who he would soon finger. “But few people know that potato flowers and green potatoes can be poisonous. This would take a chef… or an aspiring chef."

He turned towards Cindy, or rather, the empty chair representing her before his partner could rush over to mimic her voice for the scene. “This young lady did, after all, aspire to culinary school, the very same one that Mr. Hawthorn graduated from many years ago. But her application was declined, and in that moment, she decided to ruin their reputation for nothing but petty vengeance! She replaced the expertly prepared blowfish with salmon, the salmon that the butler smelled, and she prepared her sister's portion with the poison!"

“It could just as well have been my mother," Cindy growled, to a shocked stare by the countess. “Looking for revenge on my behalf."

Scaltro nodded with false sympathy. “It might have, but the dear countess didn't know about the dangers of green potatoes, and as such, she couldn't have been the one to poison salmon with such!"

“So maybe it could've been me, but are you really accusing me of killing my own sister? I loved her!" Cindy exclaimed, her eyes visibly wet now, though with enough effort, anyone could bring forth the tears.

“So you say, but you didn't," Scaltro stated, matter-of-factly. “You obviously lack empathy, and the same – I do not mean this as an insult – is true of your mother as well. She is clearly a sociopath, a fact that will never leave this room, but such disorders are hereditary. You feel nothing for your sister."

The countess sighed, and then let the concerned expression on her face melt away. “Convincing. You, Cindy, thought you'd ruin Mr. Hawthorn's career and reputation because you got denied entry… to culinary school, when you have a wealthy future ahead of you here… by sacrificing your sister? That kind of pettiness, I've told you, is unbecoming of your stature."

“But mother, I-“ Cindy stammered. She had been rather deeply stunned by how the fox unraveled the case, and couldn't even protest what the countess stated.

And the countess was already dialing the number to… well, someone who would tidy up all this business with corpses and murderous daughters, in a subtle way that left no evidence.

That's how the scene ended, with a mystery solved, leaving only Scaltro and his partner, still dressed as the countess but now only portraying herself as the fictional reality faded away with things being set right once more. The treacherous daughter had been caught, the countess saved even if she perhaps didn't deserve it, and the chef's reputation preserved.

“I didn't make it too easy, did I?" she squeaked.

“No, I don't think so… I've just read a lot of these books," the fox smiled. “I loved figuring it out."

“Good," his love replied. “In that case, there's only one thing left to do. Whoa, sorry, I'm, still kinda stuck doing the countess voice."

“Not that it didn't sound perfectly attractive," the fox smiled, continuing the gentleman detective act a little longer. “And what's that you want us to do, otter?" he asked.

Instead of replying, she pounced on him, bowling the fox over onto the living room sofa once again. Then she replied. “To reward the detective for his masterful investigation, of course! You did catch the bad guy… girl, even if you fucked her first. I hope you're ready to go again!"

Sometimes, when properly inspired, the otter really was truly insatiable, but Scaltro didn't mind. She almost tore off his pants and fished out his still-hard cock, catching the fox's lips in a kiss and quickly impaling her still-soaked pussy on his length with a breathy gasp.

“G-god, it does kinda turn me on to watch you… be smart," she huffed. “I dunno, just…"

She had always been a little bit sapiosexual, as it was known. Though that hardly mattered once she got going. Already she was practically drooling around the fox's shaft, and their last union had only been maybe an hour ago. Maybe it was the roleplay that turned her on.

Scaltro was all too happy to oblige and indulge, of course. It was only a suitable conclusion to their little adventure, and afterwards, they could go have some dinner prepared by a real chef. Though not sushi; somehow, Scaltro had lost his appetite for that. What he was still hungry for was more of the otter, who quickly picked up the pace, riding him in sweet, fluid movements that readily betrayed her own lust. Her flared hips gyrated around him, making sure he felt every sweet, wet inch of her in turn, and every now and then, her breath hitched as another jolt of pleasure shot through her.

This was good. Fucking her while she pretended to be a heartless murderer had still been hot, yes, but this was a true union between the two. Nothing but a couple expressing appreciation for each other, in the most natural way they could. Her chest heaved and bounced as she rocked herself back and forth on his manhood, again and again, racing towards the story's secondary climax with far more of a rush than the fox ever had with the primary one.

“N-nff, if solving murders always got rewarded like this I might actually go and become a detective," the fox groaned, and his lover playfully squeezed around his rock-hard shaft again, tilting her hips so that his tip would grind against those silken walls of hers. It was, as their unions often were, a short and passionate affair. He couldn't hold back, and she didn't want him to.

“If committing them felt this good…" the otter giggled breathily. “O-oh, I'm close."

Her shapely, broad but sensual figure shuddered with anticipation, and as her impending orgasm robbed her of fine motor control, Scaltro took over, thrusting up and into her dripping wet body, happy to take over the duty of pushing his lover up to that pleasure-peak she couldn't quite move her hips fast enough to reach.

It only took a few thrusts for the otter to cum almost violently. Her entire body spasmed as one, stiffening in an obscene pose of sexual ecstasy, before she threw her head back with a loud, shameless moan, and let her climax wash over her, whimpering and groaning, her gushing sex begging to be seeded again. And once again, he gave her exactly what she wanted, in heavy throbs, hilting inside her clutching body as she writhed and trembled atop him.

Sweet, sweet release, almost as emotionally satisfying as solving the otter's little mystery. Once he was spent, and she in turn so relaxed from her climax that she could scarcely move, they cuddled up together on that rented sofa, his shaft still snugly inside her, held by his swollen knot, but with the pair still careful to not spill anything anywhere.

“Happy birthday," she finally whispered. “I hope you're satisfied with it."

It didn't take much deduction, induction, or analysis to conclude that he was.