FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Joseph felt empty. He’d felt that way for a long time, perhaps all his life. What bothered the fox about this, aside from the sensation, was the knowledge that he shouldn’t feel empty. He grew up in privilege. He’d never gone to bed hungry, nor ever worried about his health. Even his studies, of which came from prominent Ivy League schools, were enviable to his peers. Yale looked good on a resume even if he spent much of his time making connections rather than attending classes.

And it paid off. While his family was wealthy, his personal wealth skyrocketed through personal connections with powerful people. Some groundwork was laid by his parents, others laid by himself through peers. He’d become a billionaire before thirty, and not an ounce of it made him content. Most people in his social standings would see this as ambition. An edge they envied out of him to do what was needed to get ahead.

Joseph did not. The fox would joke he was always hungry and would spend lavishly to satiate himself, but in truth he was rather boring behind closed doors. Nights with lovely women were spent ignoring them, and they were well paid for their silence. The curious would question why, citing how his peers would pay to have them embellish their sexual talents. Joseph never had a proper answer. It just felt wrong. Distant. The shifting numbers of his asset value meant as much to him as raindrops pattering a window.

His therapist, whom he paid handsomely for their privacy, suggested he find a hobby. Lesser men would consider making grand investment gestures into technology that sounded fitting for science fiction, only to reveal it was a scam or ponzi scheme. Another way to make money. Joseph did not wish for such a headache, and instead took his father’s advice for real estate and renovation.

His first purchase was an abandoned estate in Bar Harbor, Maine. It belonged to one Sherry Winsfeld, of the Winsfeld family dynasty, a prominent American family that once stood shoulder to shoulder with the Rockefellers.

History was never Joseph’s interest but he found himself drawn to Sherry’s life. Born in the early 1900’s, she was the single daughter of a business magnate and a ballerina. Not much was said about her before her parent’s untimely demise in the stock market crash, leading him to surmise she was a recluse of sorts. While the burgeoning empire of the Winsfelds diminished with her parent’s deaths, she seemed to have kept the estate alive until her death in the late 30’s. How, he was not so sure, but Joseph found he respected her. For all his accomplishments, he’d not have gotten very far without his parents' money.

This interest was why he personally drove to the estate instead of sending a professional to scope out what needed to be done. He’d purchased a luxury motorhome for the occasion, deciding to spend the next few days exploring the empty home. It was almost like camping, if the tent had a bathroom, microwave, stove top, shower, and a comfortable mattress.

The size of the estate gave Joseph pause when he arrived. Not just the house but the length of the driveway in a time where cars were luxury items in themselves. Once passing the gate it took Joseph five minutes to read the home. He smirked the entire time, finding it amusing how the Winsfelds flaunted their wealth for the guests of their many parties. It did mean that there was plenty of land he could repurpose. Maybe a basketball court or something similar, or, if he decided to sell the land for development, homes to make a neighborhood. It wasn’t as though Bar Harbor could be hurt with more gentrification.

The Winsfeld manor seemed built in an English Tudor architectural style. A brick base, a mix of white and brown paint schemes that made it seem like it belonged in the English Countryside over the good old US of A. It was no modern McMansion, dwarfing those with a solid 10,000 square feet of space. Far too much for one person living as a recluse. He hoped that whoever had been taking care of the manor had properly dusted the damn place.

The ostentatious display of wealth almost made him feel uneasy. Despite his family’s wealth, they often boasted a proud history of ‘earning’ it. Joseph’s great-grandfather, as his father liked to claim, came from the old country with little on his person and worked as a butler for a posh upperclass family. Joseph, who didn’t even know what his family’s country of origin was, usually dismissed this pride. He hadn’t toiled like his poor elders, so why should he be proud of it? Despite this, a small sense of smugness swelled in his chest as he walked the halls of Winsfeld manor. He didn’t know what kind of person Sherry Winsfeld was, but he pretended she would have despised knowing the descendant of a butler bought out her home while her family name vanished into obscurity.

All manner of dust mite and spiderweb made its home in the manor. Not a corner was bereft, and each countertop was so thick with dust he could leave his prints for future urban explorers.

It was in the main foyer he first laid eyes upon Sherry Winsfeld. Between a bisected staircase sat a painting covered in a cloth to protect it from the elements. Joseph pulled it aside, catching the cold blue eyes of the mare of the house. Her fur was black like the umbra under the streetlights. Her mane was braided and slung around her shoulder. Her dress both shaped across her body and covered it, leaving the impression of a conservative woman who wished to flaunt herself.

His heart jumped at the sight of her. Joseph had, for a time, considered attraction to be a lie. Yet something about her image made him feel a longing, so much that he felt an instant jealousy at the fox standing beside her. He looked familiar, but from where Joseph could not place. From his attire he seemed to be a servant, a butler of sorts. Realizing it was pointless to long for someone long since passed, Joseph shook his head with a smirk. Fox servants were all the rage in the 20’s. Perhaps that was his great-grandfather. The only pictures of Johan he’d seen were well into his twilight years, with this fox being his age. The same as Sherry in the painting.

What the natural light illuminated enough as he traversed the halls. Like an urban explorer on Youtube he ventured through the old house, walking paths Sherry or her butler had thousands of times. On occasion he noticed something out of the corner of his eyes, twisting shadows that vanished in the cone of his flashlight. Joseph could not shake the feeling he was being watched, but chalked it up to a first day in an unfamiliar place. It was for this reason he bought the RV to sleep in.

Eventually he found her office. A wide room with a massive window overlooking the front so that Sherry, or her father who had the office first, could witness all who approached from above. What was once bookshelves filled with tomes had been emptied long ago, leaving the stacks barren of all but cobwebs. There sat a single desk with its leather chair, once a rich brown but now bleached by the sun, face backward against the window. Joseph took a seat in it, finding there to be a surprising amount of leg room underneath the desk. A whole person could fit comfortably under it. Equines preferred larger spaces so this didn’t seem to be alarming, not immediately in his mind.

A single ray of light slipped through to glint off a crack in the desk. Time and decay had revealed a secret compartment. With care, and then with force, Joseph pulled a ledger from its confines. Knowing how fragile books could be, he painstakingly opened it over the desk. Inside were a list of names and numbers. Donations. But to whom? He pulled out his phone to reference the names, discovered there was no wifi connection or service, then scoffed at the obvious issue. He installed a tower inside the RV for this exact reason.

In the confines of his camper Joseph discovered the hidden philanthropy of Sherry Winsfeld. To the public she was a conservative recluse, but this ledger of hers, which he assumed by her gentle writing, indicated various anonymous donations to women’s suffrage groups, soup kitchens, shelters, and more.

The more he learned the more fascinated and, dare he say, infatuated he became of her. She, like him, came from wealth. Yet she did not simply lounge in the lap of luxury, devoid of purpose, nor did she pursue greater fortunes to win the unending game of greed amongst others in her social class. She used her money as a means to an end, and asked for no attention. Whereas Joseph wasted funds to fill an ever-growing hole in his heart.

By the time he finished her ledger the sun had set and his stomach hungered. After a cheap meal of ramen he bought for the experience, he settled into his bed and drifted, expecting dreams of what else he could find amongst the ruins of his newfound interest.

He found a nightmare instead.

Cold stone braced his back. Metal shackles bound each of his limbs, spreading them wide to leave his body, naked instead of the undershirt and boxers he’d slept in, exposed.

The room was illuminated by groups of candles layering each wall. He seemed to be in some sort of crypt without a coffin, with sleek cobblestone floors and ceilings, and tools of torment hanging along the wall. Whips, paddles, canes, and things he’d rather not imagine against his flesh.

A darkness seeped into the room like smoke. It came from the cracks in the wall, forming a cloud that drifted his way. Joseph squirmed in his bondage, rattling the chains with futile attempts to break both them and their anchors. The smoke climbed over him, carrying both a warmth and a weight that enveloped him. His screams were muffled by a gag stuffed behind his teeth. This, for whatever reason Joseph could not tell only that he knew, pleased the smoke.

It sat upon him like a paralysis demon. Joseph felt hands brace his face but saw no such form, only the shapeless mass of smoke. A sense of enjoyment enveloped the creature, a soft sadism drawn out by Joseph’s fear. No, not his fear, for as much as that rippled through the fox there was an entirely other sensation bringing his shaft to full. The shadow bucked, raising itself as if to angle properly around his cock. He felt the wetness of something lower over it, bringing first a sudden chill then a warmth that blossomed. He shuddered, fists clenched and relaxing as a rhythmic grasp pulled at his shaft.

It enveloped his cock, pulled away, then enveloped it again as if riding him. With each bounce the smoke shrank. Its form took shape, growing solid and defined. Tendrils became arms with hands that tussled his headfur or teased his nipples. A chest with wide tits that bounced with its riding. A stomach with just the right amount of pudge to match an ass that slammed into him. Slowly what was once a formless mass of smoke became an equine, but she was without features. A silhouette of someone else. Someone grand who needed more. Someone Joseph wanted to give more as if it were instinctual.

He knew her. The name escaped him, but the more he stared at the featureless form of shadow the more he was sure it was her. She smiled without a mouth, leaning down to kiss his gagged maw. He closed his eyes for it, and earned a slap instead. Because he deserved it. How dare he deign himself worthy of a kiss when she knew where his mouth had been. Only, she couldn’t have known, and his mouth hadn’t been anywhere odd. Yet the feeling was resolute, as if he’d awakened a memory older than he was.

“Almost,” a voice whispered in his head. He felt his cock ready to burst but knew it was not what the voice meant. He tried to ask, but the gag stopped him. The shadow over him found his attempts amusing. It, she, caressed his chin, inching close enough that he had to fight the urge to kiss her. The shade kept smiling, chuckling softly whilst riding his cock until he was too far gone.

Then he woke up. In a cold sweat he shot up from his bed, first checking to see if he was bound, then his location. He’d returned to the RV. No, he never left. It was a nightmare. A hot, erotic, night terror. He nodded, thinking that must be a thing. The discharge he found under his covers all but confirmed this. It had been ages since he’d last jacked off, let alone enjoyed the company of a woman. Perhaps when this was done he’d find a high-class escort.

He cleaned the mess and dozed back off to sleep, trying to find comfort in the fabric against his bare fur. He hated sleeping nude, which was why he always went to be in some clothes. He swore he put some on before sleeping. The exploration of the day must have gotten to him.

***

At the local diner for breakfast, Joseph couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be back at the manor during the entire exchange. The service staff didn’t seem to appreciate his plight, so he stopped by the local market to get frozen food he could microwave so as to not leave the estate until needed.

The rest of the morning was spent exploring the house. At first he decided to take a stroll outside but he couldn’t help glance at the windows no matter where he stood. Sometimes he saw a figure in them, only to realize it was nothing without blinking. Wind moving curtains or a misplaced standing lamp. These rationalizations did not calm him, but he did his best to ignore them whilst surveying the property.

Sherry Winsfeld’s bedroom sat opposite of her office. It mirrored the large window of her office, focused now on the endless sea instead of the driveway for arriving guests. The room was rather barren to his surprise. There was a single desk in the corner by the window, and a dresser and mirror, and a canopy bed with its curtains hung free. Upon closer inspection the bed had D-ring notches in each corner, both at the frame and the canopies, and the wood looked to be of good quality. The kind of wood built to support more than just curtains. He gulped, sensing the presence of someone else and finding no one.

“It’s no one,” Joseph said to himself, rolling his eyes upon realizing he’d started to talk to himself. Isolation was not good for the mind.

He ventured a peek at the desk and found another leather book. Peering it open he discovered it was not a ledger but the personal journal of Sherry Winsfeld. Joseph did not understand his compulsion to read it, only that he had pulled out a chair and flipped open the book before questioning his actions. None of this stopped him from diving into the text, which unfolded a far less conservative person than her paintings implied.

Early entries in the journal speak of Sherry’s longing. How the predictable men of her era sought her for her wealth and wished to control her rather than let her indulge in acts she dreamed of. She would frighten off each one, much to the dismay of her parents, who feared she would grow old alone. She laughed in the pages, dictating that she had Johan and that was enough. No suitor compared in loyalty than her personal butler.

Joseph thought that might have been his grandfather but brushed it aside. If his family had a connection to this place then he’d have been told as much. He kept reading, learning of her grief upon her parent’s death, the days she turned this manor into both a brothel and a shelter for women, how she failed to find any suitable marriage partner, and more. Johan came up often in her details, expressing a fondness that bordered on a crush. An infatuation separated by wealth and class. Joseph would have felt its tragedy if not for the strange stirring of his loins. Not long after he started reading his cock began to harden, tenting in his pants as if it had a mind of its own. Or someone else was holding it. Something with cold but pleasant hands, whose heavy breasts leaned against his back as she reached around to pump his shaft. Someone who nipped at his ears as she whispered for him to keep reading. To remember. To surrender like he used to.

He shot up when the moon rose, pants tight with his rigid cock. He’d not even made it halfway through her journal. A newfound exhaustion compelled him to get some sleep and it took much of his willpower to avoid the nearest bed calling to him. No amount of fatigue would have him lay upon a dusty bed with its linens eaten away by moths.

Collapsing on his bed without dinner, Joseph immediately fell into another dream. Another nightmare. The familiar stone walls of the dungeon surrounded him. His body refused to fall upon the cold stone slap out before him. His hands were bound over his head, his body exposed to anyone watching. He cried out for help only for the gag stuffed behind his teeth to turn his cries into muffled nonsense.

The hard clack of hooves echoed behind him. A cold, inky black, hand wrapped around him, trailing fingertips around his areolas before digging into his skin and dragging along. No blood was shed, nothing worse than a playful scratch, one issued again and again until his chest burned.

It came for his groin next. He shivered as the cold hand clasped his sack in its palm, flailing as the vice-like grip tightened. A voice hushed him, speaking without speaking, telling him to breathe through the pain. To welcome it, become part of it. A second arm wrapped around his body and pressed his back against a pair of breasts. The silent commands continued, washing over him as the grip on his balls loosened in favor of wrapping around his stiffened cock. They told him to hold it. To not cum. Not without its…not without her permission. But try as he might, for he did try to hold back to ever churning tide, he could not stop himself from spewing a day worth of unknown edging across the stone slab.

Her disappointment crushed him, but it came with an understanding. Some semblance that he was not as trained as he once was. What that meant, Joseph could not say, only that he saw something utterly wicked and divine when he turned his head. The silhouette form from the prior nightmare had solidified, with long wispy black hair forming into a braided mane he’d seen before. Fur as dark as the night covered her body, with shadows obscuring her chest, her groin, and her face. Yet in that black void he felt a smile cross his path. A loving, yet sadistic, presence that materialized a thin rod out of the darkness.

A hand grabbed his headfur, pulling it back to force him to look at the ceiling before him. It sliced through the air, cracking on his backside like lightning. He screamed, hands clenched as the crackling pain ruminated along his backside in the pause between the first and second strike. Each strike came as an admonishment, a punishment for his failings. He pleaded through them, muffled words slowly becoming coherent apologies. Soon he realized that, as much as this was his punishment, it was more for her enjoyment, and the thought of her joy overcame his own suffering.

The torment ended as abruptly as his dream began. The cold dark fingers trailed along the red marks. He stiffened from pain, then relaxed as her touch soothed him. Soothed his soul. A single finger dragged through the mess he made on the concrete and covered his face in the cold seed. There was laughter in his head. Her laughter. It was beautiful.

He woke up in his bed. The RV’s bed. He reached for his face, unsure if the dampness was from his seed or tears. He screamed. Not out of fear, but despair that he’d risen up before the dream would finish. Attempts to fall back were met with failure, either by excitement to see her, his racing thoughts, or sheer exhaustion that somehow kept his eyes open. The sun rose two hours after he woke, and he left the van an hour later, having made coffee with the remaining pods.

He was certain of another presence in the house now. He had no proof beyond dreams, beyond feelings, and it drove him mad. But there had to be evidence. A dungeon. He looked around from the outside, trying to find some entrance to a basement like a tornado shelter which wouldn’t exist in a tornado-less state. Back inside the house he found the stairwell to the basement, but it was nothing special. Just more cobwebs, more storage. No sign of the dungeon. No sign of her.

Joseph cursed his luck as he slumped against the stairs. The hole in his heart felt a fullness that vanished each morning. He couldn’t keep doing this. Better to smash the whole manor down and rebuild it into something else. He pulled out his phone to call a contact with construction, forgetting for the moment he had no reception in the estate. It did not matter, because he turned and saw her on the top of the stairs. The black frame of Sherry Winsfeld standing patiently, her smile bright like the stars in the night.

She urged him to come. He dropped his phone, scrambling up the stairs like a feral dog. She was gone when he arrived, her form vanishing down the corner of the hall. He called her name but she did not answer, giving no more than a playful smirk in his attempts. He followed her, each time just a glimpse out of sight until reaching the foyer. There she passed through her portrait.

It took everything for Joseph to not tear the painting away as something in his mind told him not to harm the artwork. With care he unhooked the painting, setting it aside to reveal a blank wall. He kicked it in rage, and the wall revealed a seam. A secret door. Suddenly, as if he knew it all along, Joseph found the hidden lever and pulled, revealing a tunnel stairwell that circled down into depths unknown. Joseph followed, flashlight in one hand while his other held the wall for balance. He felt no concern as the door shut behind him, knowing without reason that he could open it back again. It was all coming to him. A strange sense of familiarity that he’d been there before.

Joseph found it at the bottom of the stairwell. The dungeon of his dreams. The hard-stone floors, the concrete slab he’d been bound upon, the chains, everything he’d witnessed. They were real. His dreams were real. Sherry Winsfeld was real. He collapsed to his hands and knees at the revelation and found it almost too comforting to stand. He forced himself back to his feet to explore more, finding more rooms in the dungeon.

There were cells. Some held more furniture or tools of torment, some looked livable. He knew them well, having spent time down here when she’d wished for it. No. Not him. Memories that weren’t his flooded his head, threatening to burst his skull from the pressure. The last room was no cell but an office, one with an ornate desk with a painting hanging opposite it. It was the mirror image of the one in the foyer, save for two key details; Sherry Winsfeld was dressed in revealing leather, and her butler acted as her chair.

A journal lay upon the desk. He opened it, finding schematics of sex toys and bondage items, all masterfully detailed. The writing was in her penmanship. Scouring through it he noticed ledgers, acts of sale, and entries detailing the safety of women working deep within the dungeon.

Sherry Winsfeld supplemented her fortune with sex work and the sale of erotic items. Items of her own design. Items she tested on…on her butler.

“I’ve missed you, Johan,” a voice, her voice, hooked his ear. Joseph turned to find Sherry Winsfeld standing behind him, her body covered with a leather corset and stockings, whilst her revealed face smiled warmly his way. He opened his mouth to correct her, but realized he was in the wrong. He’d spent his whole life as Joseph, but that was just the name he’d been given upon birth. His true name, the name he carried in a past life, rolled off her tongue like a lover’s kiss. “Kneel, Johan.”

He folded himself to the floor, back straight and hands on his knees like he’d done it a thousand times. Her hand, once cold, was warm to the touch as she arched him by his chin. “You took so long, my pet,” she said with a tone befitting a close lover, “Why did you make me wait?”

“Reincarnation is no easy feat, Mistress,” Johan said, smiling for what felt like his first true smile in years. “I had forgotten who I was until today. Your pull was like a hole in my chest, and without clear direction I could not fill it properly. I tried.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” she pouted, ghostly hands holding his face, “You must have been so lost.”

“And you, so alone,” Johan bowed his head in shame, “I’m sorry, Mistress. It was by mere luck that I was able to attain this property. I have failed in my duties.”

“Fortune gives us fortune, but you have not failed. You have proven it is possible for us to be reborn. Some day we shall meet together in the flesh once again.”

“Some day soon?”

She laughed, “So eager, Johan. No. I will not ask you to join me in this form just yet. There is much work to be done and you’ve such a long life left in this form.” A spectral leash formed around his neck. Its tug was real enough, “But come, my pet, let us enjoy ourselves before we return to matters of business. I have waited far too long to enjoy your moans.”

He followed her on hands and knees. Back to the main room of the dungeon, back to where she started to wake him. With nothing but a snap of her command he stripped down to nothing. “Did you have no choice of your body?” She asked, eyeing his crotch, “I seem to recall you having envy for stallions.”

“And I recall you disliking such sizes, Mistress.”

“More the men who let it define them, but you know your place.” She caressed his face. He leaned into her touch, having missed it for decades, even before his rebirth. “Besides, we know who thrusts in this house.”

“Pitches, mistress.”

“Pardon?”

Johan blushed, “The modern, ugh, term, is pitching and catching.”

“Like in Baseball?” She asked, taken aback by it. At his nod she huffed, “Clearly you must bring me up to date with the times. I have been far too bound by this location.”

“We’ll set up the internet soon enough.”

“Internet?”

“Think of it as all the world’s knowledge in a tiny box. Most people use it for porn.”

She laughed, “Of course they do. What did I always say, Johan? Animals only breed in heat, but we seek the opportunity at all times. If those prudes could see the world today.”

Not wanting to sour her mood with more details, Johan stayed silent and climbed upon the stone slab at her direction. He raised his bare ass to her, letting her line up a dark strap-on she manifested in the corner of his eye. The size of it made him gulp, “I have not trained myself in this life, Mistress.”

“A shame,” she said, shrinking the tool to something more manageable. “We’ll make that a priority.” With care and grace she spread his hole, filling him in a manner Joseph never knew he’d wanted. But Johan did. Johan missed the feeling of her hips pushing against him. The warmth of her breasts against his back as sweat pooled atop his. The firm grip on his shaft that pumped him while her toy pushed down his prostate. But most of all, he missed how she nibbled in his ear and whispered sweet nothings. A mixture of insults and praises, taunts and affirmations.

Their bond was simple. She was his mistress and he was her servant. Yet it was stronger than many of the marriages in her social circle. Stronger, deeper, and kept apart by the expectations of those around them. In life, Sherry Winsfeld never wed because she had her love crawling to her every night, eager to worship her like a goddess. Johan would bask in her presence, only marrying someone else when she had passed and it became clear he needed to make a line to see her again.

Hard work that was praised and rewarded by her ghostly embrace. His fullness swathed through him as her thrusts picked up speed. Soon his cock twitched, his whole body suddenly jerking as the orgasm passed through the shaft and painted his seed over the slab.

“Be sure to clean your mess, Johan,” she said, withdrawing from him. He slumped off and, without complaint, climbed back to lick up the seed. Her ghostly hand ruffled his headfur, “Good boy.”