FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 1.

12:10, Tuesday, the 27th of January, 2029.

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“24 Winsted Court, 24 Winsted Court.” It was a chant, one I felt was important. Clad iron essential, practically. Sure, it was the only house I’d seen in almost thirty minutes, but when you were on the verge of homelessness and your only source of internet was the fading data on your phone, you had to be certain.

My car, a hand-me-down hand-me-down, sputtered weakly as I pulled up to the black iron gate and leaned out of my window. The intercom stuttered static before I could say anything, followed then by the sound of a tired woman saying, “Go right on in.” I paused, wondering if, for a moment, they’d gotten the wrong guy. People like me didn’t get hand-waved into gated communities.

I drove forward into the small car park, my shitbox looking a sight next to the sleek, shining sports cars. The driver-side door caught as I clambered out, all shaky limbs and messy hair. I’d worn my nicest clothes: a green shirt, black trousers and a yellow raincoat a friend had given me – hardly professional, but an effort was an effort!

The trunk full of unwashed clothes didn’t help the picture, however, nor did the way a busted wheel jerked behind me.

The house was a… mansion? A compound? ‘Compound’ sounded the nicest to me and was a better descriptor than ‘big fuckoff house’, but what if it was a mansion and calling it a compound would bother the owner? Or his ward? I’d really not been told much about them, only that she'd had an ‘incident’.

After dawdling a moment longer and realising that the owner was probably watching me stand around and sweat through my shirt, I walked over to the entrance and hesitated at the stone stairway. A test already, I thought dramatically.

After tightening my grip on the frayed plastic handle, I climbed up, wincing at each dull thunk, praying it wouldn’t break and spill my belongings all over the courtyard.

When it got caught on a chunk of stone, I stumbled, only just managing to catch myself on the edge of a step. I swivelled and gripped it with both hands, dragging the luggage up the last few and reaching the door at last.

Dark oak. Heavy. Solid. A brass knocker. A riot squad couldn’t have taken it down.

I reached out but then stopped, lowered my shaking hand to the metal and, after what felt like an eternity too long, rang the knocker; each echo felt louder than the last until the last knock reverberated throughout me. My chest was tight, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to run free.

Silence. And then footsteps. My legs shook, then stilled, numbness washing over them, leaving me rooted. Slowly I reached up, brushed my mess of hair back into place, wiped at tired eyes, still rough from sleeping in the car too many times, and brushed down my best shirt.

Slowly, steadily, I noticed that a faint scent of unwashed clothes could be smelt. Then, as best I could, I edged the trunk away from me, hoping the distant smell of cut grass and dry, warm stone would hide it.

The door swung open, and before me stood a man with whom he was vaguely acquainted. Slick black hair, peppered with white, he likely cared so little about he didn’t bother with dyeing. A thin, yet not patchy beard. Purposeful. Sharp steel eyes, narrowed and appraising, predatory.

“You look like your uncle,” Jack said, voice smooth and flat, emotionless yet not cold. “Same eyes, jaw. Only a little more desperate...” His lips, pale and thin, quirked upwards in the ghost of a smile before it vanished, and he stepped aside.

I lingered, fuzzy memories of seeing the man years back swallowing me before the faintest raise of a blocky brow signalled me to step inside. “Uhh. Yeah, sorry. Thank you, sir.”

Still, I hurried inside, making sure to jerk on the trunk so it wouldn't catch again. “This…” My eyes, tired and still stinging from the rough sleep, groaned at all the warm lighting on the inside of the entryway. A chandelier hung above us; opposite was a long walkway, and on either side were hallways that were wider than what I'd had at primary school. “Swanky. Damn.”

The flooring was solid stone, and I felt guilty for daring to muck it up with the cheap soles of my trainers. I lingered in place, resisting the urge to rap against the trunk handle as Jack carefully closed and locked the front door. When sorted, he slipped the key onto a hook and walked towards the east-facing hallway.

“This way,” Jack said, motioning with a smooth flick of a rather weathered right hand.

Along the way to wherever I was being led, the man would gesture at a closed door and rattle off names that I tried my hardest to remember. “Game room – Charlotte likes this one. Lounge. Guest bathroom. A shower and a tub. Your choice…” At the last one, he slowed for a moment and looked at his charge – me – the eye contact lingering a pace too long to be casual. I, gormless, looked down at myself and then over to my employer, who had already continued.

I took the dig, along with the hint.

Next was the guest room. For this one, Jack actually opened it up, revealing a room less lavish than I'd had expected. It was still bigger than my old apartment but rather barren. A bed. A desk. A TV stand with a small flatscreen and a wardrobe.

Jack stepped inside and approached the dresser drawer opposite the TV unit. He leaned forward. “Underwear. Socks. Pyjamas. Enough to last a month per rotation. I assume you know how to use a washer, dryer and ironing board?”

“Oh, absolutely. Dad said I had to know how to take care of myself.” I opened up another drawer, finding it empty. “Came in handy. I was, like, the only guy with a dorm to himself.”

Jack closed the drawers. “Good lad. As for detergent, there’s enough to last… too long, I might say. You won’t run out.” At that he smirked, eyes glinting at some joke he alone was privy to. I didn’t pry. But then, as we finished our tour of the east wing and began the trip up the staircase, he turned to me, expression suddenly serious. “Charlotte’s room is in the west wing. Do not go in there under any circumstances that are not immediately dire. Understood?”

I nodded, but… the way he stared. I cleared my throat, straightened my posture, put my hand to my head in a mock salute and said, “I understand. Don’t go in her room unless she’s… dying.”

That got a small smile, so I counted it as a victory even with how loud my pulse was in my ears. That sorted, however, the tour resumed. The kitchen, save for the size of the stovetops and the number of sides, was actually rather… normal. Just big.

No great chocolate fountains, which I was disappointed to see. There was a walk-in freezer that reminded me of the fast food days. Food was delivered once a month and sorted automatically. No maids.

“She’s allowed a takeaway once a week, but no more.”

“Got it. Wait, should… Sorry, but should I be writing this down? I’ve got a pen somewhere on me.”

Jack looked back over his shoulder. “No need. Apologies, but I could not find a… location to send you the docket. Follow me.”

Location, I thought, was a very polite, very courteous way of saying that my domicile also served as my mode of transport. I felt myself flush, ashamed, as I followed him once more.

We entered a study. Dark. Smoky. A fireplace sitting dead in the corner, stacks of old papers and ledgers dotting the well-worn bookshelves. It was quite a contrast to the more modern rooms. Jack stepped behind his desk, opened the drawer on the left and slipped out a small pamphlet.

The front read, “Contract Of Employment”. But inside was a rather interesting ‘care guide’.

Do not allow Charlotte to vape and/or smoke, nor ingest any form of narcotics.

Charlotte is allowed one small alcoholic drink per day. Exact volumes are printed on the back.

Charlotte is allowed only four hours of screen time a day. Note that this does not include television. Charlotte is to have control over the television.

Charlotte is allowed…

I looked up at Jack, completely failing to hide the puzzled thoughts. “This, um… This feels more like babysitting than, like, assisting.” I fiddled with the leaflet. It was mostly the canid’s preferences. Food and the like. A few tips.

“Charlotte is an adult,” Jack began, taking a moment to lean against his desk, like the world had been placed upon his back, “or mentally, I’d place her at your age. I trust her not to burn the house down, but I don’t trust her to take care of herself. She's… rebellious.”

Do not pull on Charlotte’s ears.

Without meaning to, the words slipped from my lips and into the air. Jack pursed his own, glanced at the doorway like someone might be listening and said, “Do not pull on her ears. I feel I do not have to tell you this, but remember it. It’s a sore spot for her. If you must rebuke her, do so verbally. Do not lay a hand on her.”

I nodded, messy hair swishing. “Got it. Yeah, I wouldn’t. She'd probably bite me, knowing my luck.”

“She has.”

I paused, the hold on the pamphlet tightening as an uncomfortable heat started in my chest. “Oh. Right. Okay.” Fear, perhaps. I wondered, idly, if it were a test. Was I supposed to be appalled, understanding? “Why? Did, um, are they super sensitive or something?” The stammer made my lips pull tight into a cringe, but the words were said; no backing down.

But Jack did not answer. A quick, "Ask her yourself, if you get a chance," was all I got. He stood up and continued walking, leading me further away. The tour, it seemed, had taken a diversion. No longer did he point out each room, but instead he nearly hurried himself forward, fine black shoes echoing throughout the hall.

We reached, at last, a room larger than the others and more modern, too. On the far side was a large, open window that overlooked a large, grassy area filled with trees, and, after a squint, I found a lake.

Scenic, I thought, as my gaze travelled the full length of the room. What seemed to be a hundred-inch television, several gaming consoles and systems, sofas that looked like they cost more than a year's rent and a fur rug that filled the entire place.

Ludicrous. Gaudy. Entirely out of place with the rest of the place, which seemed determined to be as understated as possible. Adding to that was the room’s only inhabitant, who was laid atop the rug, a large tablet held in both paws, loud music and voices reaching us even at a distance. TikTok, I realised.

“Charlotte,” said Jack loudly. I flinched at the sudden shout and shuffled an inch away just so my eardrums would survive the day. “Your sitter is here.”

The dog groaned, the faint grumble audible even with the distance, and stood up, soft, dark curls shifting and spilling across an odd, jumper clad chest. She was tall for her breed, thin, lithe, and lanky, with a pointed nose and a slim, whiskered muzzle. “Oh, fantastic,” she said softly, her voice accented oddly, likely European. “The help.”

She approached, each step a near-way, a strut that made the black fluff on her paws and hips bounce. Her eyes, a bright, almost luminescent red, narrowed and focused on me, a non-existent left eyebrow raising. “Hi,” I said lamely, raising a hand. “I’m Max. I’m going to help you not burn the house down.”

Silence.

The look of confusion on the poodle’s face. Such a sharp, human look threw me off guard. Her eyes were so… odd. Too human, too expressive. So much soul, so much disappointment in just a glance.

“Don’t demean it. It’s a compound,” Charlotte corrected, whiskers twitching. “It has a gate and a perimeter. I bet you’d call a car a Bentley.”

“I mean, like… it is a car, just a really fancy one…”

Charlotte blinked, her expression caught between amusement and disdain. “Exactly my point.” And then she turned to her owner, face relaxing in an instant. “Does he even have any qualifications?”

“I have a diploma in business studies and a bachelor’s in—”

“I didn’t ask you,” the pooch chastised, pure white fangs glinting. “And that’s hardly useful for what you’ve been hired to do now, is it? Or are you building me a portfolio?”

Jack looked over to me, brow raised; the adoptive daughter was ignored. “You have a bachelor’s?” But then he shook his head and brushed his jacket down. “Apologies, you two, but my driver has been waiting on me this entire time. Max, make sure you read that pamphlet. It explains diet and timing. Charlotte, are you going to listen to him?”

The all-black poodle bristled, chuffed, and very pointedly said, “No.”

The older man smiled. “I figured. Don’t have too much fun.” He turned to me, held out a calloused hand and muttered a swift, “Please look after her.” And then Charlotte, who at first glared before melting, reared up and pressed her muzzle to the crook of the man’s neck. Neither said anything.

Wordless, we both saw the older man back out to the courtyard, where a grey-haired woman, whom I guessed to be the same woman as the voice from the gate, sat in a shining black car. Jack, unexpectedly, leaned down to kiss the pooch’s head before leaving.

The car pulled away without sound, the gates already open, before they closed one last time that day.

And then we stood there, in the entryway, me still clutching the pamphlet like a lifeline whilst Charlotte’s eyes remained on the car as it travelled the long dirt road. “So,” I began. “You want to-”

“Max,” she said, her voice suddenly sharper than it had been. “Do you have a last name, Maxi?”

“Evans,” I answered quickly, putting on a smile.

“Max Evans,” she repeated. “Maximillion. Greatest in Latin. And Evans? Son of Evan – derived from John. Jewish, apparently. Are you Jewish, Max?”

My smile faltered. “No?”

“Is that a question, or are you telling me?”

“...Telling you.”

“Mm. Mutt, then,” she said, more to herself, and, as if to accentuate the point, she wasn’t even looking at me. She was looking at a dainty paw, examining the manicured claws. “Do you know my name?”

“Uh, yeah. Charlotte.” Already tired of her attitude, some bite slipped into my words.

“Charlotte Mercer,” Charlotte Mercer answered. “Either call me Charlotte, miss, or mistress. Do not call me 'you there', 'pet' or 'dog'". Her head raised up, dark fluff slipping down her long neck. “Understood?”

I paused, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

“I mean, like, I wasn’t going to anyway.” It was the honest truth.

That made her pause. Just for a moment, but I caught it.

“G-Good. Now order me something whilst I scroll. I’m on vacation from work, and I intend to use it.” She began trotting away, padding silently down the marble halls. “Can you handle simple directions?”

I followed after her, putting on my best customer service face. “If it’s ordering pizza, then yes, yes I can.” Because, really, this wasn’t where I’d be spending my life. It was a stepping stone. I just needed enough of a pay cheque to get me back on my feet. “But your owner said you can only get one takeaway a week.”

“He is not my owner.”

“But…” I stopped myself. Legally, she couldn’t be owned. She wasn’t a pet. “Sorry, yeah. You’re, uh… Jack said you only get one.”

“Well then, Maxi, it’s a good thing he’s not here, isn’t it? With him gone you might actually get something! Maybe you can have my fries.” The fake little laugh nearly got to me, but I pushed the irritation down.

“What am I supposed to eat?” I asked, ignoring the dig.

“We have a kitchen,” she explained, as though I were slow. “Use that.” Her tail swished once, the obnoxious little poof-ball on the end bouncing with the motion. “Make some toast. Or lick my paws and get some fries.”

I paused.

She looked over her shoulder, faux-pouting, crimson eyes glittering. “Oh, I’m sorry, did that make you uncomfortable? Laisse tomber, mon cher, I’m just a silly doggy,” she cooed, all sour honey.

...

…I did my best not to think on it, deciding it was just how she was. Cruel and indifferent and soon to be forgotten once I was free.

So I listened to her. I followed after her and took my phone out to order, along with the slim black card he’d handed me. I added the details and swiped over to wherever was closest, which was… not… close. I took a seat on the lavish sofa, away from her while she lounged on her back, paws and prosthetic thumbs holding the tablet tightly, loud, bass-boosted music playing far too loudly.

“Um. What do you want, anyway? Pizza or something?” My voice cracked on the last syllable, but I hid it with a cough.

“Double cheeseburger with extra onions, large seasoned fries, vanilla milkshake and…” Her head tilted, long ears brushing the fur of the rug. “...A second serving of fries. A treat for me for all my hard work this week.”

I nodded. “Yeah… You… Um, what do you do again?”

Her nose twitched. “I entertain, darling. Tens of thousands of adoring fans.” She shifted again, striking a pose, one hind leg over the other, a forepaw raised to press underneath her muzzle.

A rather… interesting pose, one I looked away from. She blinked, the barest twitch. But then, “Of adoring dogs,” she clarified. “Mostly the poor unfortunate first gens – they adore these eyes.” She batted them.

“Your eyes?” I squinted. They were red, sure, but… I didn’t get it.

“They’re red, you dolt... A mark that I am second-generation.” She got to her feet, paws, whatever, in one swift motion. “No simple accident. I am purposeful. You’re lucky you’re even here.”

I just nodded. It felt easier than questioning whatever pompous delusions she might've had. I did, unfortunately, realise what she meant about her eyes.

Second-generation canid sapien. Not a result of the virus, but instead a controlled evolution. It was why she could order onions on her burger. Whilst she was still very much a dog in body, her mind, and maybe even her insides, was totally different.

Didn't make it count less humiliating to be bossed around by one, however.

Elevated or not, she was a fucking poodle.

I got myself a burger and fries, resolving myself to say that I accidentally double-tapped if she asked.

#

It was weird. I was holding a credit card that probably held more money in it than I'd ever see, yet I didn't feel compelled to borrow any of it. Maybe it was fear of getting caught or some semblance of honour. Even if I were so desperate as to sleep in a car.

When done, I sat back onto the cushion, taking a moment to wiggle into the audaciously soft cushions.

“Have you ordered the food?” Charlotte asked after a moment, still on her back, brow raised.

“Yeah.”

“Then go shower,” she said without hesitating. No pretence of grace. “You smell like motor oil and poor living circumstances.” She tapped the end of her nose with a dainty paw. “Sensitive; not that I'd need it. When was the last time you washed anyway?”

Face hot and more than a little stung, I immediately got to my feet, ignoring the loud, yip-like laughter that followed after me like a curse. Worse still, she'd been right. The last time had been in a gym.

I snatched clean clothes from the room Jack had said was to be mine for the summer and headed, half jogging, to the bathroom. Inside, I stripped bare, threw my old outfit into a basket, bottoms and all, and, after making sure it was only one turn from boiling, I stepped under the water.

I almost swore. It was that good. Perfect pressure. Like a massage, one that drew from me all the stress and grime of the past few months. Then shampoo, cold and refreshing. Shower gel. More water.

Really, I didn't know how long I spent under there, only that after a certain point, the shower shut itself off. Given the finances behind the place, I figured it to be so Charlotte didn't spend too much time in it.

I dried off, got dressed, shaved, sorted my hair and exited the bathroom, laundry basket under arm, steam billowing out into the hallway.

It was quiet, the lights off – another automatic system. I quickly sorted my washing, and by that I mean I dumped the basket in the laundry room and returned to the living room, where I found Charlotte and several empty containers of food, a burger held between her forepaws, muzzle covered in takeaway gore.

She didn't say anything until the rest of the meal was finished; only then did she dab her dainty face with a tissue.

“Hello, Max,” she said, smiling so politely. “You took your time, so I figured I'd start without you.”

I didn't answer; I looked for my burger, found nothing, only the remains – a small portion of seasoned fries.

“...Did you eat my burger?”

She smiled, showing off sharp canine fangs. “That was yours?” She seemed almost offended. “But I didn't say you could get a burger, so I assumed when I said a double cheeseburger, your silly brain ordered two for me.”

I blinked, shocked by the gall.

“You—why'd you do that??”

“Because it was mine,” she clarified, lying and smiling, like she couldn't even be bothered to try and make it believable. “Why didn't you say you wanted something?”

“I-I did. I asked if I could get something. You said no.”

She rolled a paw, nodding her head like she was explaining a simple concept to an especially slow child. “Then there's your answer.”

I got up to leave, upset.

“But wait! Didn't I say you could have my fries?”

I stopped, back to her, heart hammering in my chest.

Swallowing, I turned to face her. She was sat on her haunches, odd, quadruped jumper flexing around her. Slowly, the pooch raised a hind paw. “If you lick my paw, I mean. Nothing's free in—”

I left the room, cheeks hot, frustration bubbling, heading straight for the kitchen. We'd been in the same home barely a day, and I was already storming out, already flushed, already stressed.

In the kitchen, I reached out, opening a cupboard and taking from it a roll of sliced wholemeal bread. Seeded with flour on the crust. The kind of healthy crap that probably cost ten pounds a loaf at minimum. I used it in conjunction with equally pricey and equally pristine ham to make a prestigious sandwich, which I ate with company.

Charlotte had, at some point, followed me in and was watching me eat.

“You do know that food doesn't belong to you, right?”

“It kind of does,” I said, my mouth full for the first time in days. “Jack said I was in charge, and you wouldn't even give me some of your fries, so what else was I gonna do? Starve to death?”

“I offered you my fries.”

I chuffed, my eyes flicking down to her paws, the ‘wrist’ of which was surrounded by a ring of fluff. A show poodle, she seemed, maybe in the past. “Uh huh. Sure you did.”

“I did,” she purred, raising a paw up and wagging it gently in my direction. “It was a test of dedication. I wouldn't actually have let someone like you touch my delicate pads. That would be inappropriate.”

I nodded. “Yeah, it would've. It's also humiliating.”

Her head lolled to one side, the curls following the motion. “Everyone and everything has a price, Maximus. Forgive me for assuming yours would be a handful of diced potatoes.”

“Well, it's not.”

She nodded solemnly, expression tight and exaggerated in mockery. “C'est la loose. Truly.”

I ate my sandwich. She stood, forepaws still wet with sauce and onions. Still, for reasons beyond me, she waited until I’d finished the last crumb before saying, “Shower now.”

I licked the bits from my finger, waited for more, and found none.

“Okay...?”

“I have paws, Max. Normally, my maid would rub shampoo into my fur, but she’s been sent away. Now you will do it.” She said it like it was a sheer statement, one where refusal was just an idea.

“Can't you just… like, stand under the water and not use shampoo? I don't know how to groom dogs.”

Her nose wrinkled harshly, canines peeking over. Such a look of abject disdain, one so vitriolic, she didn't even have to say anything. “O-Okay!” I said quickly. “Yeah, no paws and you're fluffy. Sorry. I'll just… stand to the side and soap you up a bit.”

“You'll do whatever I tell you to do.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back against the kitchen side. “I'm your personal assistant, not your butler. I won't just bend over backwards for whatever you say.” From my back pocket, I took out the guide, which I'd pocketed after the shower. “I'm in charge, and I've got a long list of things you're not allowed to do.”

“Oh… I see. I see. The leaflet, yes, I see. So vital. But, um, Maxi, the most important part is that he is not here. Give me my shower now, otherwise I'll call up the bank and cancel that stolen card you've got.”

“There's food here,” I snapped back, raising a hand and waving at the cupboards. “And all I'm saying is please don't just boss me around. I-I'm really just here to keep an eye on you.”

“Shower,” she said slowly, not listening. “ Now.”

The canine didn't even wait for me to respond; as with a swish of her tail and a sway of her short-clad hips, she turned and left, padding out of the kitchen and in the direction of the bathroom. Not really seeing any way out of it, nor any real downsides to listening, I followed.

“Set it to forty.” She demanded, awkwardly shuffling out of the jumper, exposing just how… fluffy she really was. I did as asked, stepping into the wide cubicle and then stepping out. Her shorts took longer, but once she'd stripped, it was actually a little… silly.

Off-putting, too, to see what seemed a regular dog with such a sour, human expression. I wondered if all canids could make such faces or if the treatment gave them more facial muscles.

She had that extra fluff poodles tended to have, save it was over her entire body, except for the paws, snout and neck. Pitch black, with stark, scarlet eyes.

“See something you like?” She asked, brow raised, the earlier smirk returning in full force. “That's dangerous.”

Frowning and biting back a harsh comment, I hit power, sending a cascade of scorching water onto the pooch.

“I was wondering why you're covered in fluff. I thought poodles only had it in, like, certain spots.”

“That's when it's trimmed – for shows, not lounging about. You should've seen me when it was.”

I hummed, picking through her ridiculous collection of shampoos.

“Hair and mane, Max. The beige one with the dahlias on it. Then the coat care – plain white bottle.” I did as told, grabbing and then placing them in the glass cubicle.

Wet, her ‘fringe’ covered her eyes, but the flat, unimpressed expression didn't need them. “Get in, you idiot. You can hardly lather me without touching me, can you?”

I took my shirt off, able to lean a little closer without fear of ruining my clothes. She, shockingly, accommodated, moving closer so I could reach her.

Heat and steam fogged up the glass as I, rather than adding a puddle to my hand, applied it directly to her barrel, awkwardly rubbing it into her fur.

“Harder.”

I pressed deeper, fingernails catching the skin beneath, at last getting a pleased little sigh for my efforts. Then her head, which was a pain, but she raised it up for easier access.

Her ears were ridiculous. Long and mostly fluff, and Jack's reminder not to tug on them echoed in my mind as I pulled very gently on them, just enough to sink the conditioner in.

It was actually relaxing. Warm and easy. The smell was floral and fine, especially after the not-so-fun time spent in my stuffy little car.

Her tail swayed, lifting up. Not a wag, not even close; more a twitch that indicated she was at least somewhat calm.

And I

, in a moment of shame,

looked.

Just a little. An innocent flick of my eyes.

Black as the rest of her, oddly shaped. Spade? Driblets of water dripping down it. A little puffy.

Really, it was a perfect storm, as in the same instance I peeked beneath her tail, she craned her long neck to glance at me, catching me.

Expressionless, bright red eyes visible, locked onto me. Sharp and silent, only the sound of the running water and my own heart in my ears.

…

…Her tail lowered slowly, water dripping.

“I'll finish the rest.”

I got up.

“I'm so sorry. I don't – I just –”

“I'll finish the rest.”

“Charlotte, please—”

“Max, I said I will finish the rest.”

Swallowing, heart pounding, vision blurring at the edges with horror, I managed a twitchy nod, grabbed my shirt and left.

When free, I took in a harsh breath, grabbing at my hair and tugging just to relieve a fraction of the stress.

Why did I do that??

There was no reason to.

And she'd seen me do it. She saw me kneeling there, one hand on the scruff of her neck, fucking staring at what was beneath her tail, like some kind of disgusting creep.

When, really…

...

Curiosity, I told myself as I stood back, my shaking hand brushing my hair back into place. Idle curiosity, and really, she was a dog. Talking or otherwise, she was a dog. An animal. I'd idly, casually, with no thoughts, glanced.

…I left the hallway. I put my shirt back on and sat on the sofa, ignoring the shake in my legs and the memory of the way she'd looked at me.

She joined me not long after, fully dried, all clean, wearing only her shorts. The wash had left her looking extra fluffy, but her expression was anything but friendly. A blank, soulless stare, eyes boring into mine.

I sat up, braced for anything.

“...What do you think, Max, would my father think if I told him what you just did? That as you were washing me, you looked under my tail, and I'd caught you. On your first day? Barely an hour and a half.”

My stomach lurched like I might be sick, but still, I kept my expression steady, as best I could.

I went to answer. Couldn't.

She walked closer, too close. “I think he'd let you go. He wouldn't be able to trust you. After he let you into his home and gave you a job when you were at your lowest.”

“Charlotte.”

She stared.

I swallowed, self-disgust and guilt swirling madly, blinding my will and focus.

“Lick my paw.” She raised a forepaw. “Show me you know you’re below me and won’t try anything uncouth.”

Still cold, still distant. That pain in my chest flickered like wind-touched flame, replaced and touched by confusion. I could… maybe, in the abstract, understand her point, but why would she …?

“What—no.” I looked away from her, down to my phone, over to the TV, then back to her. She was still standing there, still watching, but then she moved. She stood opposite me; too close, right forepaw still raised. “That wouldn't—that's fucking gross, and it wouldn't ‘prove’ anything. I said I'm sorry, and you have to know I meant it.”

“I don't,” she pouted, all drama. “But I'll make it simple. Do what I ask, or I'll tell my father.”

“You wouldn't.”

Bad idea. She lowered the paw and turned, too quick, to grab her device from the rug. I practically leapt after her..

The TV was loud; her tablet was still blaring that irritating AI voice. The lights were too bright, she smelt like flowers, and a hind paw was already raised, her head tilted to look back at me.

Wordlessly, I lowered my face to her leg, the floral scent of her conditioner growing heavier with each breath until I was close enough to notice just how fine a job she'd done painting her nails. The pads were soft and smooth, with no scars or cracks. Not a single mark. Just black skin, black fur and painted nails.

Warm, too.

Faintly smelling of, beneath the wash, musk…? Something natural and animal.

And then, as quickly as possible, I licked it.

Vaguely salty, vaguely oily. A hair landed on my tongue. I wiped it from my mouth, pulled away, ignored the horrid way my cheeks burnt and just how wide a grin Charlotte had. Her eyes were lit up, her maw was nearly split in half, and her teeth were shining and white.

Near manic.

She lowered the paw and turned around, raising her head high, looking down upon me, the fur on her head casting a dark shadow over her face. “You’re so… so…” She paused, searching for something deeper. “...Pathetic.” Her shoulders bunched in a canine facsimile of a shrug, grin still wide and prideful. “I can’t believe you actually did that. You really are some sort of degenerate. It’s a little scary, really.”

I sat up. “Hold on! I only did that because you made me. I’m not like that. Don’t ever say I am.”

“Sure.” And then she returned to her tablet, swiping between videos, each on fast forward, keeping up with the latest online drama. I, meanwhile, was back on my phone, chewing through my lip with nerves, knee bouncing. I didn’t trust her, not a bit, not to whisper something.

And she knew that. As she lay back, pretending to watch her clips, her eyes flickered over to mine, just to give me a quick wink.

I straightened up and pretended I’d not seen it.

One time thing.

All I had to do was last the summer.

How hard could that be?