FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Memory is a funny thing. I can't remember how many guys I've fucked over the journey. It has to be a lot, and most of them are just a blur. Some stand out though. Some stand out a lot. Some I wish I could forget. Some I wish I could remember. Some I remember just as well as I could want. Like the stag.

I was still experimenting a lot when I met him. About twenty, exploring the world and myself a long way from people who, in my still adolescent way, I saw only as an impediment. In hindsight maybe they were too, but they also knew a lot more about the world than I did or than I could give them credit for. Wisdom is wasted on the young.

I knew what I wanted though, and at least an idea of where and how to get it. For that only the big city could meet the need, and there was none bigger and none more varied than New York. It called me like a beacon on the shore, guiding me home or at least to a reasonable facsimile thereof.

New York may be everything it is cracked up to be, don't get me wrong, but it is and has always been a relentlessly striving commercial kind of town too. You only get so far without money. By the time I had exhausted the usual free attractions, and walked around staring up at the endless procession of skyscrapers, I was hungry and horny, not necessarily in that order.

Redemption of both cravings came in the one place. Grand Central Station was still the bustling nexus for the city it had always been in the early 80's. Before the days of airline deregulation, and the ubiquitous experience of being cramped in a metal tube and insulted for three hours, we still came into New York like Gods into the ornate caverns of Grand Central. Here you could find all kinds, from businessmen to housewives to construction workers, of all races. For a resolutely gay lost young stallion, you could also find a home of sorts.

I found it by accident, late one night with no money and nothing to do. Needing to take a leak, I headed for one of the big bathrooms down a concourse. The noises hit me first, sensitive equine ears picking up the signals as usual. From a stall near the back, a mix of sighs, moans and yelps, enough to make me pause and let my ears swivel in imperfect understanding.

Then the scent. Just a hint, the barest hint, but it was enough. Musk, cum, the rich scents of fucking wafting over the base of piss and chlorine and pine and sweat. The scents I craved.

Taking up a spot at a urinal, though unable to piss myself in a mix of fear and anticipation, I waited as close as I dared to the stall and let my dick drop. I held it, admiring the tip, piss slit open wide but nothing to show. I loved the look of my cock almost as much as I loved the effect it had on guys. The hunger. One slow stroke and I was hard, my balls dancing to a rhythm as old as our kind.

Finally the noises stopped and I heard the stall door open. A guy went out, stopped, looked at me and turned his head to the floor. A bull, looking like a construction worker or something, he headed for the exit like he had been shot from a cannon. As I waited, the second form emerged.

He was a fox, dressed like a preppy, in fact he looked like a student more than anything, maybe some kid from Columbia. If he was, he was about a hundred streets too far downtown to learn whatever would propel him to a career at Drexel. He seemed to have learned other things though.

With a smile he sauntered past. He gave my cock an extra-long look, as he casually tucked a ten dollar bill in his jeans, and gave me a wink.

"Want me to take care of that?"

So I learned a lot in one night. About exchange rates, transaction protocols, and payment terms. I should have gone for a job on Wall Street.

I didn't take him up on his offer, by the way. After all, there is nothing worse than two salesmen trying to sell to each other. But my first mark was not long after the fox had left, and I got what I craved and then some. A businessman, a representative for an office supplies company, big and sturdy bear. I got a thick rich load from his cock, a decent sized red length made beautiful by its thick base, and I got an appreciative pawjob. I also got a twenty, which showed the greed is good generation knew how to pay. It also showed something I came to know well; in the greatest marketplace on the planet, a young Lakota stallion could still find a buyer, and a value. And stallions of all kinds seemed to gain a premium.

I was also dumb, as only the young can be. The way I knew he was a salesman is I stole his wallet. I figured he didn't need it, and I did, and in any case, the American Way was somewhere halfway between commerce and outright theft. I didn't need to be a member of the Nations to know that, but it certainly meant I had learned a few damn good examples.

By the time I met my guy, the one who sticks in my mind to this day, I was an expert of a kind. I had enough money to ride the subway, get a bagel or a burger in a deli, and feel like I belonged. It might seem strange to see it like that, living by giving blowjobs in a subway bathroom, but that was how it felt. For the first time in my life I could get sex when I wanted, with who I wanted, and nobody was there to give a damn. I was my own stallion, on my own terms, with the scent of cum in my nostrils and the wind of freedom in my mane.

I saw him come in and noticed him immediately. A stag, with a decent set of antlers, though he was young still maybe twenty two or three. He was also a soldier, a marine, wearing fatigue pants and shirt and a cap with the little side holes they made so his antlers could stick out. A nice muzzle, pointed, with a tuft of fuzz under his chin, nicely shaped ears, and a diamond tail in white. He was also built like a truck, broad shoulders and broad hips, and muscles obvious even under the shapeless mass of his uniform.

His shirt sleeves had been rolled up, and I saw a brand on one side with the Marine Corps symbol, the eagle, globe and anchor over his tricep. The thought of watching him get it tickled my interest first; I had heard about the ceremonies where new recruits got the brand, so desperate not to show the pain, shirt off in a world of testosterone and sweat and muscle. I fantasised about soothing a guy's pains with my tongue, feeling the rough edges of the brand.

Here was one we prepared earlier though, in black on the deep brown of a stag. He noticed me too, noticing him, and gave a shy smile. He stepped up to the urinal, taking the one next to mine. I knew that was a good sign from experience; if they went as far away as possible it was normal. If they came up close, it was cruising.

This one unzipped and dropped his boxers, revealing a decent sized sheath. His long pink cock poked out, pointed, red, almost angry red, and he unleashed a powerful stream. I held mine, not pissing for now, just holding and letting it show off, the flare pulsing in the light. He glanced over at me and smiled again.

"Howdy"

A Southern drawl, Carolina sugar in every syllable. A good ole boy, probably redneck as fuck. I shuddered, my mane twitching, and my ears went forward and then zoomed in on him like radar.

He let out a sigh and leaned back a bit while he drained his bladder. When he was finished, rather than put it back in, he held his cock a little while, stroking slowly, and making out he was knocking the last drips from his tip. The enticing stream of yellow liquid had stopped though, nothing on his cock except a slight gleam of moisture, enough to make slight squelching sounds as he jacked it in easy motions.

"You got a nice one pal."

He was looking at me now, no longer smiling, his stare serious. A tongue appeared, and he licked his lips, nervous as a kitten. I relaxed immediately, realising what I had. Not a hardened customer; just another lost soul in search of something.

I motioned with my head to the stall. He nodded, almost like he was learning another drill. Maybe he was. The thud of his boots on the tiles sounded loud in the bathroom, the creak of hinges almost like nails on a blackboard.

In the stall he was more assured again in his gestures, and his smile was back, but he still sounded nervous.

"I haven't much...I mean, I don't..."

I pressed a finger to his muzzle. I went to kiss it too, but he shied, and I contented myself with running my hands under his shirt, over his chest. Built as fuck, fat pecs, nipples like the end of my little finger, his coat rough with patches of denser fur between his pecs and around his nips. I unbuttoned his shirt and he let me, breathing hard, the occasional bleat as I touched him in places sensitive enough to make his muscles flex. I flicked his nipple mostly to see his abdomen again, the indistinct groups suddenly tightening enough to become a six pack as I tweaked the tip.

"Yesssir....."

My muzzle found his left nipple, suckling. It hardened in a moment, and I used the distraction to reach into his pants. The long cock I remembered was thicker, and hard as granite. Under it, I found a perfectly formed deer scrotum, low hanging, filled to the brim with egg sized nuts.

He let me do the work, and I was grateful for it. Jacking his length, one hand on his shaft, the other tickling the underside of his sweaty nuts. They danced, just like mine, contracting and falling, until I felt his rough hand on my head pushing me down to sit on the bowl in front of him.

"Fuck pony....fucking hell..."

Pressing my muzzle to him I sniffed, savouring the scent of sweat and urine and musk. A long lick while he groaned, the sound muffled, and I looked up to see him cutely covering his muzzle with a hand so we couldn't be discovered. He watched me though, eyes wide, brown and unknowing and still uncertain. The mix of scared little deer and dominant buck, warring across his face. I determined to find more of the latter.

His groans became louder as I sucked him. Lips first, suckling the tapered end of his cock like a big nipple, tasting that tang of piss and precum that I always find so erotic now. Nostrils flared I sucked in air and scent as I slid slowly down his shaft, the heat and the demonic twitching of his cock so fine. All the way, in a few strokes, until my lips nestled against his groin and I felt his tip twitching in my throat and the acrid taste of pre and piss invaded my soul.

"Fucking faaiinnne.."

I could not get enough of that voice. Halfway from adolescent twang to gruff adulthood, his body well ahead of the rest of him, with the North Carolina melody in his sighing words, I wanted more. I needed more. So did he, and it wasn't long before he wasn't content to let me take the lead. Hands entwined in my mane he forced me down his length then began to sway those muscled hips to fuck my muzzle, his nut sack swinging to slap my chin on each thrust.

Tasting his precum become a flood of delight, I thought he was close, and I cupped his nuts and squeezed. His soft downy fur felt incredible on my fingers, and the heat in his scrotum was like a furnace, the flesh quivering on the brink as he charged his body for a climax.

It came as a shock when he pulled me off his cock, carefully but surely. I looked up and into his eyes, seeing the first glint of total surety and a twitch in his ears that spelled trouble. Hooking his hands under my arm pits he hauled me to my hooves, and we stood for a moment looking at each other but not speaking.

I gasped when he went for my jeans, big hands making easy work of the belt and the buttons. He yanked them down to my knees, my cock swaying free after catching on the waistband painfully. My flare pulsed in need as well as anger, demanding compensation for rough handling.

"I want something different pony boy..."

The feeling of being manhandled like that still takes my breath away. I wasn't that small, a Standardbred not a heavy or anything, but I was muscled in a wiry way. He basically lifted me easy like a sack of wheat, pushing my back against the partition, the impact knocking my breath out of my lungs for a second. By the time I had it back, I had to press my muzzle into his chest to stifle a scream.

It was rough, and urgent. No preliminary, no real foreplay. He needed, and he took, and in that moment that was absolutely perfect, even though the pain felt like a hot knife into my ass.

He lowered my naked ass onto him, and at the same time lifted onto the tip of his hooves, and rammed in full length, parting my hole and driving full length inside. I bit on his nipple to try and deal with the pain, tasting the metallic tang of blood.

Shaking slightly, I felt the warm touch of his scrotum on my flesh. He had his hands under my butt, my legs entwined behind his back, chest on mine. I could feel his heart, and see into his eyes. No insecurity now, just the need to rut, and his muzzle found my neck and mauled me while he began to fuck into me with a steady cadence like a route march.

"Fucking hot pony...fucking hot..."

Ever rasp of his cock burned inside, until the burn became a tingle, and his precum eased the way inside me. I was moaning softly too, one hand over his shoulder, the other holding his antlers for support. The soft velvet hid hard flinty depths, and my hand almost bled from the scraping, but I loved that touch. I nibbled the other antler, then he finally left my neck and I felt the touch of soft stag lips on mine. The kiss surprised me in a wonderful way, rough and needful, no finesse, a bit like the fuck. He bit my lip hard, painfully, the tingle joining the tingle in my hole, while my tail swished against the hard cold panelling in time to the fuck.

"Oh Gawd...oh Gawd...oh Gawd..."

He broke the kiss, eyes closed, scrunched tight. The words came as a sigh, soft, melodic. Somehow the most beautiful compliment I had ever been paid in sex, those words, his pleasure, complete and pure. His very own rapture, all thanks to me.

"Oh Gawd..."

One last strangled cry and I felt the heat inside, filling me as his nuts bounced against my ass, the heat trickling down the side of his cock and out my well spread ring, down the cleft of my butt and dripped onto the tiles. He breathed, that big chest heaving, resting against my body as I fought for breath too.

I hadn't cum, my body poised but not yet over the brink. It was a totally selfish, raw fuck in a way. Sometimes that is the hottest of all.

I made up for the loss after he left, jacking out a huge load, and he has brought me so many sweet return bouts in my head in the years afterwards. A glimpse of that face, those eyes, the chest, his cock, the burn in my tailhole, and over it all...oh God...oh God...oh God...

He left me down, shaky on my hooves, and I shuffled out of the stall to find him fixing his uniform, that perfect cock now sadly put away, unruffling his headfur, steadying his cap. He gave me a smile though, ducking his head a little as he did.

"Thanks...thanks sir. Thanks a bunch...ahhh...what's your name?"

"R...Ryan."

"Colby."

I loved the fact that I could be almost 100 percent certain that it was his real name. I doubted he had that kind of deceit in him, just as I knew I did. I was a survivor. He was still dreaming. I kind of hoped that would never change for him.

I watched him trot out, that broad muscled ass swaying, the little diamond tail lifted and twitching as he walked, the scent of his sweat and his cum still thick in the bathroom and on my body. I curled up crouched on the floor and breathed in for long moments before heading to the stall for my own ending.

I never remembered to ask him for the money. It seemed wrong anyway. This one was for me.

Even now, he is the one from that time I remember. I didn't keep it up for long, thanks to my own stupidity. I stole one wallet too many, getting caught by a transit cop, and had a final exchange of value, dodging a stay in prison for a fuck. The bull took no prisoners too, raw fucking my hole until I whimpered. I hated that he broke me, and that I got hard anyway. There was raw and wild and selfish, and then there was this. The stag knew how to do it.

Of all the guys I encountered though, he is the one that remains vivid enough to go back there. He is also the only one I still wonder about. Did he stay in the marines, did he go somewhere, did he die, did he succeed. Maybe he is somewhere in rural North Carolina on a farm, with a couple of kids, and his days of male heat a distant memory.

It would be worth it to find out though, and see if he remembered.

It came to mind strongly too because of what has to be a coincidence. I was in North Carolina, driving a load across country when I stopped in a town just outside of Raleigh for gas. The kid manning the station was all business, but he also made me wonder. A stag, with the same cute muzzle, the same wide eyes, the same built body under a pair of overalls. He had on a John Deere cap, which made me chuckle, and the same wide open face and country boy ease I remembered.

My breath caught in my throat the moment I saw him, and I found I had to head to the bathroom almost immediately. He was polite, as they all were around there, and showed me to the room. He even joined me.

Breathless and unsure, with my mane tingling, I tried to piss, nothing coming out, my cock in my hand with the flare pulsing. He stepped to the urinal next to me and unleashed a fountain of pungent urine, that tang so familiar. I couldn't help sniff, and I couldn't help a sideways glance. I still loved stag cock, and his glistened so invitingly.

He glanced over to me and gave another smile, eyes bright, and put his length away. I let out a huge sigh as he trotted out, my bladder finally unlatching enough to relieve one inner tension even if others would not be so easy to resolve. I paid in a hurry and climbed into the cab, determined not to look back, but I did anyway. He gave me a wave.

"You take care now Sir."

My vision focussed enough on his overalls to make out something I hadn't seen before, a name badge green against the khaki. Colby Jr.

I chuckled all the way into Raleigh. Memory was a funny thing.