FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

This is the final story in this three story set- I hope you've enjoyed them, and I hope they didn't disturb you too much. I enjoyed writing them and they've offered me a nice break from my current work.

That said, all three of these stories are connected. As you read this last one, think about the others, if you read them. Tell me what you think. It is my greatest joy as a writer to hear peoples ideas an opinions, no matter how bizarre, no matter how simple, or complex.

And I'll warn you again, in case you missed it with my other work-

These are terrible people, doing terrible things. You shouldn't forget that.

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I was taking a break from myself, from my profession. I was taking a break from walking; taking time to sit on a bench and admire the way the long shadows crept across my cityscape, folding in neat spikes against the street, stark and black against the burning red sun. I could see very far from where I was, straight out into the sea. It was like being on the edge of the world. California. Hot as a furnace. The Wide Bay.

Once a long time ago I think my ancestors stood here, watching the sea. They came from the middle world, from Spain, and having seen the brink of God's earth, they went back and told their sons about how there was no world beyond- just the endless, flowing sea, that lapped in quiet white noise against the rest of the entire earth. I felt timeless, forgotten for a while. Aimlessly, pieces of music would spring to my mind, and my fingers would clench around the neck of an invisible guitar, eager to play them out in homage of this quiet place, that had no music to call its own. Perhaps later, when I could find a studio, I would write it down. For now, I simply wanted to enjoy the way the city breathed.

When I tired of watching the sun burn, I took up my guitar case and walked along the boulevard, listening to seagulls. A dog was barking in some far-away alley. I had come to this tiny city to relax, and let the pressures of being a musician subside for a while. There were no concert halls here, no auditoriums full of breathless people, their night hinged on my guitar, their ears perfectly attuned to every note and chord my claws plucked out. There were no lights. No sound masters, no stage directors, no thankful benefactors, clamoring to shake my paw after another successful performance- it put me at ease to know that what this town had were bars. Most of them were loud, smoky and hard with vicious music, violent drum solos and "singers" that yelled themselves hoarse. I could achieve the same emotion with a flick of my paw.

I had been to this city once before, when I was a little younger, and a little greener. It was during a tour on my early career, under my first manager, Alfredo... A tiger. He insisted we go to America, where my sound, he said, would be appreciated by the musically talented. He was right to some degree- Spain had heard enough of my ilk, and my particular path of artistry has been paved before by a gentleman much more talented than myself. Still, I don't think it's fair to compare myself with him- after all, I am a modernist.

And so, using my knowledge of the city, I found myself in front of Maria's place, a bar, famous for its cultured musicians and modern artistic tendencies- I had the good fortune to become acquainted with Maria herself, and she and I had shared a piña-colada or three on top of her roof. Bless her, God, for all those lonely moonless nights. I shouldered my guitar and stepped inside, still strangely steady on my two feet. There was a haze in this place, and the feeling of grace that made my paws twitch and grab at nothing. Girls, with perky ears and tails and breasts, with strong thighs and eyes, but weak hearts that melted to the sound of distant Asturias.

"Maria!" I said. "Amor de mi alma! Where have you been all my life?"

But alas, there was no Maria- it broke my heart, and probably hers as well. Not one of the lovely flowers that graced this place showed her face, and not one of them a leopard. A dog, a doberman at the bar lifted his head and looked at me, and his ears were flat. "Maria's gone, gaucho." He said the word gaucho like an American. "She took off a few months ago, and took all her love letters with her. I'm Stan, man. I own this place now."

My muzzle merely moved a blank expression- and I felt the familiarity of the bar slip away. Where was this place? Who were these people? I slank away, embarrassed, rocked on my heels, cowed. The air was filtered, the lights were a little brighter, and everyone in here was listening to classic rock- why they had kept the name was beyond me, but I had come for a reason. I asked for some tequila, and found a darkish corner, where I sat by myself and watched the rest of the bar writhe around in circles of social states.

I knew them all at one point in my life- there were students, sitting down and talking like they were the only ones in the bar. There were lonely men, and pretty girls, and they were having fun looking into each other's eyes and completely missing the point. I found myself nervous, estranged. The bartender was quiet, and stayed well away from wiping the counter. There were a few tourists in here, I could tell- they didn't dress quite as casually, they were cautious about smoking, they kept to themselves. They tended to mill around in small circles, staying away from the edges of the bar, keeping in the light, and away from the billiard tables- it's little things like that that can give a man away. I couldn't help it. I did what I always did when I found myself bizarrely alone- I made music.

My guitar and I, we are not brothers, we are not father and son, we are not friends. My paws don't end, and the strings don't begin; it's just the music that leaves me, and floats in the air of a dark bar. I'm nervous at first- I don't want to embarrass myself, so I play softly, little lilting tunes that remind me of home, or some variation on a classical piece. Jazz chords, classic chords, whatever my paws see fit to do. Sometimes, I turn off entirely, and what the guitar wills- is. I lost myself in concentration, playing a few of the songs I had drilled for the concerts and exhibitions.

If you've never heard Spanish guitar, I shouldn't be the one to explain it to you- For me, it is the culmination of all music- filled with brightness, and sadness and all colors. Guitar for me is memory, characterization, the description of entire worlds in the intricacies of the music. When gypsies would leave their homes and write something, they would name it after the land that they came from, the home they left behind. I was nothing dramatic that night, just a little piece of my homeland. Sometimes, a note would catch a person's ear, and they would come and look at me, and discover that they were unable to think up anything better than "That's cool, man." I would just smile, and look down at the floor with a bashful face, and continue to play.

I'm not really that good. I just have a little talent, that's all. You could do it, too.

And yet, as the evening wore on, and I dug into a few more tequila shots, I found myself playing more confidently, a little more forte as the Italians coined it. I turned the heads of the señoritas, and some of the more vulpine señors. I recall one- she was a lovely white coyote, with sweet blue eyes and a slender muzzle that tapered to a cute, wet nose, a perky set of triangle ears, and delicious curves. She sauntered up to me, and cocked an ear my way, coyly, like she was pretending she wasn't listening. The way her tail moved under that red cocktail dress gave her away- I'm not that inobservant. She swayed her hips, and I slowed, just to make sure- her hips slowed too. Lovely, elegant. She was rose petals, she was the setting sun.

I love American bitches.

"Well, señorita," she made no effort to correct me- just turned and smiled that wide, lovely smile. "You seem to be enjoying the guitar. Have a seat- I'll play you something special."

She smiled at me, radiant white fangs, and took a chair in front of me, folding her paws on her lap. I could see the blush forming under her white fur. So delicate. "You play wonderfully..." her voice was soft, and low and sweet. Low alto, I guessed. "You never hear guitar like that around here- you get a couple street musicians, but... you sound just like a record."

"I have a little talent," I said honestly. "I'm surprised to find someone that listens to this type of music outside of a concert hall."

"Well, my daddy got me hooked- he used to play. We'd listen to old Andre Colmillo CDs, and he'd try and play them all night." She giggled, and looked sheepishly at her paws. "You know, your sound is just like his. I love it."

"You know, I hear that a lot."

"I'll bet you do." A little smile. "He's supposed to be touring the US this year, actually. I was going to go see him, but business called me out here."

"Something tells me he's not playing right now."

She looked down to my paws, and I plucked out a broken chord, holding that last note until it fell out into the white noise of the bar. Her jaw opened a little, and then shut, and the look on her face was priceless. "You aren't...?"

"At your service, señorita"

The moment a young woman opens her eyes like that is the moment that one world ends and another begins- at least, for them. No longer are they in the presence of an averagely attractive jaguar with an accent and some mediocre musical ability- Now they are in the presence of an evoker, a symbol of beauty. She understands that I can break her heart with my paws, or fill her body with that dancing fire. I could. I would. Those wide blue eyes opened like skies, unblinking, amazed with me. I deserved none of that, of course- critics are quick to praise you and put your name in the paper when you play an exotic art in a foreign land.

"Mr. Colmillo!" It left her muzzle like a gasp.

"Please- call me Andre, would you?" I flicked a G chord. "I'm taking a little break from the tour- I thought I'd come back here and see a friend of mine, but it seems she's gone away, and now I find myself a little lonely. Would you like to keep me company while I play my guitar?"

"Of course."

I smiled at her, and she hid her nose, giggling a little. "You must forgive my english. It's a little rough."

"You're doing just fine, Andre." She watched with wide eyes as I began plucking out another aimless tune. My left paw tapped it out while my right paw rested, and brought the glass to my lips. "You've got it down a little better than most of the Spanish-speakers in this country, I think. You talk almost as good as you play guitar."

How could I not laugh? "You flatter me, señorita-"

"Laura."

"Laura...?" I let it roll off of my tongue, and then out of the guitar- something low and sweet, like her. The fur on her wrist stood up. "Mmm... Laura. That's a very musical name." I hit the strings. She gasped softly. "It's soft, sensual. I like the way it feels." I turned the corners of my mouth, and breathed it out again. "Laura. Laura. Tell me, Laura- I'm not very fond of this, eh... I've misplaced the word. This... atmosphere. Would you like to go outside with me and share some wine?"

"Well, I suppose I could-" She stood up, and wrung her paws nervously. "Outside where."

"My friend used to own this place-" I looked over at the barkeep, who was visibly trying not to pay attention to anyone. "Stan, right?" I said loudly, and he looked at me. "A bottle of wine, ah... please. And perhaps the key to the roof?"

"You don't have to do that." Laura said.

And what to say to a lovely coyote? "And miss my chance of seeing you in the moonlight? Aye Dios, no."

Stan was very straightforward with me- I was not to act "all crazy" up there, I was not to kill myself, or injure the young lady. He was only doing this because he checked with Maria, and I was a friend, and if she didn't let me up there, she was going to return and do horrible things to him. I graciously accepted the key, picked a dark and sly looking bottle of wine, two glasses, and put my guitar in the case. I had the lovely Laura carry the drink, and I dared to think of her as shivering with anticipation.

A large, looming half moon shone that night- I remember how it made my coyote gasp, clutch herself. Her fur was black in the white light, and I saw that tail move under her dress again. Tailless dresses were very popular in America- and I'll never understand why. Why restrain that emotion? Why hide the elation, the arousal? How foreign. She told me it was beautiful, and I agreed. We sat on the ledge of the building; dangling our feet over nothing. I kept adjusting the strap of the guitar. I would die before I drop her.

We talked for a good long while, and she asked me many questions. Where I learned to play, how I became who I was, who my greatest musical influences were- I told her that I simply enjoyed music, and my only goal was to play it. She was quieted by my answers, and slowly, the wine drained from the bottle, and red flushed her face. She began to cling to my arm, to touch me- and I began to ask her distracting questions in the hope that I might retain my reputation as a gentleman.

"So business brings you here?" I said after a few sips. Her glass was almost gone.

"Well, business and pleasure... this is a lovely night." She was resting against me, her head on my shoulder. "Mmm... I never imagined I'd meet you. In a bar, of all places... Those paws of yours are amazing."

"My playing? I assure you, it's the least of their talents."

"Oh? Even so..." She thought about it for a second. "Play something for me, Andre."

"What would you like to hear?"

"My dad would always try and play La Malagueña. He could never quite get the, um... Shit. The smoothness, the clarity the..."

"Levigato?"

"I suppose. Play it for me, would you?"

"I would never deny you the music, señorita."

And so I played her the Malagueña, and she sat against my shoulder and murred, and sighed, and gasped and cooed with delight when I settled into the main line. Slow at first, tentative, and then sparking, igniting into trills and vibrato, and sound and fire and passion, beating like the heart of Spain herself. I gave it to her for a gift, and she watched as I made love to the guitar, to her- rocking her back and forth on the tides of sound. She was breathless, panting. Soft, sweet, low, eager to hold onto that fleeting world, and clutch it close to her memory.

I thought it was a pretty good rendition.

"I think the wine has you, that sly tiger."

"Will you walk me home?" she said.

"Of course." I said, and we left the drinks on the roof.

Jim took the keys from my paw, and waved us away. Many chairs were piled onto the tables, the bar was polished and clean, and most of the lights were off. Last call had been over an hour ago. The doberman pushed us out the door, and made sure we were around the block before locking the door and going back to whatever closing a bar entailed- I wasn't interested. I was busy trying to keep Laura on her paws- she was clinging tightly to my arm, nuzzling into my shoulder.

I should mention here that she had a fantastic smell. It was a bizarre combination of lemon, saffron perfume, and sweat. The night was hot, and she was panting lightly, shrugging at the straps of her dress, stroking the fur on her arms, trying to let air into the fur. Her winter coat was coming in a little early, it seemed. She told me that I was amazing, and I told her that she was beautiful, and that I liked the way her eyes looked in the moonlight. I was nothing if not sincere, clearly. In all ways, I was a gentleman. I took her paw when she stumbled, hugging my waist. I kept her swaying hips steady as she avoided the cracks in the pavement.

"An amaryllis." I said, plucking a red flower from the corner of someone's window garden. "See? Just like you. Red and white."

My blushing coyote took the flower in her paw and scrutinized it, blushing slightly. Hints of red within the white fur- delicate, slightly embarrassed and flushed with wine. Her ears flattened. "Andre! Where do you come up with this stuff-"

"Shh." I put my paw on her muzzle. I took the flower, clipped it with my claw, and put it behind her ear, smiling warmly. "Look at you. Amarilli, mia bella...." The Italian sounded strange to me, but she just looked dumbly into my eyes, grinning and tugging at my paw.

"Come on." She said. "The hotel isn't much further."

We walked and walked and walked, and when we stopped, I was somewhat astonished. My young Laura was sleeping in the same hotel as myself- I had lost my way when I traveled the city, and good fortune saw fit to have the white-furred beauty of a coyote lead me back. "Well, well." I said, leading her inside.

"Well, well, well." She said, giggling a little and squeezing my paw, tugging lightly as she stumbled ahead. "Come on, now. My room is on the third floor." Amazing coincidences, in a beautiful world.

We took an elevator, we stopped, and got off. She took my paws and drug me to her door, 319, and fumbled with the key- eventually I was forced to open the door for her. Her room smelled exactly like she did, and I was almost overwhelmed.

There was no ceremony to her actions, but there was a kind of feral grace, some hidden canine dominance on the way she pushed me down on her bed, and kissed my nose. "Alright, guitar man." She said softly, sultry, huskily. "Play me a little something to dance to. Make it hot. Make it fiery. Caliente."

What could I do? I played. I took the guitar from my case, touched the strings, gave her something to work with as she backed away from me, her hips flicking, her eyes half-closed, trancelike. I was a master, pulling the strings to a beautiful puppet, who twirled and flicked, and nipped at me, crawling like a feral one minute, dancing like only a canid could the next. I was as entranced as she was- it was harmonic, almost. Every move complimented every sound.

She started with the flower I had put in her ears. She took it in her paw, swaying back and forth, and she ran it over her fur, touching her neck and muzzle, smelling it, licking it. Her paw closed around it, and placed it on the table, sliding back to her body and drawing my eye down toward her thighs. I switched to an allegro.

In the dim light of the moon, I could see her pale fur, her thighs exposing themselves to me as she undressed. Her red cocktail dress slid up, revealing two athletic legs and soft, groomed fur. She turned, and her tail lifted with the dress, raising higher and higher, eager and playful, taunting me with the shape of her silk-hidden rump. "If only I took this off." It said. "You could take me right here. You could have me. I'd beg for it."

I found myself playing La Malagueña over and over again, repeating the main variation ad nausium- she didn't seem to notice. The beat was all that mattered now- she shucked the dress and turned, presenting me with a toned, sleek body, two full breasts that ached to be released from their harsh silk prison. She lifted them, touched them, played with them for me. It struck me statue still, and a wide smirk lifted onto her muzzle- she knew she had me. I could feel the pressure in my pants now, and softly, delicately, she began to undo that bra. She began to draw me in- I was halfway through a phrase when she took the guitar from me and laid it down in its case. I wouldn't be needing it anymore.

My shirt went first. She did it with her teeth, to tease me, to tell me that she was hungry, that I was fulfilling a need that hadn't been met- either ever, or at least in a long time. Laura became a beast, guarding the entrance to her den, stalking back and forth, waiting for me to come and show her how good my paws really were. I unbuckled my pants, and let them slide down to my ankles- but I replaced them with her furry rump. She was still wearing the panties, but they were no obstacle.

I let my paw slide down the curves of her stomach, drawing lines in her fur. Her body shivered. Was she afraid? Was this anticipation, or was this reconsideration? I had no business asking her- the minute my paws were set into motion, they could not be stopped. I felt the cleft between her thighs and lifted, feeling her lungs fill with air. "Oh..." She cooed to the night as I lifted back up and cupped her mound. It was warm and slick- her pubic fur was matted tight to her body. Her scent hit me. Delicate. I had her.

With that special grace, my paws began to play her, a symphony of coos and moans and erotic whimpers splitting her lips, causing her legs to spread with an eager need. I rocked her back against my chest and felt further in, drawing slow circles around and around, fiddling and playing around. I made shapes, broke the rhythm, bucked once or twice to surprise her, making her hips grind- I made her body an instrument.

I lifted her breasts, I cupped them and stroked rings around the nipples. It was divine to feel that fullness in my paw, to feel that softness, that weight. It was so pale, and perfectly shaped. I could practically feel the electricity running down her spine when I lifted up the cup of her bra and took a nipple for myself, running a rough feline tongue over the rough flesh. Her sex squeezed around my fingers. I had her. I owned her. She was my guitar- My paws never ended, and her body never began.

She lay back on the bed, looking at me between her thighs with a hungry, pleading sort of look. All the dominance washed out of her eyes. I was in control now- My sharp teeth pulled away her panties. My cold nose lifted her hood, took in her scent, claimed the space between her legs for my own. I lapped at it like it a feral at a bowl of milk, rewarded with thighs around my ears. "Andre..." She moaned.

"Mi amor?" I whispered back, burying my muzzle against the damp fur.

"My... My hu-"

"Don't speak." My whiskers touched her treasure, and her tail writhed against my chest.

My coyote didn't reply- she only undid her bra and lay back, idly rubbing the hardened tips that bristled through the fur. A low murr was rising in her chest. I couldn't help but wonder how often other men had heard that sound- and yet, it was so quiet, so delicate. I hungered for it. I pressed in, deeper, using my rough tongue- I could slurp away at her, watching her buck and whine in the night, gasping and pleading with me to stop, and take her like a "real male". Each new lick brought forth another plea, another soft appeal to my maleness. "Let me feel it." She whispered breathlessly. "Show me."

I stood, and lowered my boxers. Her eyes widened, and she sat up, caressing the tip with her quivering paws. One of them dipped below her thigh, and I could almost see the erotic thoughts playing across the screen of her eyes. It was like watching a puppy with a new toy- was I really something to behold? Tentatively, she kissed me, drawing away with a long string of precum. Words can't describe the feeling of seeing that.

She turned herself over on her back, and lifted her tail, and looked back at me with the single expression that had flawlessly crossed the canine and feline border so long ago- lust. Need. Passion. Fire. I lifted her hips, I felt along between her thighs. I pressed my warm flesh against her, and fit myself inside. With some effort, I was able to slickly stake my claim to her body- she would never have another male like me again. Her hips lifted and pressed into mine, and I fought back, yowling and raking my claws lightly across her rump.

Everything became fast and hot, it was all sweat and moaning and fierce lovemaking. Our bodies entwined, our hips wrestled for connection, for force, for the sake of exertion. She panted and groaned, and the musk of my malehood was beginning to fill the room. I could only growl out in pleasure, rocking her so hard the headboard slapped against the wall in our hard union. Her legs wrapped around my hips, our muzzles met. Her tongue slipped between my lips, and I sucked graciously on it, sliding up and down, tweaking her breasts with my paws.

Twice, I felt her squeezing me, milking my malehood. A rush of scent, a coyote howl filling up the air, and the feeling of dampness spreading across my fur meant I would smell that way for days- and so would she. It drove me to the brink, and I forced myself to pace, to slow. A resolution is nothing without the tension- the more painful, the more glorious that final moment. I suffered for my art, and she eagerly lapped it up.

We pushed and pulled- I had her against the wall at some point, her breasts rubbing up against the wallpaper as I took her. I took her shoulder and neck to my muzzle, where my tongue did its share, lapping and lifting the fur, teasing along the neck and doing other wonderful things. She rewarded me by touching my sides with her paw, and slipping it low, cupping my malehood. We were excellent together. I can still hear her cry sometimes, at night.

There was a surge, a fast and harsh moment of discomfort before that warm rush. It filled her, flowing out of me in long, thick ropes that covered her, surrounded me, and locked us into a long and lovely cacophony. She howled loud into her pillow and shook so violently, I would have feared for her had I not been eagerly smearing my essence into her thigh fur. She was beautiful, arching and opening her muzzle to God. And then it fell away, and there was a profound silence. I could hear us breathing, far away, panting and reflecting. Laura's body was so soft. "Never leave me." She said.

"Alas, señora." I said.

"Don't go."

"I have to."

She stayed quiet, waiting for her heartbeat to leave her ears. "Andre... Tonight was wonderful."

"I know." I said, standing, cleaning myself and pulling on my clothing.

"I'll miss you."

"I know." I gave her a smile, and a kiss as I put my shirt back on. She simply lay, fulfilled upon the bedspread, and unable to smile. I looked up at the moon for a second, and thought about Spain before closing the blinds. "Hasta luego, señora. Vaya con Dios."

The door closed, and I walked next door, to room 318. My room. I took out the guitar, and opened the blinds listening intently to the sounds of the night. It was all very still- I could hear feet padding in the hallway. I thought about the Malagueña region, my home, and about the tour. I thought about the wine that night, and where Maria might be. The thoughts kept slipping out of my head like sand, and I found I couldn't hold any single thing steady in my mind. I began the ritual.

First, I took out some toothpaste, and a toothbrush. I cleaned between my fangs as best I could. The feet stopped, and there was a clicking sound as the door opened. I rinsed and spit, and flossed. It all looked good to me. I took off my clothes.

"Damn meeting." A male voice on the other side of the wall. "I'm sorry hon- I thought it was gonna take all night."

"Roy?"

I lay the clothes on the bed, and folded them up, and slid them into a drawer- I had to pack them in, because it was already full of my dirty laundry. I would have to get them cleaned tomorrow. I stretched and yawned.

"... What happened here?"

"Nothing. I got a little bored."

"Leah..."

Where does the time go? How long had I been on vacation? It had to be about a month now, but it was hard to keep track- my life was a vacation. I got to travel and play music, and meet women. I was living the American dream. I heard a briefcase drop to the floor.

"You're lying to me."

"Roy-!"

"You're LYING. I can SMELL him!" There was a quaver in the male's voice. Realization.

"I can explain it,"

"Leah... you said you wouldn't do this."

"Oh now, don't cry."

"You said you wouldn't! You swore to me- you said 'I'll never do this to you again'."

"I..."

"Are you gonna tell me you didn't?"

"N-no."

"You... you fucking bitch. I can't believe you."

I lay back in the bed and took the guitar up, touching the neck, looking at the strings. I plucked them for the last time that night. I always felt better if I did this, somehow. It was very comforting to feel the weight in my paws and feel the tug of the string against my claw. I had to keep them long, so I could keep that crisp sound.

"Roy, don't be mad."

"Don't be mad!?" Smash. "Don't be mad!?" His voice was a growl, a threatening one. "I ain't mad."

"Ro--!" She never finished the sentence.

I listened through the wall as "Laura" was yanked off the bed by her throat. Her husband must have picked up the briefcase- I could hear the metal clank as he brought it down. I'm sure she yelped, and tried to curl up or crawl away. But you don't crawl away from 230 kilo coyote. I could hear her pleading with him, just like she pleaded with me. Every time, she was silenced with the sound of that briefcase. I settled back into my pillow. Again, and again, and again... Gradually, her sobbing choked out, and went silent, occasionally resurfacing as a thick, messy gurgle. I could hear him slam the door and walk away. Ahh... I should've gone to her. But what would I have said?

Nothing.

With one claw, I carved another notch in the neck of my guitar. I love American bitches.

Non est ars quae ad effectum casu venit.

That which achieves its effect by accident is not art.

~Seneca