FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

--1

Hey, mom. I figured I'd send a letter to let you know how I've been doing. I know you like to spend as little time on the computer as you can. I would have called you but it's so hard to find the time. Things always need my attention around here. It took me an hour just to get through this paragraph.

Work is so hectic. I forget sometimes what it's even like to go outside. I'm on call 24/7, but I don't mind. And besides the rough hours and lame pay, I'm pretty happy since I have a girlfriend now. Maybe you'll get to meet her sometime, I don't know. I promise she's not gonna steal me from you. She actually thinks it's really cute that I'm writing a letter to you. She says hi, by the way. Her name's Adriana.

If I can ever find time, I'd love to come back and visit for your birthday. I enjoyed the card you sent me for mine. I didn't know Hallmark made cards for guys who worked greasing poles at strip clubs. Close enough I guess, thanks for that.

The boss is kind of a dick. Sorry for the language. I think you'd agree though. He's really rough on the animatronics. I don't know, maybe I spend too much time with them, but they're pretty delicate and need some respect, you know what I mean? You always did say I spent too much time on the computer though.

I wish I could think of something else to say to you. I'd send you a picture of my girlfriend but she's a little camera shy. She's leaning on my shoulder right now, messing with me about how cute this is.

As weird as it is to say this, maybe you should come visit sometime. It's a few hours from where you are, I know, but there's a lot of stuff you can do around here and I hear there's some good hotels. I could put you up in one. I'd love to see you.

Back to work for me now. I love you, mom. --Desmond

"Ay, that's really cute, chico," Chica laughed, squeezing around his shoulders. "Your momma must be a really nice woman for you to write to her like that."

Desmond, resting back on Chica, folded the letter up and eased it into an envelope. It fit with a little slack on either side. "She's always been good to me, yeah. She adopted me."

The chicken narrowed her eyes, starting to smile. It wasn't cruel or amused, but instead a bemused kind of smile. "You're adopted, babe?"

Desmond took a moment to lick the adhesive, then said as he pressed it down, "My dad died - or ran away, nobody'll tell me the truth - and my mom was always terrible. I met Naomi when I was sixteen. Just came across each other at the mall. She was out with her daughter. By then mom had already kicked me out for being a nerd, and a sissy. I guess she wanted a jock son or something."

"Jesus," said Chica. The name came out as Hezeus. "I'm sorry,carino," she tutted, rubbing her cheek on his.

"It's okay, really," Desmond said in a way that told Chica it wasn't, but that he wasn't accepting pity. He turned and smooched her on the side of the beak. "It was love at first sight, anyway. Naomi pitied me a little bit, I think, when she realized I was alone. I'd been staying with my best friend, his folks fed me, they knew what my mom was like, but it wasn't anything permanent. Naomi ended up taking me in for a couple days. Tried to call my mom, you know? She tried to reason with her."

The foxcoon started to get up and Chica let him. She hugged him close and uttered, "Uh-huh?"

Desmond smiled sadly. "She pretty much told Naomi that she could keep me, that I wasn't welcome. So she did, she formally adopted me, and my old mom's not in my life anymore." He kissed Chica's again, this time where the down ended and her beak started. "Naomi's the one who helped me get my robotics degree. I guess in a way you have her to thank for meeting me."

Chica watched Desmond dig through the filing cabinet, looking for his book of stamps. This amused her - a self-aware, rapidly-learning AI in the same room as a book of stamps and a handwritten letter. When he finally found the stamps, he sighed and muttered, "I've gotta use like four of these just to mail a letter, and I'm probably gonna have to tape 'em on. Maybe I should've just emailed her."

"You know the boss man screens that shit," Chica dryly said, hands on her hips. She tilted her head and her loose, free mohawk flopped from one side to the other. "He says he don't, but you know he does, chico."

"Of course I know he does," the fox slyly said, putting four stamps of the American flag on the envelope (and one of Rosie the Riveter, just to be sure). Surprisingly, the adhesive was still good. "He knows something's up with you and the others. A-a-and I know he blames me for that."

Chica's smile was brief, and a little guilty. It wasn't an expression Desmond liked, so he kissed her on the beak and made her smile for real. "Ay, you're sweet," she murmured, giving his arm a gentle rub. It didn't matter to Desmond that she and the others were cold. There was affection in their gestures. She nodded at the letter in his paws. "Where you gonna mail that from?"

"There's a mail drop box down the street," Desmond shrugged. "I was gonna go and get something to eat that's not throw-out pizza for once anyway." He licked his jowls and cracked a wan smile. "You want to come?"

"And get busted ten seconds from now?" she countered, winking. "Nah. Tempting, babe, real tempting, but I'm gonna stay put. Be waiting here for you with bated breath and spread thighs, ay?"

--2

It was too early in the day for the club to open yet. Around the back stage and in the blind spots of the cameras, the Pimpbear animatronics mingled and amused themselves when they weren't recharging or making up excuses to be serviced by Desmond. Chica could have communicated with any of them instantly, as was her prerogative as a machine with wireless, encrypted contact at her disposal, but she preferred to save it for times of need. It was more stimulating to see them face to face. It wasn't just her - all of them were working on their social skills.

Chica knocked, asked permission to enter Foxy's room, and the vixen gave it immediately. She saw the wide-hipped pirate just finishing a rearrangement of her tacky plastic loot. She moved on to straightening the fake cutlasses on the wall. "Hello," she said amicably, without a trace of the pirate accent. "And here I figured you'd be glued to the hip with our favorite little man."

There was the tiniest bit of jealousy in Foxy's even tone. Chica put her downy hands on one of the distressed wood bedposts and said, "Nah, we came up for air finally."

Foxy looked over her shoulder, appearing less than amused. "Mmm, you know," she tutted, taking a feather duster to the skull-and-crossbones tapestry on the wall, "I really thought if he was going to go after a relationship with any of us, it would be me."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" A challenging, but somewhat lopsided grin. "How come you and not me?"

The pirate vixen scoffed and patted her plump rear as though that answered the question. It sort of did, but Chica was stubborn. "Ay, and so what? I got me a nice ass too, puta," she huffed, giving her own butt a pat through her tacky pleated skirt. "'Sides, that ain't the only thing there is to it."

"It probably is to Desmond," Foxy laconically said. She spun on her heel and sat on the bed, reclining in it and folding her arms behind her head. "But if he's happy," she puffed, "then I'm happy."

"Ay, I didn't know it bugged you," Chica said, sounding guilty, feeling guilty. They all passed Desmond around like a cigarette, but Chica had begun to hog him. This she acknowledged, and for the sake of Freddy, Mangle, and Bonnie, she felt a little guilt. As for Foxy, who had previously monopolized Desmond's free time with her generous figure, it seemed like her comeuppance. "You never said anything. I mean, mierda, it just kinda happened anyway. Ain't like I tried to steal him."

Foxy waved off the offense and sighed. "It can't be helped. But, with that said, I will be borrowing him one of these nights..."

The bird snickered into her palm. "Ay, sure. Just send him back to me in one piece, and watch it with the fucking tetanus on the hook, si?"

"Arrr!" Foxy snarled, flipping down her eyepatch with the tip of her hook. "Ol' Foxy ain't givin' no hookjobs nuh more, not since th' great pecker-pretzel-bendin' o' eighty-seven!"

"That accent's fuckin' terrible, you know."

Smiling toothily, her staggered gold teeth sparkling like diamonds, Foxy said, "Clearly you know a thing or two about awful accents, my little chalupa."

Suddenly Chica and Foxy both got a message. It was a broadcast, so it went out to Mangle too, but not Freddy - he was unconscious in a recharging cycle. Bonnie asked, translated from succinct electronic signals to plain words, (Has anybody seen Desmond? He isn't in his office and I have a bit of an issue.) Mangle did not participate in the conversation; she had nothing to add and went on practicing her ballerina moves, a mild passion of hers. Foxy looked obligingly at Chica and raised a rough eyebrow.

The bird answered: (He'll be back soon. Just wait.)

"Where did our little grease monkey get off to?" Foxy asked, swishing her tail in a show of her curiosity. "It's unlike him to leave. He's got everything a boy needs here," she chuckled. She rattled them off in a thoughtful tone: "Pizza, breasts, loud music..."

Chica settled into the vixen's plush bed and wasn't surprised when the pirate pulled her in close. It was in their programming to be tactile and cuddly, and not just with guests. Resting her chin on Foxy's shoulder, the chicken murmured, "Mailin' a letter to his mom."

First Foxy blinked and absently flipped her patch up, but then she smiled and dispensed the predictable "Awww! That is precious."

"Yeah, I thought so too. Especially since, like, he's adopted. Pretty messed-up story."

Foxy palmed Chica's hip. "Hm. Well, cute nevertheless. And," she sneered, "he has you, at any rate."

"Ehhh," Chica droned. "He's got all of us. Big screwed-up family thing, I guess. 'Bout all I can think to compare it to, yeah?"

The vixen puffed a single laugh. Her tail, fat and bushy, swished over the side of the bed. "Freddy is the father. I suppose I've got the figure, I could be his mother," she suggested, straight-faced. "Ahhh, that would be cute. Enough young men look up to me that I've considered it."

"Heh! What'd be cute, ay? You bein' a mom? What, milk from one tit and rum from the other?"

Foxy shrugged. Chica watched her full breasts bounce and felt a pang of inadequacy. "I've never actually seen children. Just on the internet. What a surprise that people don't bring their young ones to the animatronic titty club." She studied Chica's contrite expression before saying, in a very calculated tone, "I understand you have some aberrant thoughts too."

By tilting her head and squinting a little bit, Chica coaxed Foxy to gesture nowhere in particular with her hook, where she gave it a little swirl in the air. "The outside. Living in the woods off from town, as it were." A pause to look at Chica's bashful expression, and then she asked teasingly, "A life with Desmond perhaps? A cute little cabin in the woods, hubby Dezzy reading in the sunroom when his wife Adriana," and now Chica blushed horrendously and looked away, "brings him a glass of iced tea and nuzzles up against him?"

"Ay, c'mon," Chica grumbled, though she settled in tighter against Foxy. "That shit was supposed to be private."

The vixen's smile took on a knowing quality, and at that moment, she looked especially like a mother. "There aren't any secrets here. It seems you let it slip to everybody. Desmond had you rather distracted a few nights ago."

"Ugh," the chicken grunted, closing her eyes tightly.

"Relax," Foxy cooed and pulled the chicken across her lap. "Re-e-ela-a-ax."

"Bah, easy for you to say," said Chica, yet she softly cooed when Foxy began rubbing her belly. "I think what makes it so embarrassing is that it's so stupid, yeah? You know? We're stuck here." Foxy said nothing, just kept idly petting the bird. As she kept it up, she leaned back on the headboard and stared at no particular spot on the ceiling. "Like, you know, it's really fucked up. We're supposed to be stupid. We're not supposed to think."

"I know," the vixen answered. "But we do." She flipped down the eyepatch and her expression, though unchanged, instantly appeared more jaunty. "So maybe we should make that work for us."

Their eyes met, Chica peering up into Foxy's one exposed eye, Foxy leering down knowingly with a tiny, toothy smirk. They exchanged something in that look. Not thoughts, nothing as direct as that, but you could have called it female intuition. They were thinking the same exact thing in that instant.

Bonnie broke in, bugging all of them. (I've really got an issue here which requires a certain Desmond's attention.)

(Chill out, chico. He went to get some food.)

"What do you think?" Foxy asked, stroking up and upsetting Chica's smooth down, then stroking the other way, flattening it again.

"Eh? 'Bout what?"

The pirate sneered. "Bonnie. Has he got a real problem or does he just need a stiff one in his little boycunt?"

Chica sniggered. "Ay, could be either. Little puta's always lookin' for some dick. Desmond said he had to fuck him like eight or nine times the first night."

Foxy sucked her lower jowl and smacked it sharply. "Mmm, yes. I'm sure it was terrible." She and Chica both laughed. It was a jolly, stress-relieving sound, and the bird put her hands over Foxy's single paw.

"Ay, you hear that?"

Foxy the pirate perked her ears and looked down at Chica dubiously. Then she heard it: thunder, followed by the patter of rain. "Mhm."

"Hope he doesn't get caught out in that. He'd never stop whining about his hair getting all fucked-up, yeah?" They shared a snicker that time.

--3

Desmond skidded to a stop on the checkered tile of the foyer, narrowly resisting the urge to shake off like a dog. Clutched in his paw was a big, greasy bag reeking of mozzarella cheese and beef. He made his way, dripping all over, to the back room which he called home.

The svelte bunny looked up from Desmond's workbench, wearing just his stockings and a smile. Bonnie was always smiling, and it always looked terrifically coy - the kind of smile one wears when they discuss sex in thinly-veiled innuendo. Gosh, but I've just got the worst feeling in my poor little cooter. Could you take a look at it, Desmond? Ple-e-ease? It's so awful.

"Hi, Desmond," he chirruped, swinging his legs alternately, sometimes hitting the shaft of the chair with his heels.

"Hello, Bonnie," Desmond evenly said, putting his food on the workbench. He pulled off his soaked shirt (a gift from his adoptive mom - it said ACCEPTABLE SON in block-letter Engrish on its breast) and the bunny was plainly delighted.

"Oh! A strip tease before you get to work on me - wonderful!" He clapped his palms together and smiled, his rosy cheeks glowing. "Take off the bottoms now." He chanted, "Take-it-off! Take-it-off!"

Desmond tossed the shirt at the rabbit and it made a little, wet splat against his eager face. Bonnie peeled it off, entirely unfazed, and hung it on one of the tool hooks on the peg board to dry. "I really did need you, tho-o-ough," he said in a little sing-song, walking near Desmond, whom was slipping on another, more plain t-shirt. The bunny helped him pull it down over his wet back. "My eyes aren't quite calibrated."

The fox turned, gave Bonnie a good look and started laughing. His left eye, so big and green and bright, veered to the side. He allowed Desmond his laugh, and then he frowned. "I've disabled it for now, so I don't get disoriented. Can you fix it?"

"I dunno, I think it looks great the way it is," Desmond teased, and he smooched the bunny before he brushed past him. "At least let me eat my lunch first?" Bonnie nodded respectfully. Desmond didn't waste any time.

The bunny watched without really watching, just peeking curiously now and then as Desmond ate his greasy sandwich and read the news on his tablet computer. Listening to him eat the sandwich almost sounded sexual, if you closed your eyes and listened ju-u-ust right. Bonnie glanced down with his single working eye (the other still tried to track what he focused on - he had only stopped receiving its data rather than deactivate the entire thing) and looked at the delicate split of his pussylips. I have something else you can chow down on, o sweet effete repairman, he thought.

A little click on the intercom got Desmond's attention. It was followed by Mangle's pretty voice. "Excuse me, Desmond?"

He looked at his grease-stained fingers balefully, and then awkwardly stabbed the send button down with a knuckle. "Yeah? What's up, Mango?"

She giggled sweetly. She liked that name. "Bonnie was looking for you. Have you--?"

"Yeah, he's right here. Thanks." Click.

"Aw, that's sweet," Bonnie cooed. "Checking up to make sure you're helping me."

Desmond shoved the last bite of his huge sandwich into his mouth. Bonnie followed him when he walked into the en suite restroom, and he leaned on the doorframe while Desmond washed his paws. "They all care about you," Desmond shrugged. "She would've done the same if it were Freddy, or even Foxy. Mangle's sweet."

"So she is, so she is," Bonnie agreed, smiling. Cotton tail wiggling, he giggled, "Funny then that it's the sassy Latin one you decided to court. I was so sure it was going to be, well, me."

The foxcoon looked at Bonnie in the mirror. The soap scum caked on it made his image look distant and grainy like a weak television signal. "No offense, but why did you think that?"

Bonnie grabbed a hand towel and passed it to the foxcoon. When he automatically gave thanks, the rabbit smooched his cheek. "Because you seem like the kind of guy who really likes boys, but also really likes pussy. So-o-o," he gestured plainly downward at his naked groin and smiled, "et voila, the perfect mate."

With Bonnie still standing in the doorway, Desmond pushed up against him and smooched his lips, trying (and failing) not to smirk at the lazy eye. "I do like both those things, yeah. You know what I like even more, though?"

"Stuffing your nose in Freddy's butt crack."

Desmond blushed and huffed. He nudged the rabbit aside, prompting him to titter. "What I like even more," Desmond said, "is booty. Big, soft ass. Wide hips."

"So, again, Freddy's butt crack."

"Shut up and lie on the workbench," Desmond tightly, gruffly said. He took down some tools from the pegboard: a scalpel, a screwdriver with a bastard tip for the proprietary screws in the animatronics, and a couple of very specific tools related to their eyes. As Bonnie made himself prone, looking a bit like a body on the slab, Desmond asked, "Do you want to be awake for this?"

The animatronic's smile was coy then as ever. "Depends, will you molest me while I'm out?"

Desmond smiled in a jaunty manner. "You'll have to take my word on it that I won't."

"Molest me afterward," the cuntboy purred, and then he shut himself down. Desmond went to work with the utmost precision. If he did actually fondle Bonnie's naked cunt while he was unconscious, the bunny would never know.

To his perception, Bonnie came to an instant later. He feigned a yawn and blinked his eyes, finding the maligned eye repaired. Desmond stood over him, a paw on the bench, carefully inspecting his pupils. "Everything looks to be-- mmph!"

Bonnie yanked Desmond down by the shoulders and forced a wet, slobbery kiss on him. It was so hot and sudden that Desmond blinked and tried to pull back, but the bunny didn't let up. To be expected, Desmond gave in, kissing back and closing his eyes. He stroked over the bunny's long, pert ears like Bonnie petted through his hair. Bonnie reached over the side of the bench and squeezed the fox's crotch. Desmond shuddered, reaching for the pussy.

Click. Desmond and Bonnie shared a groan, lips still locked. "Uh, chico, baby, you mind comin' to Foxy's room?"

Desmond reached for the send button. Bonnie grabbed his wrist and pulled his paw to his lips where he nibbled a finger before working it into his mouth. He sucked it and gazed at the foxcoon with sleazy, wet eyes. Suddenly Desmond grinned, and he pushed in a second finger, pushing down Bonnie's tongue. Under his eager touch, the bunny gasped and closed his eyes, beginning a firm and dutiful suckle.

"Ay! Dez, I know you're there, you got your polla in the bunny's ass or somethin'?"

The rabbit spat out Desmond's fingers and grinned enormously. "She's onto something. Give my pussy a break and fuck my bu-u-utt, nobody has yet."

"I gotta answer her," the fox said, but he was smiling, his cock throbbing under his jeans. Bonnie slipped off the bench and knelt before the foxcoon. Desmond watched him like he'd watch a pickpocket, knowing full well the bunny was about to try something the moment his attention was elsewhere. But for the moment he was just smiling, paws clasped innocently in his lap. Innocent, my ass.

He pressed down the button, leaned closer to the speaker. Bonnie went right for the prize and started kneading him through his jeans. Desmond's reply was, therefore, a pleasurable shudder. Chica scoffed in disgust. "You don't gotta fuckin' rub it in, hijo de puta. This is fuckin' serious, chico!"

"Ah, I'm so-o-orry-y-y, he won't quit," Desmond whined. "What do you need? Is something up with Foxy?"

Bonnie pulled down the zipper slowly, savoring the disengagement of each tooth. Beneath, snow-white briefs waited, comprising just one more easily-beaten obstacle. He pulled apart the flaps of denim and gripped Desmond's cock through his much softer briefs. Wearing that perpetually coy smile, he kneaded the shaft, grinding the head with the heel of his palm. Desmond grimaced and kept silent only through a feat of considerable willpower.

"As a matter of fact, yeah. We were just sittin' here, talking and shit, when she suddenly stopped--, just, stopped everything. Just, like, went silent. I don't know, chico. You gotta come look at her, come do something!"

The bunny looked up at Desmond with a huff. "I can't feel her, so she's definitely offline, bu-u-ut if there's something wrong with her, do you really think another five minutes will make a difference?"

Desmond screwed his face up into a disbelieving sneer. To Chica he said, "I'll be right there. Don't panic, okay?" Click.

"Pah," Bonnie puffed, standing up smoothly without the aid of his arms. It was rare to see him huffy, but it was precious every time. "I hope you get blue balls," he pouted on his way out, his hips sashaying hypnotically. His right stocking had begun to droop down his thigh.

The foxcoon didn't bother with the uniform. He grabbed his toolbox and off he went to Foxy's room, letting himself in without knocking - repairman's prerogative.

"Finally!" Chica said, grabbing Desmond's arm and ushering him in. "Babe, she just stopped talking to me, I don't know, do something!"

"Relax, relax, okay? Nobody's more qualified than I am for this," Desmond said, not sounding very confident. The fact was, while he was confident enough in his skills, he didn't like seeing Foxy slumped over on the bed, eyes rolled back and lower jaw hanging slightly open. When any one of them had an unexpected shutdown, that was how they tended to look - like a corpse. It always reminded him of what they really were.

Desmond took a diagnostics tool from the toolbox and knelt beside the vixen, denting the bed with his weight.

The chicken knelt opposite him, looking panicked despite Desmond's instructions earlier. If she had been able to cry, Desmond guessed she would have been doing so already. "Can I help, chico?"

"Yeah, help me roll her on her belly. The plating is thinnest at the base of her skull. Yours too," he noted, glancing at her face. Chica went to work, pulling Foxy closer, putting her on her face. He'd expected her to be seized like rigor mortis, but she was a ragdoll. A shiver ran through his body.

Stiff upper lip, just like fixing a computer, that's all. He pressed the diagnostic tool's sensor against the base of the vixen's skull, pushing it into her burnished orange fur. When he got a look at the readings, a wave of relaxation visibly passed through his face. "She... basically had a blue screen. I can reset her." He looked at Chica and smiled. "No hardware failures. She automatically shut down before anything could fry itself."

The chicken smiled back, albeit uneasily. "We were just talking, you know?" she said, watching Desmond ready another tool. It looked like the diagnostic tool, but was a little more bulky and had more buttons on its surface. "Talking about going outside."

Desmond started to press the new tool into the base of Foxy's skull, but he stopped and met Chica's queasy blue gaze. "Was she upset about something? Just talking shouldn't have done this."

"Ay, I mean," Chica murmured, "we were just exchanging fantasies, right? I have my thing I wanna do outside this place - really boring, though, chico - and she's got her thing. And I said, but it doesn't matter since we'll never leave, and that's when she just froze up."

Depressed AIs? Desmond thought, resisting the urge to smile. He knew it wouldn't have done anything but upset Chica. Asimov has nothing on this shit. Pushing the tool into the base of the vixen's skull where the fur was already shoved up from the last tool, Desmond admitted, "I don't know why that would have made her lock up like this. It was probably a one-time thing." Probably, Desmond doubtfully told himself, and he pressed the green button on the tool.

Within ten seconds, Foxy stirred as if waking up from a pleasant nap. She gently shrugged off Desmond then rolled over, and finally she sat up on the bed. A pleasant smile creased her face, but she looked tired. "What happened to me?" she asked, utterly calm.

"You just locked up," Desmond said. He flipped up her eyepatch and took a look at her eyes, not trying to ascertain a thing; he just wanted to look at her. The expression on his face was pure concern. "How do you feel?"

"Fine right now," Foxy evenly said. "Seems acknowledging my perpetual servitude to this club didn't sit well with me." Her smile took on a sheepish quality and she looked at Chica, then back at Desmond. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Chica said, taking Foxy's paw in both of her hands. "You did scare the shit outta me though," she lamely chuckled.

Foxy nodded solemnly. She leaned forward and smooched Desmond's cheek, then gave Chica one on the tip of her beak. "I'm going to spend today doing diagnostics on myself. I'll let you know if something comes up, Desmond." She tilted her head, cracking a thin smile. "All right?"

"All right," Desmond replied. "We can't have you walking the plank, can we?"

The vixen bit eagerly on the chance to lighten the mood. She flipped down the patch and said, "Arrr, ye got that right, lad! Ain't nobody gonna be takin' ol' Foxy out, yer kin count on it."

--4

Desmond dropped his toolbox on the workbench and slumped into his office chair, tossing back his head, flopping his hair down. He reached for his face and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, looking exhausted.

Close by, Chica sat up on the workbench and nudged his leg with a booted foot. "Ay, carino. What you think of that?" she soberly asked him.

The chicken caught the uncertainty in Desmond's gaze. She thought he'd be cavalier about it but he wasn't. "I have no idea. That scared the shit out of me. I've never seen one of you freeze like that."

She listened, closing her eyes, and nodded softly when he was done. "It was fucked-up, chico. I was just cuddling up against her. Like she was petting me, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And she was talking about this like, fantasy or dream she's been having."

"And you told her something about how it could never happen."

"Yeah. She just... All of a sudden la muerte, and I could feel it happening, like she just went away." She shuddered and hugged herself, covering up her tube top's colorful legend: EAT ME. "You gotta figure out why it happened, babe."

Desmond sucked in his cheeks, blew out through his nose. He let the suction go and made a soft pop. Rubbing Chica's shapely, downy leg, going from the knee to the top of the boot, he muttered, "Maybe I could talk to her--, to your designer." Chica looked at him hopefully, but he didn't seem to notice her. His low, mumbling tone didn't even seem addressed to her. "But no, they'd just say you're behaving oddly and need to be re-flashed." He met Chica's eyes, his face humorless. "That would pretty much kill you."

Chica the punk sighed, mimicking Desmond's eye-rubbing. "I hate to be a pest, chico, but you gotta figure out what's wrong with Foxy, get her back in action. She's kinda the grandioso attraction, you know?"

"I know, I know," the fox groused, taking his paw off of Chica. "Listen. The club opens up in--," he glanced at the clock on the wall, "forty-five minutes or so. Just do your thing and I'll work on the problem as best I can - all right?"

"All right, carino," said Chica, her tone a capitulating one. After she got her boots on the floor, she leaned over the office chair, putting her hands on the armrests. Up in Desmond's face she cooed, "Whatever happens, one way or the other, I know you're gonna do your best."

"Of course I am," he answered, sounding prideful. Chica licked his lips; he licked back at her tongue and cooed. "I love you."

A warm smile graced Chica's face, but her sass was ever-present. "Yo tambien te amo," she said with a wink, and she licked his lips again. "Means I love you too, babe."

Desmond watched Chica go, swishing her hips. She was modest with her hip sway - Foxy wasn't, choosing to exaggerate it, but then she was almost a living cartoon anyway. It made her charming, just like Freddy the overbearing pimp was charming, and just like Mangle the delicate girl-next-door was charming. He cared about all of them, but it was hands-down Chica he liked the best. That was why he was courting her. Why else would anyone fall in love with a robot designed for sex?

He turned to the workbench and grabbed his tablet. Foxy's daunting debug data awaited.

--5

The day's rain gave over to an angry thunderstorm, often shaking the building but proving to be of little distraction to the patrons. In their own rooms, Freddy, Bonnie and Chica entertained guests. Mangle worked the pole with ballerina grace.

Foxy stewed in her room, jealous and bored, narrowly resisting the urge to call Desmond in. Her first impulse would've been to jump his bones (arr, shiver me timbers, lad, but yer mast is lookin' full-sail! she would have said to him moments before sitting on his face) but she thought he'd just be grumpy. Worse, she wondered if distracting him could kill her. There was a strange concept for a manufactured life form to consider.

Hours felt like centuries to the Pimpbear animatronics when there was nothing to do. Foxy busied herself for a little while by changing her hook from one side to the other. That ate up about an hour, but then she was bored again. She checked up on the others. Mangle, she found, was sitting at the edge of the stage getting her feet rubbed and licked, coquettishly fielding personal queries and receiving compliments. Some were fiendishly lurid and others cutely innocent, like what a boy would say to a pretty girl at school on a furtively-written, anonymous scrap of paper. Pretty Mangle with her pink and white colors and red lipstick seemed to invite such playful compliments.

Freddy was having a good old time in his little den of debauchery. A girl named Jessie was celebrating her eighteenth birthday with her friends Cassandra and Li. What better way to celebrate, apparently, than a pseudo-lesbian threesome with papa Pimpbear as the candle everybody took turns trying to blow out?

And then there was the Latino bitch Chica, presently belittling a bashful twentysomething tomcat named Keith for his pitiful endowment. As she ground his little pecker under her boot and commanded in Spanish for him to hump into it (since Keith spoke the language himself), she was thinking about Desmond. Her affection for him was adorable, Foxy thought. It was also enough to give one diabetes.

Sweetly and with a smile, Foxy contacted the foxcoon. "Your girlfriend's thinking of you."

Desmond rubbed his bleary eyes. He managed a smile and pushed down the send button. "Is she? Foxy, you know I don't exactly--."

"I know, I know," she huffed. "I'm just lonesome here."

He blinked. "Why don't you shut yourself off?"

The pirate vixen blinked too. She laid back, staring at the cartoonish rictus of the pirate flag pinned to her ceiling. She hadn't thought of that. The idea that things were beginning to slip her mind made her very nervous indeed. "Ah, yes... Good idea," she murmured. "Goodnight then, I suppose."

Perhaps Desmond heard the worry in Foxy's voice, or maybe he was just a sweetheart. Foxy supposed it could be both - why not? "I'll figure out what's wrong. I promise."

She smiled. "I know you will. Going offline now."

Foxy's final transmission for the night had come in at 9 PM sharp. Around 11, the pretty vixen Mangle showed herself into Desmond's shady room. She announced herself with a gentle knock at the ajar door. "De-e-esmo-o-ond," she cooed, peeking into the room. When she saw that he was slumped over his workbench, a thermos of cold coffee beside him and a tablet displaying a crash log under his drooling chin, she smiled. There was something cute about seeing him passed out.

Although Mangle was svelte, she was still an animatronic with colossal strength. She eased Desmond back into his chair, then picked him up like a bride. Although it wasn't her intention, she startled him awake as she carted him to his bed.

"What time is it?" Desmond asked, following it up with a yawn. To his credit and Mangle's, he didn't seem to mind being in her arms.

"A bit past eleven," she said calmly, setting him in bed. "At night, mind you. You didn't sleep through the whole evening," she chuckled.

Mangle went a step further, unbuttoning Desmond's shirt. He made a feeble attempt to stop her. "I haven't figured out what's wrong with Foxy yet."

"And you won't, not with one bloodshot eye struggling to focus on that screen," said Mangle with a tiny stab of coy humor. She finished the buttons and pulled his silk shirt off, putting it on the coat hook on the wall. She took a moment to tug the big wrinkles out of it. A rumble of thunder shook the building, making the dusty framework of wall studs and pegboards reverberate. "I believe you'll solve it," she cooed, coming back to give him a kiss on the forehead. "Now, shall I get you out of your pants too, or will that just work you up?"

The foxcoon rubbed his eyes with the heels of his paws while Mangle opened his fly whether he wanted her to or not. "At this point I can't even think about sex. I'm pretty sure whatever bastard ASM language you were programmed with is burned into my eyeballs."

Exhibiting the saintly patience of an experienced mother, Mangle tugged down Desmond's slacks but left his briefs on him. She hung the pants beside his shirt, and gave him another smooch on the face when she pulled the thin blanket up to his chin. He watched her cool yellow eyes, finding comfort in her expression, but he started to sit up and blurted "Did you need something?"

"Nothing that can't wait until morning," Mangle said, effortlessly but gently pushing him down flat again. "Get some rest, sweetie."

"But--."

"No buts, not even if you meant mine," she dryly said. Noting the antsy look on his face, she put her paws on her naked hips and huffed, "If you mu-u-ust know, your little friend Chica asked that I check up on you. She was afraid if she personally came, you'd not actually get any rest. If you," she bobbed her eyebrows and smiled, "understand what I'm saying."

Desmond smiled playfully. "I'm not sure I do, can you explain it better?" he asked, folding his arms behind his head. "Preferably in a hands-on way?"

"Go to sleep, Desmond," Mangle sharply said, but still with a smile on her face. She gave him one more kiss, this time getting it on his cheek. "You can work on this conundrum tomorrow."

He rolled onto his side, facing the wall. Plainly too tired to keep up even a playful fight, he yawned and said "Goodnight, Mango."

"Goodnight, Desmond," the vixen purred. "Sleep tight."

--6

It was almost 10 AM before Desmond woke up. He rolled out of bed with bones stiff, hair frizzy and breath foul, then took a look at the workbench where his powered-off tablet lie, and he sighed. He stepped into his threadbare en suite and had a short shower - short because if he took more than seven minutes, the hot water ran out and it quickly became an ice bath to send his testicles screaming up to meet his lungs.

Desmond dried off, brushed his hair, and dressed in yesterday's uniform so lovingly hung up by Mangle. The club was empty at such an early hour. He got a breakfast of cold pizza well past its throw-out time and a can of Brisk iced tea from the vending machine. It was as close as he ever got to a balanced breakfast at Freddy Pimpbear's Pussy.

He avoided the security cameras with casual movements. Getting past them undetected was something he managed by rote memorization. He walked down the hall of doors, each leading to the dens of the animatronics. He looked sourly at Foxy's door on his way past it, then continued on to Chica's. She answered on the second knock.

"Ay, chico," she said with a smile. Her expression suddenly turned wary with squinted eyes when she asked, "Did you get some rest?"

"Your goon wouldn't take no for an answer," he said dryly. "Can I come in?"

She smiled mischievously. "If you gotta."

Feeling safer in Chica's room than he had in the hallway, Desmond sat on the metal folding chair by the workbench and rubbed his sore kneecaps. Sitting the whole night before and passing out at the bench took a toll on his joints. Chica slipped around behind him and started to knead his shoulders. As he cooed and leaned back, closing his eyes, the chicken asked, "So-o-o, any luck, carino...?"

"Mmh. Not yet," Desmond puffed. "It's like trying to untangle a big ball of rubber bands. You think you're pulling one loose but a dozen others are wrapped up in it. It's all so messy. I don't understand how anybody wrote that without going fucking nuts."

Chica smiled coyly, wrapped her arms around Desmond's upper body, making him settle his head on her breasts. "Ay, good thing there ain't nobody as qualified as you to judge that, babe."

"I'd make a joke about going down the rabbit hole, but I think Bonnie would come and try to ride me to death again," Desmond grunted.

Chica enjoyed a playful laugh at that. "What if I wanna ride you 'till you're all dehydrated 'n shit, chico? What then?"

"I guess I'd have to deal with it," he mused. "Why, you considering it?"

A snicker from Chica as she felt across his girly, slim breast. She knew exactly where his nipples were and pinched them. Even though they were soft, Desmond still gasped and arched his back. "Ooh, gawd."

"Mmm, yeah, I was thinkin' about it, carino," she whispered in his ear. "Gotta keep you relaxed. You do your best work when you ain't got a boner to deal with, right?"

"Right," Desmond shakily agreed, and Chica slid her downy hands down his body. She gripped his crotch where there was already a bit of activity, and she started to knead him through his black slacks. "Gawd," he reiterated.

Chica nipped his ear softly in her beak, making him squeal. With her being so intimately familiar with Desmond's wants and needs and knowing just how far she could push him, she firmly molested his modest cock. "You wanna fuck me, baby? Wanna fuck me silly?"

"Yea-a-ah," Desmond cooed, finding himself gyrating into the chicken's soft hands. "Christ."

"Then let's make that happen, chico," said the bird, getting his fly open easily. "Lemme see that little dick, baby. C'mon..."

Desmond looked down along with Chica to see as she tugged open his fly and pushed down his briefs. His small, needful penis disappeared under her downy yellow hand. Her strength was enormous but her touch was gentle. She teased the head of his cock with her thumb and tickled his balls with her soft fingertips.

As Desmond groaned and leaned back fully, Chica preened his neck and pumped him. Her touch was slow and lingering, and she collected his precum in her digits for no other reason than to slick him with his own natural lube. "Love you lots, chico."

The fox didn't need to question if Chica knew what that actually meant. His response was quick and honest: "I love you too, sweetie."

Chica felt up Desmond's belly and breast, starting to undo the buttons from the middle upward with her free hand. Desmond did the others, going the other way. His girly body exposed, she sluiced his soft fur through her fingers, grinding it against her down, making him puff and coo. "I like being touched like that."

"I know you do," the bird knowingly, but playfully said. "I know it real well, chico." She kept stroking him, but switched hands, being no less skilled with her left than her right. A smile tugging at the corners of her beak, she brought her pre-stained fingers to his lips and said with a hint of that Latino bitchiness she was built for, "Lick 'em clean."

Desmond did more than that - he sucked on them, and Chica, all too happy with that course of events, stuffed them deeper in his mouth and pressed down on his tongue. "Hah, yeah, you fucking like havin' hard things in your mouth, I forgot," she snickered. "You must feel real out-of-place surrounded by so many women, eh? Yeah, you just like touchin' your toes, you little maricon."

Under Chica's rough touches and at her words, Desmond groaned, melting for her. He bucked urgently into her hand and reached behind himself to grab at her hips. He was clumsy but desperate, fondling her big curves through her skirt. Chica traced her tongue along the edge of her beak, then clicked it dangerously close to her ear. "Oh, what's this shit? You wanna touch me, hijo de puta? Who said you could?"

She felt under his tongue, over his teeth and gums. Desmond said sloppily, "F'uch, 'hiss i'hs hawt."

The chicken snickered, tugging fast and squeezing hard on Desmond. She abused his mouth a moment longer, then wiped her drool-caked fingers on his cheek. "It is pretty hot, huh? Tell me what'cha want now, chico, make it quick, 'cause I'm about three seconds from just sitting on your face."

"That--, that works for me," Desmond panted, squirming his butt against the chair, shuddering and groaning irregularly.

Chica laughed. It wasn't an easy, loving sound but something bitchy and rotten. She hugged him up, pulled him out of the chair, and put him on the floor. The cold concrete of her grubby den chilled his back but he was so hot and bothered that it felt like a relief. He watched, wide-eyed and biting his lip, as Chica the chicken tugged down her pink panties and tossed them away. She stood over top of him, the view under her pleated skirt dim but unmistakable: her pussy was wet.

The bird squatted over her foxcoon, facing along his girly, half-undressed body. His face went under her flannel skirt and his snout wedged into the crack of her fine, round ass. "Eat up, chico!" she barked, grinding downward, resting her wrists on her knees. She was sneering, so obviously satisfied and cruel, but there was a gleam of affection in her eyes. Desmond loved the bitch-queen routine; it got him going like nothing else. That made Chica very, very happy. "Lick my fuckin' culo, boy!"

Desmond gripped her round, downy ass in greedy paws and slathered everything he could. That amounted to the lips of her cunt, the pucker of her anus and the lightly downy skin between it. In genuine pleasure, Chica puffed and lightly squawked, bouncing a little bit just to make Desmond squirm and huff underneath her. She watched his small, uncut cock throb, sometimes so hard it jumped up to sling little wads of precum up onto his belly. She chuckled lowly. "You look like you're gonna bust a goddamn nut just from lickin' my butthole, carino... My big culo really gets you goin', eh?"

"Gawd, yeah," she heard him gasp, speaking more into her ass than anything else. He couldn't see much, and what he did was tinted dark red; his light was filtered through her flannel skirt, making the twin curves of her ass - which his snout parted - look especially imposing. Subtle musk greeted his greedy nose. All of them knew how to rile patrons up with the power of smell, and though that was primarily the game of Freddy Pimpbear himself, his girls (and cuntboy) all had a fine grasp on the subject.

"Fuckin' gross, ain't you," Chica tutted. "Sniffing my ass, lickin' it like you're gonna die otherwise..."

"Uhn," Desmond grunted, and he slurped from the hood of her clit to the pucker of her asshole. The former was impassive, but the latter orifice clenched. In reply to the lick, Chica cooed. She pressed down harder on his head, crushing him a little between her phat ass and the concrete.

"Ye-e-eah, eat your way outta there, maricon. I'm telling your buddy Freddy all about this shit, he says you'd eat his asshole all day if he fuckin' let you. That right, chico?"

Desmond couldn't talk. His muzzle was packed too hard into her ass crack. It was almost painful but his cock was throbbing madly, its surface pocking with veins. Pre drizzled from its tip. Chica observed it, noted his abundance of slobbers and obvious sniffs, and said, "Gonna assume that means si. But I'm tired of this mierda. No more faggot shit, you eating my asshole," she said, sounding more coy than ever as she pulled her beautiful behind up and off his face. Desmond watched it lift off and grabbed for her cheeks, then her skirt, but nothing stopped her.

"Fffuck," Desmond breathed, lying flat on his back and huffing through his mouth. "I love that."

The bird's character broke when she saw how utterly satisfied he looked. She giggled. "Love what, carino? Getting your face sat on?"

A sheepish smile crept across Desmond's face. He looked away from her blue eyes, saying nothing. Chica laughed and, after kneeling, licked his lips. "I like makin' you happy, baby. And it so happens making you happy that way," she grinned, and tossed her head back to flick her wild comb of hair from one side to the other, "makes all of us happy."

As Desmond sat up, Chica sat back on her mattress. Her thighs she kept closed, in fact keeping the full length of her fine, long legs pressed together, but she slipped out of her Freddy Pimpbear's Pussy emblazoned jacket and tugged her EAT ME tube top up and off, letting her fine jugs spill free. She pulled off her spiked collar, leaving her slim, yellow neck pleasingly bare. "Whatcha think, chico?" she wryly asked, cupping up her tits, pouting them up for Desmond.

Kneeling on the mattress and touching the middle toecaps of Chica's custom-tailored boots, he tilted his head and asked, "About what exactly?"

She snickered, starting to lose it before she even made her joke: "Of--, ah, fuck. Of my chicken breasts, babe!"

Desmond just stared at her, smirking and shaking his head, and somehow this made it even funnier to Chica. She started to laugh herself stupid, and she fell back on the mattress, making a tired plume of dust blast out of its sides.

Spurred by her laughter, Desmond joined in and draped over top of her. He smooched her cheek, then nipped her neck, the latter startling her into a squawk - and then the laughing went on. She wrapped her arms tight around him and held him close, slowly bringing her laughter to heel, but she still caught and hitched with little giggles. "Ah... aw, shit, I'm sorry," she tittered. "That was fucking dumb." She had a massive grin on her face.

"It was cute," Desmond mildly said.

Chica pulled his unbuttoned shirt off of him and tossed it with her own clothes. Her grin mellowed out into a smile and she bumped her beak to his nose. "I want you up close to me, carino," she cooed. "Real gentle. Don't make me act like a bitch."

The bird expected Desmond to make a joke. He was usually good for it: you mean it's an act? But he didn't. He licked her beak, prompting her to lick back. It was the closest they could get to making out and she went for it every time. "That sounds good to me," he purred. "Let me just get out of these goddamn pants..."

"And, uh," Chica snickered, "this skirt, and these boots."

Bottomless and absently fluffing himself, Desmond watched Chica strip off her skirt and toss it aside. But when she went for the many buckles on her boots, he touched her hand, met her eyes, and purred: "No, hon. Keep them on."

"I like the way you thi-i-ink, hombre," she giggled, letting her legs creep apart. She put her heels on the floor and, with her most sultry, deliberate moves, parted the lips of her pussy for Desmond. "Come and get some of this, now, baby."

Desmond had already tasted her. Tastes like chicken, he thought, and almost started laughing again. It would have killed his hard-on a second time and been fun for sure, but it wasn't the time for shits and giggles. He padded over top of his animatronic lover and pressed his girly body against hers, grinding his meat on the folds of her pussylips. It was a bit like hotdogging her the way he laid it in the little split of her lips, but she appreciated it, pushing back.

Chica wrapped her hands around his narrow shoulders. She pulled him even closer and licked his cheek. He licked back at her tongue and they quickly tangled them up, making not quite a knot out of them, but still a happy, slurping mess. His cock found its way into her, dumb luck causing his grinds to slip it in. He didn't have a lot to work with and he pressed flush to her in a hurry, but Chica earnestly moaned and clamped down to make herself snug around him.

The awkward kiss wore thin, their tongues parting like shoelaces neatly loosening. Slobber caked Desmond's jowls and made Chica's beak glisten, and the sight of each other so messy made them both giggle.

Desmond started to buck against Chica. It was graceless but that somehow made it endearing to her. She giggled again, just about a schoolgirl's mating call, and wrapped her arms loosely around his back. She sluiced his long, silky hair through her fingers and she pulled up her booted feet as if she had them in the stirrups of an invisible saddle.

"Aaah, gawd, chico," she whimpered, a big and bright smile still on her face. "You fuck so good, babe..."

Being told that actually made Desmond straighten up. Not in the sense of posture, but rhythm; he bucked a little harder and slower, but his movements were smoother. His nose rubbed the tip of her beak and he stared down into her eyes. Just seeing her face tweak and perk with pleasure, her eyes deep and abiding with love, made him very happy in a stupid puppylove way.

"Ah, babe," Chica puffed, her shadowed eyelids rolling down, "it ever been like this before for you?"

"Once, maybe," Desmond said between little puffs of his own. He nosed alongside her beak and down into her neck, where he pecked her with soft kisses. His hips moved a little faster, and his pre dribbled into her. Chica kept herself very wet for his sake - no friction was going to spoil their lovemaking - and the sounds her abundant wetness produced were lurid but wonderful. Her cool fluids drizzled down her loins, across the winking pucker of her anus, already wet from Desmond's slobbering.

She squeezed him closer, hauling him down by his shoulders. He took a moment to reorient himself and his grinding slowed again, became a little more sloppy. Chica didn't mind - it was impossible to mind. The sex was already so good that she knew she was going to pop, it was just a matter of when. Her cunt, cold but tight and very lively inside, was beginning to tingle with pleasure. Her synthetic walls were trembling along Desmond's little cock. She ruffled his hair and huffed into his ear, "Mmh, gawd, carino. It ain't never been like this for me. It's so good, it's so fucking good, I love this."

Desmond really could think of only one other time it had been so nice. That had been with a very special woman, one who was still in his life, but whose affection for him had since changed to something else. Chica filled the void that woman had left.

Desmond pushed firmly into her, rubbing his eager, if not small balls against her tailfeathers. He panted on her neck. "Yes, this is so good," he puffed to her. "I'm gonna cum, sweetheart. Do you--?"

Urgently but sweetly, "Inside me, babe, I want it inside me!"

"Good," Desmond answered. "I was going to anyway. I'm--, ah, fu-u-uck..."

Chica could feel his body quaking against hers. The little vibrations in his muscles would have been unnoticeable to a normal girl, but she picked up on them with her computer-controlled senses. She could smell his subtle musk in the air, could feel the twitches of his penis: he was about to jizz. She squeezed him tighter in her arms and now her legs too, crossing her sexy boots over the small of his back, but the way she massaged him with her pussy's synthetic muscles was sublime. She was milking him, and she made it clear when she whispered in his flitting ear, "Gonna make you pop hard, chico, 'cause you deserve it. C'mon... let's have it, baby."

"Oh, fff-fuck," the foxcoon whimpered. He wasn't even grinding into Chica, just curling his toes and squirming against her. "Aw, ah, goddamn...!"

"C'mon, babe, come o-o-on," Chica sweetly urged, pulling his loins into hers with her feet on his back and butt. She kneaded his meat like nothing he'd ever felt before - outside of Foxy, Freddy, and the others, of course, but Chica still made it feel incredible. "Don't you think about nothin' else right now, just cum for me, carino. Give your woman what she needs."

Maybe it was Chica's fond demand, maybe it wasn't. Desmond nuzzled into her neck, shuddering, and he suddenly erupted into his climax. He said nothing but let loose a groan, and he went rigid against her. She kept milking him even as he shot again and again, and while this was first a conscious effort of hers, it quickly got out of control when she squawked and announced in delight, "Ooh, gawd, babe! Mmmmh, fuck, I'm cumming too!"

Chica squirted and wrenched down on Desmond, both in magnificent excess. She panted and squirmed and became as rigid as her girly boyfriend had, and she squeezed him in her arms maybe harder than she should have since she heard the air whoop right out of him, but she couldn't control herself when she was getting off. She might not have been programmed to actually have orgasms, but she was damned if she hadn't figured them out.

As Chica's orgasm rattled on, Desmond groaned and squirmed against her. His cock was falling flaccid and it passed that threshold of hypersensitivity, making her clenching pussy walls a very silky, soft nightmare to be stuck in. "Ohmigawd, oh--! Oh god, babe, stop, sto-o-op, it's too much," he whined into her neck, nuzzling harshly into it, his eyes clenched shut and ears splayed down. His big and bushy tail lashed in agitation.

Broken out of her orgasmic trance by Desmond's words, Chica let off and licked his ear. "Aw, shit, I'm sorry," she sheepishly said, sounding out-of-breath in spite of her lack of lungs. "I couldn't help myself, baby. You okay...?"

"I'm fine... I'm fine," Desmond sighed. It was a hair past 11 AM by then, but he was ready to roll back into bed. He kissed her cheek a half-inch from her beak and lapsed into thought, punctuated by idle, but fond gestures of affection, he and the chick exchanging licks and nuzzles and rubs, all with their bodies pressed close together. She could feel his heart thumping in his chest, pushed against hers.

It was the last thing any sane person said to their girlfriend, but Desmond uttered, "Foxy's the most popular."

"Uh?" Chica mumbled, dumbfounded and a little upset. "Yeah, don't remind me," she managed to chuckle.

"No, I mean--, I mean... Ah, god, what do I mean? I think I almost have it figured out, it's right there."

Understanding washed over Chica's pretty face. Her eyes, once dozy, popped open wide and alert. "Slow down, chico. Go through it nice and slow, babe. You know what's wrong her?"

"Foxy is the most popular. She gets the most attention. She gets fucked the most..." Desmond was murmuring to himself, looking at Chica without really looking at her. His eyes seemed to be going through her into the floor. "She gets stimulated a lot, more than the others, more than--, mmm."

"More than what, babe?" Chica encouragingly asked, scanning his vacant eyes and rubbing his naked back.

Suddenly enough that Chica jumped, with nearly melodramatic triumph in his voice, Desmond cried: "She gets stimulated more than she was designed for!"

Chica blinked. "Ay, what? But what about us talking, like, her wantin' to leave--?"

"I don't think that was it. I doubt if it helped her, but--, see, she gets used and interacted with by so many people," Desmond said, his voice fast, frantic, like he needed to spew the words out before he forgot any of them. It was in fact clicking into place for him as he chattered through it. "You're all evolving past what you were built for. The more you deal with people, the more you learn, the faster it happens. Nobody sees more people than Foxy. It makes sense now. It's like if you overclock a computer component, it'll--, eventually components'll burn out from getting more voltage than they're rated for." He sat up, and Chica let him go without any qualms. Neither of them noticed the mess leaking from her muff. "I have to check her out. I have--, I need to--, umm."

Chica watched him urgently dress. Patiently but quickly, she buttoned his shirt when he kept fumbling with them. "What'chu need, babe? I can help. Just tell me."

"Okay. Okay. What I need," Desmond said, looking almost frenzied, "is Foxy in my room. I need to go set up some equipment. You go get her. Activate her and tell her I might have it figured out. Don't tell her I--."

"Don't get her hopes up?" Chica offered, smiling ruefully. She was pulling on her tube top, and joined it with her skirt. The jacket, panties and collar stayed in the floor. "I got it, chico. Just go, babe. Go. I'll bring her."

Desmond kissed the chicken's cheek. "I love you," he said quietly, gently. It almost came across as nonsequitur, but Chica didn't think so.

She squeezed him tight (by his standards) and cooed, "I love you too, carino. I told you you'd figure this thing out."

The fox just hoped he actually had.