FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"I'm just saying, it's a shitty name for a bar."

And so, Grop killed him, with a garrote wire. The place went briefly silent except for the screeching of the barstool as the target struggled, but Grop was a tiny man made of steel, and with his knuckles where they were, the blood choke went in hard and fast, and all that was left was just to cut off the air supply for fifteen seconds or so. There was a brief crackle of bone as he snapped off the dens (a critical protuberance from the second cervical vertebra), and the rude customer sagged. Grop was clean, so he hauled the body up and back before it could soil anything. The bartender - a long-tailed sable in a tight-tailored, onyx, collared shirt with jet buttons on a midnight vest, the whole outfit done finely with emerald stitching, who had no memorable name - snorted judgmentally and shrugged his thumb in the direction of the prep room. "Hose, cleavers."

"No bone saw?"

"You broke a tooth last time."

There was a punctuated, hard silence between them. "Cleaver's fine."

"Bleach is still marked hypochlorite."

"Fuckin' nerd." They exchanged a long glance.

The bartender without a name thunked a heavy glass on the bar and filled it with ice. "Screwdriver?"

"Rusty."

"Fuckin' gross."

The killing squirrel named Grop twisted his arms up under the dead man to carry him like a cross on his back and used his tail to prop up the knees, then disappeared through a swinging door behind the bar. The music at the Gilded Chasm started playing again.

---

Forty Days Fasted was backstage with a picnic basket the size of a doghouse for a Tibetan mastiff. He was wearing a white, V-neck undershirt that was, incredibly, much too big for his powerful frame (recall that this is our titular muscle-wolf) and a pair of equally-boggling gym shorts that were practically falling off his hips. As he had been the week before, he was wearing seventeen wooden bracelets, which hung off his various limbs and clattered quietly, like a wind chime of bamboo, when he moved. Some were gracile and seemed to disappear underneath his fur when the light caught them just the right way. Some slipped along limbs amongst one another lazily with every movement. Some were hard, motionless, and dark.

"Ya couldn't show up in like a sex-stained vest or somethin'?" Jef-one-eff, the jacked rabbit, sat on the basket and stood right back up again when it bleated at him. "Y'know, I kind of expected a red bowtie and a tux for a magic act."

"If you want me to pull a rabbit out from anywhere, you're gonna have to give me a chance to get him in there, first," FDF answered, deadpan.

"Y'know I ain't even attracted to pretty anymore. And like I said last week, you ain't impressed me, yet."

"Yeah, well, I'm a fan of a man with a deft tongue, so I'll see what I can do." The performer let out a bit of a disgruntled sigh, though. "You're right, of course. Just... "

"I ain't here for sob stories. Anyway, why isn't your name Seventeen Wooden Bracelets?"

"That's my middle name."

"HAH." Jef-one-eff guffawed, loudly; an honest laugh, wholly unregulated and beautifully spontaneous. The jacked rabbit seemed like he should have been smoking, but the Gilded Chasm has a strict no-smoking policy, and it was observed quite closely so as not to tarnish the impressive gilding that gave the place its glittering sheen - even back here, behind the stage and behind the tall, cream-and-burgundy curtain.

"Alright, wise guy. So, that's a..." He checked inside the basket "Holy shit that's a one-seventeen Barbados blackbelly ram in there with horns and all. And you're a six-two- hold on." He thought again, and looked again. "Last week, you were a six-two-two-forty-three hunk. Today, you're a five-nine-one-get your hand off my face."

"Shhhhh sh sh sh sh shhhh. I'm exactly the same as I was last week - I'm just in looser clothing."

"Don't you shush me. How you gonna stuff something that size down your throat? How you gonna lose weight and HEIGHT in a week?" "Y'know, I didn't take you for a straight man." "Bub, I didn't take you for crooked. You tell me what the fuck's up; 'cuz I don't need to graduate college to know you were six-two-two-forty-three last week and that's a one-seventeen juvenile Barbados blackbelly ram and there ain't a way your scrawny ass weighs more at five-nine than one-twenty-"

"SHIT that's my music cue; gimme all your maths later, ya fuckin' nerd." Forty Days Fasted hauled his ass up like he had a job to do - because he did - and started dragging an enormous, woven picnic basket holding at minimum one dozen eggs, an iced salmon, a dead, cooked chicken, and a live, one-seventeen-pound juvenile Barbados blackbelly ram.

Jef-one-eff started after him. "I'll fuckin' nerd you, you fuckin'-"

"m-a-a-a-a-a-a"

---

Ten Panthers, a Colorado chipmunk with tar black, phosphorescent skin where all his white fur should have been that shone purple when he moved because he had paid extremely good money to have skin grafts grown from his own cells and genetically altered to mimic certain jellyfish, was flagrantly fondling the ass of the lovely woman behind him, when a five-nine wolf wearing seventeen wooden bracelets and a simple coating of chestnut brown fur fought his way between the cream-and-burgundy curtains and up the gilded, plywood-and-staples ramp to the main promenade of the Gilded Chasm. By the time the wolf made it up to the top of the stage, he was panting slightly. He took a seat on his picnic basket to catch his breath. Meanwhile, the stage lighting continued to rotate and flow its gem tone lasers amidst gentle, cyan flood lighting.

Grop, whose fur was perfectly camouflaged in such an environment with its Indian squirrel hues, sat down next to Ten Panthers at the high, round table he'd chosen near the stage, and then the bartender who didn't have a memorable name sat down next to Grop, and then the three of them extended their long, impressive, well-kept tails up over their respective heads and slightly to the right, then down to wrap clockwise around the supports of their respective barstools - lacquered things of minimalist make but properly gaudy masquerade, having spiral filigree that wound counterclockwise down the supports. Ten Panthers began the critique in a voice that, though quiet, carried vibrantly through an unused, baritone frequency in the soundscape.

"Said he was gonna be a muscle-wolf."

"It was on the brochure." "I was impressed there was even a brochure."

"It's uncharacteristic of Jeff."

"Show some goddamn respect."

"You're right. Sorry. Jef. I'm a little off kilter."

"Killing can cant your kilter?"

"Can it. This kerning, though." He flicked a copy of the brochure. "A-plus. What do you think, duke?"

The bartender shrugged.

Grop continued, somewhat alto in timbre. "I can't even tell if he's lean. Can you tell if he's lean?"

"Jef-one-eff would've been able to tell us. We'll simply have to wait. Here - have an entire mango."

Grop arched an eyebrow at Ten Panthers, who was offering him one whole mango on an upturned palm. The squirrel leaned down and forward. He parted his lips and yawned open his jaws. His muzzle widened steadily, carefully, around the fruit, bigger than a fist, and with a quiet moan and a pre-emptive, audible gulp, he enveloped the offering with his mouth, so that only a glimpse of flesh was showing. Ten Panthers watched carefully. His breathing was shallow and warm, and caught on each inhale. The squirrel put two fingers to the fruit and pushed, slipping it into his right cheek with a little moan. At the sound, Ten Panthers closed his eyes, groaned, and shuddered over his own groin. Then, he smiled coyly, slapped Grop's near thigh, and turned his attention back to the main event.

Grop chortled and did the same.

The bartender took a sip of his whiskey and did the same.

On stage, Forty Days Fasted had unpacked the majority of the picnic basket to display one egg carton containing one dozen eggs, one cooler of ice containing a large salmon, and a tiny beach chair containing a cooked chicken. At no particular musical cue, he took one egg from a carton, tossed it eight feet in the air, took his time to lean back his head, and caught it such that it slid instantly down his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed visibly. Ten Panther's eyes blinked open wider for a moment, but to be honest, his acquaintance Grop had recently ensconced an entire mango in his cheek.

The wolf repeated the entire process once. Eyes around the room watched, most of them patient. One patron, a tiger, derisively and loudly asked, "What the hell is this?" His wife, a tigress, echoed his scorn. "Skip the build!" They were shushed.

A third time, Forty Days Fasted tossed an egg in the air and swallowed it with perfect timing. He took a deep breath and let it shudder out of him, and the gym shorts pooled over his thighs began to rise. Four, five, and six went in three quick tosses, and were swallowed in three quick gulps, one-two-three. At that, Ten Panthers licked his lips. He whispered, "All of them."

The wolf wrapped his hand around his cock, even with the shorts obscuring it, and squeezed. With the other, he lifted the carton to his gaping maw, turned it sideways, then jostled his head slightly and in a deft movement, caught the six remaining eggs in his mouth and guided them down his gullet in rapid succession - seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve, drinking them with no apparent effort. He picked up a wired mic from the floor and sighed wetly into it, following with a smack of his lips, then used his free arm to yank back his too-loose, too-thin tank top so that it framed a hard belly, dropped the mic halfway down his throat with a wide-open grin, and crunched his abs so the entire room heard one dozen eggs crack, impossibly at the bidding of a single flexion of Forty Days Fasted's abdominal wall, before he coughed up the mic and set it back on the ground so he could start his dance.

The music picked up pace and the peep show began. Aided by the looseness of his gym shorts, the wolf swung and spun around the edge of the stage, using his hips and cock to get the polyester fabric to flow. He stretched; he posed; he did careful cartwheels into handstands that let his dick drop tantalizingly up his abs. And then he snagged the chicken from its chair and hopped off stage, right in front of the trio of VIPs.

A talented stagehand got one of the ghostly blue lights directly on him. Cock at half-mast and holding his shorts out well over half a foot in front of him - as any proper Chippendale can do - the relatively lean, relatively small wolf lifted the chicken high in the air, tilted his head back, and settled it between his teeth. Juices from the bird got into the corners of his lips. He extended his arms, inviting anyone who wanted to touch. The unnamed bartender declined. Grop and Ten Panthers, whose attention had become rapt, each grasped a biceps. The wolf widened the gape of his jaw again and did something clever with his tongue, and the bird began to sink down, sliding an inch at a time into a bulging throat that never gagged, never hesitated. One swallow, and the entire front half was gone. Another, but then!

As the bird dropped with unnatural ease into Fasted's stomach, he gulped, snarled, curled his wrists, and flexed his biceps. They swelled under the rodents' hands, and forced their fingers apart. The tactile sensation of flesh bulging under fingers made both of them gasp and look down to confirm what they'd seen. It was subtle, but it was real. They looked back up, and the wolf was licking his greasy lips and smiling a broad, toothy smile. He made eye contact with each one of the three in turn, and they felt like the music faded, the world went dark at the edges, and the only thing to see and to know and to hear and to feed were the lips and teeth and tongue and throat of the smiling, swallowing wolf in front of them.

That wasn't the case, though, and Forty swung himself back up on stage. His biceps had a noticeable bulge, but the clothing still seemed loose. He still looked kind of like an over-confident teenager who'd paid his way to get up in front of people. The wolf teased and tugged at his shirt and his shorts as before, and made a show of bouncing his hips to let the turgid force in front of him work the fabric again, before he finally returned to his picnic.

"I want to touch him again," said Ten Panthers.

"Did he fucking grow?" asked Grop.

"He gained a pound and a half of pure muscle," said the bartender without a name. The other two looked at him. "Jef came by and told me while you were picking up your jaws and unzipping your pants."

The chipmunk and the squirrel looked down at the hands they had in one another's laps like they hadn't really expected to find them there, but both dicks were out and were gleaming in the dim, club lighting. They exchanged glances with one another.

"An egg weighs two ounces," recalled Grop.

"The math adds up," declared Ten Panthers.

"He absorbed it all, nearly instantaneously," concluded the sable, who licked his lips hungrily and grinned toothily over his drink.

All three pairs of eyes went back to the show, and all three tails unwound their grips and then wound back again. At this point, Fasted was holding a salmon in both paws. This wasn't one's regular fish market salmon. It was a fifty-pound Atlantic feast. Holding it up made Forty's triceps bulge with strain, and again - they seemed bigger. For a man who had just swallowed an entire cooked chicken and twelve eggs, he didn't seem bloated at all. The tank top seemed to fit slightly better. The wolf made sure his chest was on full display, and lifted the enormous animal over his head. At forty-one inches, it was easily longer than his entire head and torso, and yet, he dropped the head into his maw. The entire room went quiet. There were no mirrors. There was no smoke. There was no trap door. There was, in the weird silence of a simple subsonic drum and bass, a quiet, wooden clattering.

The throat bulged. The body twitched, as though gagging. The athletic shorts throbbed visibly around a shaft that seemed to grow. As though he'd forgotten it, Forty knelt and grabbed the mic. He held it to his throat and swallowed. His neck swelled with the effort. The room could hear his heartbeat. Another swallow, and half a foot of tuna vanished inside him. For long moments, a slow and constant slippage of fish flesh into gullet. The creature continued to sink, and then another swallow. Ten Panthers let out a groan and shook and fought Grop's hand off his cock as he watched. Another gulp, and another six inches, then all at once, a foot. Forty Days Fasted contained two feet of the creature. He shuddered and there was a slick sound of sucking while his eyes clenched hard, and suddenly everything but the tail went in, all at once. His hips and body rolled in one smooth undulation, and at the end of it, everything he was wearing fit so much better. With a hard blink, he kept his jaws wide and walked back towards Ten Panthers. The change in height was obvious. He took the chipmunk's wrist in hand, and placed the rodent's paw on the fish's tail, which was still exposed. He then took the other hand as well as one of Grop's and guided them both down underneath their table to hold onto his cock - which they found, with whimpers and bulging eyes, needed both those hands to be covered. Ten Panthers pushed, slowly, and cried out, "FUCK!" when the cock in his hand bloated in time with the swallowed fish, the tongue and lips closed around his fingers, and the chipmunk came, hard, splattering the underside of their table with potent and voluminous output of a proper woodland creature. "Ah, ah, fuck, god, let me..." He found himself begging while his body clenched and shivered, and for the second time, with his hand inside that commanding mouth, lost track of the idea that there could be literally anything else in the world but teeth and tongue and lips and...

It wasn't the case. There was more. As Forty grinned and slipped his slick tongue and lips off that paw and got back on stage again, Jef-one-eff whispered in the bartender's ear. "That was a fifty-pound salmon that just went in there. He weighed one-twenty-six and not one pound more when he started, and you know I know the numbers. Y'know what he's got in that basket?"

The nameless sable grunted that he did not.

"A one-seventeen-pound Barbados blackbelly ra-"

"ma-a-a-a-a-a," said the ram, as Forty Days Fasted led it out through a clever hatch in the side of the basket. The wolf let it stand there in the dim, blue lighting, and went for another round of dancing. It was undeniable: his thighs fit better inside the gym shorts. His cock was better silhouetted against their flowing fabric. His acrobatics became more impressive, feats of strength that better flaunted tighter curves. At first, he had had a pleasantly lean frame, but it had been unassuming and mute. Following the eggs, the biceps were surely there and the quadriceps were tighter, sure, but maybe it was a trick of the light. Following the chicken, the triceps had become beautiful as he held them over his head, but perhaps he simply hadn't put them on flagrant display as a part of his routine. Now, though, a belly that should have been swollen with the impossible length of salmon was ripped through with the delta of his abdominal wall; biceps were too big for most people's two-handed grip, and brachioradialis and fibularis longus and serratus anteriors had gained prominence and form, straining against the wooden rings that dotted his body and still clacked when he moved. He was rapturous and hedonic, but still, those clothes were. Just look at them.

"Those fuckin' shorts don't fit."

Forty picked up the mic and caressed it with his lips. His voice was ineffable. His tone was a boulder, thirty feet away and unstoppable. His mood was famished, but patient, and knew that sustenance would come. "I'm going to eat this ram. I'm going to swallow him whole. Everything he is, every pound of muscle on him, everything he could have been, is going to be mine." He grinned enormously and squeezed the base of his cock, which made the mushrooming head bloom through the veil of his shorts. "And any of you lovely patrons are free to join him where he's going, and make me even more than what I am."

He dropped the mic again and in a smooth, trained, calculated movement, this five-eleven, one-eighty-three living sculpture performed the ancient, weightlifting art of a power clean on the one-seventeen-pound ram. To those with comprehension of weightlifting prowess (like Ten Panthers and Jef), that wasn't the most impressive thing they'd seen. Instead, they held their breaths as Forty Days Fasted dropped the hind limbs of this placid beast into his throat. He funneled the beast in like a normal oral specialist might a sword, or a long, thin, balloon. Each time it seemed impossible - at the feet, even, or at the hips sixteen inches later, or at the ribcage fourteen inches later, or at the shoulders another fourteen inches later - his throat swelled like it was made of elastic and his jaws widened perfectly, never abhorrent, never serpentine, but impossibly, fluidly, through fantastical expansions and contractions of his maw and muzzle and throat that defied both physics and disgust alike, and the meal continued inexorably inward. Finally, just the bleating head remained, while hooved feet kicked visibly behind the unfathomable depths of his abdominal wall, and once again, Forty Days Fasted dismounted the stage and approached the small audience he knew would determine his fate. His gaze was powerful and proud, but he neither domineered nor patronized his patrons while he kept the ram caged just barely behind his pronounced canines. Grop watched. Ten Panthers, on one side and fiercely erect yet again, took hold of one small horn. The nameless bartender took the other. They shoved. Forty swallowed. The ram vanished with a bleat behind the clicking wall of Forty's teeth, and the sound crashed through and silenced the rest of the room.

There was stillness, except for muffled baas, while the lights came up. A quadripedal form struggled and twitched in vain behind a muscular fortress that kept it contained. The woodland creatures leaned forward over their table to press palms and fingers to Forty's chest and belly, to feel the movements, to know they were real. Fourteen inches of hot, hidden, knotted wolf cock bobbed at a high angle below. The struggles abruptly ceased. Forty's entire body hummed with his pleasure. The shape inside his chest cavity lost form, slowly but without pause, like a vacuum chamber compressing a too-weak plastic mold, and Forty began to swell.

"Six-even," muttered Jef-one-eff, unable to believe his eyes. "Six-one." He continued to grow. "Six-two." His chest pressed out against his tank top while all three long-tailed idolators continued to touch and feel and adore. "Six-three." The fabric strained, and the gym shorts tightened against hips and buttocks. "Six-four." Old cotton began to tear, and the wolf snarled and growled as it bit painfully into his shoulders before their mass shredded it into memories. "Six... five," Jef-one-eff breathed. "Two-ninety-nine."

The shorts tore off, and a two-foot pole of wolf flesh carrying one of the bracelets bounced out of it, unleashed and soaked in sweat and its own precum. The crowd that wasn't actively engaged in worshipping the willing body in front of it cheered, enraptured. The sable gained some control and kept his hands above the waist - clinical, measuring, learning, observing - but Ten Panthers had earned his name by sexual appetite alone. He clung to the man and all but ground against his sides from his position shirtless and kneeling on the table, only keeping from actual sexual contact due to an overwhelming comprehension of consent. Forty met eyes, received mutual nods, and lifted both him and Grop over their table, one in each arm, and brought them on stage. Both were achingly erect, and he pulled them against each side while they marveled at and paid homage to all twenty-five inches of supernaturally massive wolf cock. It was monstrous - far beyond the ken of normal men - and Ten Panthers had gotten in over his head.

He grabbed Grop by the back of his skull and with a subtle application of pressure points, forced the squirrel on his knees in front of the wolf. "Serve him," he demanded.

Grop nodded, and pressed his lips to a cockhead broader than his muzzle. Forty Days Fasted's wooden rings clacked as he considered the offering and its full, stuffed cheek. He snarled through a grin, and said, "Feed it, man. I've got a strong appetite for fruit, like you." The comma was critical. Grop had been prepared to be too insulted, but understanding a request that benefitted everyone involved, bequeathed the whole mango using his tongue. With a lecherous whimper, he began to push the fruit into the slotted, salty orifice before him. Forty Days Fasted, a muscle wolf whole loved some vore porn, hoisted Ten Panthers onto his hips and began to kiss him while Grop used his nose to shove a whole mango down the wolf's urethra.

It sank.

It slid.

It eased inside, and the two-foot member pulsed in a peristaltic wave as it accepted the offering. The outline of the mango slipped along the belly of that cock, vanished into the knot, and disappeared up inside of the wolf. Moments later, nuts that had been the size of proper Clementine oranges were instead - for a while - roughly the size of mangos. Ten Panthers came like a faucet into the delta of Forty Days Fasted abs, and it wasn't long before Grop was drinking down and being bathed in a mango cocktail he had only envisioned in dreams.

Consequently, the bartender took notes.

---

It was dawn the morning after. Jef-one-eff the jacked rabbit and Forty Days Fasted the muscle wolf were sharing mugs of coffee on the porch of the Gilded Chasm. The wolf's physique defied reason, and his only clothing was a white towel from the Chasm's private rooms, but the casual atmosphere and the quiet and the purple-and-tangerine-and-gray dawn conflagration and the jacked rabbit's nonplussed demeanor made it all substantially less intimidating than it could have been.

"Ya stuffed a mango down your cock and your jizz tasted like mango juice."

"How did you know?"

"Shared some with the barkeep. He's named the Forty Day Creamsicle shot after you."

"That's real cool of him." "It's a double shot." "I'm flattered."

"It's flattery. Didn't know a prostate could work like that."

"I didn't want to insist otherwise. I wanted to get the job."

"I didn't believe you, and I sorta still think all ya did was put lysergic acid in our water supply."

"I'd say that isn't fair, but you didn't even split tips. I figured you'd split tips."

"I only split hairs."

"Not touching that one."

"You made four hundred twenty-seven dollars on a two hundred dollar hour, and you're three inches taller than you used to be."

"Magical Cherokee bullshit."

"But the Barbados blackbelly ram is somehow okay?"

"Mystical Druidic bullshit."

"But your mouth gets psycho-magnetic whenever you want it to."

"Terrifying Kemetic bullshit."

"The fuck you find all this bullshit."

"Like I tried to tell you, three years ago, this fey bullshit dude broke my heart after showing me some dark places. I went darker places. I found some bright ones."

"You can't see yourself as a normal fuckin' human being in normal society after heartbreak like that. You go be other places. I dig it."

"Yeah. It feels shitty."

"It is."

"Three years isn't too long?"

"Do shit. Be happy. Get better. 'Too long' happens when the getting better stops." Jef flicked his left ear to add a delicate punctuation mark to his decree, and sipped on his coffee.

Forty Days Fasted sipped his own coffee.

Dawn broke.