FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Waylon Quickfoot on a Saturday night was, as he liked to think of himself, some seriously hot shit. He was a legend in his own mind, making ladies swoon and guys jealously seethe. He was quick with a quip, quicker to dodge a punch. Waylon was one cool customer with his distressed leather bomber jacket (genuine, baby, no imitation nothin' here) and a full head of soft, bouncy blonde hair (also genuine, baby). Waylon Quickfoot's hair color didn't come out of a bottle, heck no.

Of course, Waylon could think he was smooth shit all he liked. The problem was that, in reality, he was actually a little strange. He mistook playful interest in his odd behavior and Fonzie speech as swooning, and he similarly misidentified general annoyance from other men as seething jealousy for his sheer coolness.

But there was Waylon, take him or leave him, enjoying himself on a Saturday night. He'd never been to a country bar before but almost as soon as he got there, he made a mental note to come again next weekend. Overlooking the truckers and rednecks (not a pair of mutually exclusive groups), Waylon found gorgeous women of all makes and models. Even the most scuzzy ones, with the Marlboros in their mouths and stained tank tops holding their titties in check, would have been a decent score. They at least looked like they knew how to party.

Popping booty and fat jugs were everywhere. They abounded. College-age or MILF, it made no difference to Waylon. A fine body was a fine body and an even finer place to lay his head after certain other urges were taken care of. He just needed to find the right lady.

While walking along on that critically important quest, with his head turned nearly all the way around to follow the behind of a lupine lady whose Daisy Dukes were stretched so tight around her cheeks that he could almost hear them begging for mercy, Waylon smashed into the back of yet another ass, with which he would be imminently acquainted. But for the moment, he just splayed against it, his snout grinding broadside on leather-clad cheeks, arms flopping around her thighs, making him look like a cartoon of a skier crashing into a tree. The enormously tall owner of the stricken ass grunted and staggered forward, more to do with the surprise than the weight of the rat who walked into her. Her beer splattered across the floor in front of her.

"Y'little dumbshit!" Lorraine snapped, and Waylon thought immediately that the end was near. He peeled himself off of her ass (reluctantly of course) and straightened the lapels of his jacket as coolly as he could. She turned around to glower down at him, but he kept his cool, convinced that only his carefully-maintained aplomb was what stood between him and a fist in the face.

"Ay, uh, sorry 'bout that! Wasn't lookin' where I was drivin', y'know?" the rat chuckled over a musically upbeat but lyrically depressing Johnny Cash song coming out of the jukebox. "But 'ey, thank god I crashed into somethin' soft, eh?"

Lorraine slammed her mug down on the bar, making those in the vicinity flinch. It was a wonder it didn't shatter. "Y'made me spill my fuckin' drink, y'little city faggit. What're you gonna do about this here in-see-dint?"

Waylon was listening to the words with their harsh Louisiana twang, but he wasn't exactly comprende about what she said. Her body was too distracting, and so was her species. He had seen Pokemon ladies here and there - who hadn't perved on a curvaceous Charizard or wished for a four-barreled handy from a Machamp babe? - but there was something off about Lorraine. She was a Tauros, a Pokemon most closely related to a common bull. The oddity was obvious to even the dullest of minds, but it eluded Waylon. He was distracted by boobies, something which Lorraine had in excess. She had even more ass.

The Pokemon wasn't stupid. She knew what the rat was thinking about. And she believed, albeit erroneously, that he had crashed into her ass by mistake. No matter what the truth was, she'd already decided that Waylon was about to be her bitch. "Hey! 'Ey!" she barked, snapping her fingers in his face, bringing him back to Planet Earth. "Y'spilled my beer, y'sumbitch. Gonna buy me another or am I gonna take it outta yer faggit ass?"

Cool as a cucumber, Waylon slid his hands into his jacket pockets and craned his head back to meet Lorraine's beady, angry eyes. His smile couldn't have been any more charming, which actually made her want to knock his teeth out. "Ay, yeah, I'll get you a new drink, no problem. What's ya' name, by the way?" he calmly asked, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. "Me, I'm Waylon," he modestly said. He gestured at his breast and went on, "Waylon Quickfoot. All-around bad boy at your exclusive service." To make her annoyance complete, he winked at her.

Dumber'n a drink of bleach, Lorraine thought. She took her beer, as replaced by Waylon, and she took the first sip with a leering eye kept on him. "S'better." She grinned, making a point of showing her flat teeth. "I git cranky when I'm thirsty."

Waylon laughed. "S'all cool, babe, s'all cooler than cool, but I still didn't get your no-doubt lovely name."

"Lorraine," she answered. "'Ey, Waylon," she flicked her snout up quickly, "yuh do me a favor, boy?"

The rat smiled almost dreamily. It was an expression that said I'll do anything you ask me to just as long as you lemme touch that booty. That wouldn't be any problem for Lorraine. "Sure, yeah, what's eatin' you, Lorraine?"

You're gonna be, the Tauros thought. She grabbed Waylon's shoulder and led him off toward the restrooms. He had no idea where they were, so he didn't raise a ruckus. "Well, y'see," she chuckled, "I got this thing I need looked at, 'n since it seems like yer all eager to please, yer gonna help me out. Ain'tcha?"

"Uh-huh, yeah, I'm gonna help ya' out, no problem!" the rat agreeably said.

Lorraine took him into the ladies' room. A couple of stalls were in use, and that bothered Waylon just a little bit, him being the obliging gentleman that he was. Lorraine was too crass to give a shit. She leaned on the wall, took a sip of her beer, pulled down her zipper. Waylon watched with the utmost interest.

Well aware of the rat's gaze, the bull Pokemon said, "Help me with that, won'tcha? I only got one hand free."

Lorraine's fly was no challenge to the capable Waylon Quickfoot. He glanced at her naked crotch (panties apparently didn't go with leather pants) and caught himself thinking of stuffing his nose into the Pokemon's thick, brown bush. It bristled off her pubic mound like a wild head of hair, utterly untamed and tangled. Waylon thought an au naturel bush was much better than a delicately groomed one, not that he'd say no to the latter - not even if it was one of those little Hitler mustache bushes.

Either Lorraine was a mind-reader or cunnilingus had been on the brain for a while. She grabbed Waylon by his beautiful blonde hair and thrust his pointy rodent snout right into her crotch. Giving absolutely no damns about the other ladies in the restroom, she snorted, "Now eat'cher way outta there, boy!"

Waylon did. How couldn't he? He munched and slurped, slobbered and snuffled until Lorraine was satisfied. By the time they came out of the restroom, streaks of fragrant juices from the bull's sweet lower lips painted Waylon like markings on a tribal warrior. The other women in the restroom stayed timidly glued to their seats with numb butt cheeks long after they'd finished their tinkles, remaining there red-faced and utterly still like cats treed by bloodhounds.

The rodent was still a little woozy and the Tauros still red-faced from a beer buzz and afterglow when the announcement came over the shitty PA system like the distorted voice of some hick deity. "'Ay, y'all, 's time fer the annual mee-can-ical lay-dees bull-ridin' contest! Whoever kin sit 'er derriere on that thur buckin' contraption fer the longest gits fi'e hundred buckaroonies!"

Lorraine looked down at Waylon. He smiled back engagingly, shot her a finger gun and said, "Ayyy, that's a lotta cheddar, ya' gonna compete?"

"Darn fuckin' right it is, and yer darn fuckin' right I am," she snorted. "I win it every time. C'mere, now..."

Any shit-kicking bar like that one had its share of unwritten rules and weird traditions, and nobody partied quite like a bunch of rednecks cranked up on hard liquor and meth. There was total complacency towards Lorraine's peculiar actions which were, to Waylon, very distressing: she laid him on the back of the mechanical bull and strapped him to it with a pair of red ratcheting truck bed straps. One across his breast; another around his thighs just above the knees; and then she lashed his wrists to the stirrups with thick, plastic cable ties that threatened to start digging in if he struggled. Waylon wasn't going anywhere.

"Ay, uh--, uh, he-e-ey," said Waylon as she strapped him down, searching for something to say. Like a child in school failing to answer the problem on the blackboard, he nervously stammered and muttered, never finding the right words. Even if he did, Lorraine didn't look like she cared to hear them.

"Wait here," she said to him without a hint of humor or irony.

Waylon was happy to help, at least. "No problem!" he chirped.

There came and went a short and uneventful interval, and then the extra lights above the mechanical bull came on, blinding Waylon for a moment. Again came the divine voice of the honky-tonk deity, but the lord had evidently drank a few between his first holy address and now. "Arright now," he said, and belched with explosive force. Cued by their lord, dozens of men (and women, for piggish behavior is equal opportunity) around the bar paid tribute, letting rip a richly varied chorus of trailer park mating calls. "Real sorry fer that, muh darlin' Diana brought me summadat Taco Bell fer dinner. Lucky it ain't comin' from the other side!" A raucous laugh around the bar. Thankfully there were no tributes to that. "A-a-all right now! First up's our long-time champ-pee-yin, Lorrrrrraine!"

Lorraine thrust open the EMPLOYEES ONLY door and banged it on the wall, eliciting a round of applause. Waylon couldn't see her, angled back on the bull as he was. Had he gotten a look at her, he would've known his days were numbered, but that would have been okay, because he would have realized he was about to die in the most sexy manner possible. Because Lorraine, you see, was dressed for bull-riding success: assless leather chaps, a thong which her bush bristled out of and which vanished without a trace between her gigantic ass cheeks, and no top save for tassels on her nipples which, in true trailer trash fashion, didn't cover her big areolas completely.

The Tauros strutted to the mechanical bull, following a waving, wobbling path cut through a sea of drunk bodies. They cheered for her, told her they loved the saddle she brought this time around, promised her beers if she won. Lorraine was a regular celebrity when it was mechanical bull time.

She stepped up on the platform, then a stirrup, and finally threw her leg over the bull. Standing in the stirrups then, she gave Waylon what was no doubt a menacing look at her ass looming above him, eclipsing the most pesky light which shone directly into his eyes. Her curves thus had a heavenly outline, the cheeks of her ass like a monolith, and he the stupid ape about to be enlightened by it.

"Lorraine!" the slurring voice called over the PA. "Y'ready ta' giddyup, gurl!?"

"Hell fuckin' yeah I am!" Lorraine shouted back.

"Ay, ayyy--!" Waylon gasped, watching her ass drop on him. Despite himself, he fidgeted and tried to pull away, but then those thick and sweaty cheeks enveloped his snout. In he went right to the bullseye, his nose pressing square into the pucker which the string of the thong did next to nothing to protect. Like any good woman, Lorraine was ripe with musk; wet with sweat. Just the kind of ass Waylon liked, even if the situation was scary. Because as much as he admittedly liked his current predicament, he wasn't sure quite where his snout would end up when the mechanical bull started bucking.

Someone hit the breaker and underneath the hard plastic chassis of the bull, Waylon heard an angry whirrrrr spinning up. The thing started to move and jerk, a weird approximation of a bull in mid-buck. At first its motions were nearly docile, albeit stunted, like a quarter-operated horsey ride outside of a grocery store. Before he knew it, though, the thing was shuddering and jerking madly, bouncing Lorraine's huge bulk, heavy both from muscle and fat. Her cheeks rippled on his trapped face like platters of gelatin. Her free tits bounced and the tassels flopped and wagged in random directions.

"Yeee-hawww!" Lorraine whooped, holding on for dear life, her trio of tails whipping in delight. Every time the mechanical bull bucked, she bounced with it. Waylon did not. He felt like his brains were being slung against the insides of his skull when the thing jerked underneath him. It was giving him the mother of all headaches, but his cock throbbed in his jeans. His boner was just one thing ignored like so many others as the big beautiful Tauros rode rough but pretty on the rat's dumb snout.

Every time she lunged up, Waylon was allowed a gasp of breath. And he took it wisely, because there was no telling when the next breath would come. He knew to take them fast, too, 'cause when that much fat ass slammed down on top of you, it knocked the wind right out of your lungs. He spent most of that insane ride short of breath, muzzle wet with sweat and penis aching.

Just over the Tauros' snorting and redneck calls, and far and above louder than the whirrs and clunks of the poorly-maintained guts of the mechanical bull, the trailer trash emcee spoke through his booming trailer park Jesus sound system. "Hoo-wee, sheeit! Just a couple more seconds'n ol' Lorraine's movin' onto the next round! Let's hear it for Lorraine 'n her new saddle!"

Wild applause and cheering, peppered with congratulatory belches. Had Waylon not been struggling to breathe and extremely aroused, he would have felt some culture shock. Instead the audience reaction was just more chaff like the sick noises of the mechanical bull. All that particularly mattered then and there was the Pokemon's butthole grinding on his nose, winking against it, smearing him with musky sweat and getting it down inside his nostrils. The headache was a bummer and the fact that he couldn't rub one out really stunk, but really, how bad could your night be when a damn fine and mighty fat ass was bouncing on it?

"A-a-and...!" the emcee yowled, then suddenly the bull made a big, worrisome clank and fell down mid-buck, rattling Waylon's battered brains and bringing Lorraine down hard too. The dead weight of her ass engulfed his head, getting sweat in his hair, cramming his nose and a couple inches of snout into her asshole. The string of the thong took the path of least resistance and slipped aside to permit the rodent's muzzle. "Lorraine stuck it out fer the whole round!!"

The applause started again and Lorraine ate it up, waving to them like the Pope with a big grin on her face. She purposefully wiggled her fat ass on Waylon then pulled it up slowly, halfway certain the rat would be dead from asphyxia - but no, she heard him hoot for breath when the way was clear.

Standing on the floor again and gracelessly pulling her thong out of her butt crack, Lorraine leaned over Waylon and looked into his eyes. "Yuh made a damn good saddle, boy."

"Ay, uh," Waylon murmured, dull-witted and dozy, "glad to help any way I can, babycakes. You gonna unstrap me now?"

Lorraine smiled in a wicked way that Waylon rightly took as fuck no. His own smile, an affable and cute one, faltered. "Na-a-ah. None of these other ladies got saddles. Gonna let'm use mine."

The rat bit his lip. "Erm," he murmured through it. "How, uh--, how many--?"

"Turnout's usually ten or eleven ladies. Each one of 'em gits a turn, the-e-en the ones who hold on fer the whole round do another turn at double speed, 'n so on 'n so on 'til I win," she said, sneering toward the end. She pecked his cheek and sauntered off to the bar.

Waylon swallowed hard and looked aside. A very tall mare with muscular legs but a quite fat ass was purposefully strutting near. Well, I'm definitely gonna have blue balls way before this is done, he thought, gazing on the mare's looming behind, but on the upshot, and now that big ass was coming down on his face, putting his nose against a naked, black donut of an anus, I'll be able to tell people I was a saddle once. If that ain't a conversation piece, what is?