FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The bull slammed his car door shut with a hoof. Maybe Maxwell locked it, maybe he didn't. That was the furthest thing on his mind. All that mattered was that work was done. Friday had come. Soon, he could unwind and the stress of the week would be far behind him. He had but one more stop before home. His hooves marched towards the warehouse, wind whipping through his wooly pelt as he traversed the pier. A keypad sat next to the door, eye level with the bull. Even though he had never been here, the bull inputted the code perfectly without looking at the keys. He slipped inside with as much subtlety as he could with his bulk.

Maxwell approached the front counter on either side of which two doorways led out into a maze of cubicles. The bovine had never gone in, but seemed more comfortable there than he had at work as he strode to the front desk. The red panda rapping her fingers on the desktop dropped him a quick glance before returning to her work. "3819, right?"

"Yup. Serial number 3819," said Maxwell, wrists behind his back. Strange tingles went down his spine. The tingles doubled as he thought about how right his whole body felt to refer to himself with a number instead of a name. It felt as freeing as cancelling plans or calling in sick. His sense of responsibility dripped right off him.

The panda made a few keystrokes and next to her, a small machine dispensed a plain white key card with a barcode printed on one side. Dismissively, she passed the card over. Maxwell's chest swelled with pride when that card slipped between his fingers. His chin rose high, knowing on an internal level how great an honour this was.

"Enjoy your stay," said the panda.

The bull nodded. Although he had two doors to choose from, he allowed his hooves to lead him left. He wasn't ready for the right side yet. Just a few more visits and he could qualify, if he was lucky. Qualify for what? That question wasn't important. What was important was that he make his way through the door and down the line of cubicles, each sealed with a glass door that distorted the image beyond. Though he caught a faint piston motion beyond each door, the sealed cubicles emitted no sound whatsoever. When he found a door without a sizeable silhouette beyond, he brought his keycard to the cardreader. The slot sucked in his card and didn't return it before the door opened. This didn't bother Maxwell. This was protocol. He stepped inside, the door sealing shut automatically behind him.

His horns nearly scraped the ceiling of the cubicle. Inside he saw a plush armchair, like a dentist's chair with one exception. A pair of supports spread from the seat and given the incline on the back of the chair, Maxwell could only deduce that he was meant to stick his legs within their hold. A slight panic overtook his perfectly calm demeanor as he, for the first time since he entered the facility, questioned the situation as well as why those supports looked like they could seal shut. However, the widescreen monitor placed on the wall in front of the chair sprung to life, distracting him from such insignificant concerns. To his muted surprise, he saw himself on the screen, nude and facing the camera with a vacant expression. Huh. Weird. He didn't remember filming that, but logic dictated he must have at some point.

From off camera, a familiar, soothing voice spoke. "Just repeat the words you see, big cow."

His recorded self nodded before droning the words being fed to him (presumably) on a teleprompter. "Hello number 3819. As per your farming schedule, please proceed into your designated position. Your mind will reduce. Your body will produce."

As soon as those words left his own lips, both pulls shuddered and grew hard. The bovine cock on screen went rigid as a girder while the bovine cock in reality needed to wait for 3819 to remove his pants. With all inhibitions removed, the bull fell in line with the programming that, until now, had only lead his mind in the background. His eyes became misty and unfocused. His stride was martial and robotic. Without concern for the restraints, with his pants forgotten on the floor, and without concern for the restraints, the bull thumped into the seats. Calmly, his arms settled on the rests. The same level of tranquility applied as he placed his legs in the metallic loops that rose up from his seat. Those manacles sealed tight around his ankles and all was right in the world.

The edges of the screen became twisted and overlaid with bright hues. They were prevalent, but remained in his peripheral to dazzle him while making his vision tunnel towards the 3819 on the screen. In front of both bulls, a device rose from the floor--a glass tube with a suction piece on one end and a tube on the other. Without a reaction, they both took the device before them in perfect unison and slid their hard cocks into the smooth tightness within. The sensation of his length being hugged from all around drove the bull wild. He released a loud, "MOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Good cow," 3819's own voice spoke between gasps of pleasure. "Keep your attention on me, 3819." He did so, eyes half-lidded. Meanwhile, between his legs, another spike of pleasure rended him as the milker got to work. Pleasurable smoothness pulled on him without mercy. All down 3819's manhood, cataclysms of pleasure crashed down on him in the form of euphoric tingles that rendered him diamond hard within seconds. "Good productive cow."

He came. Within seconds he came. Fresh, hot milk jettisoned from his bovine cock and swirled into the tube, disappearing to who knows where. With all his might he resisted the urge for his head to fall back in bliss--to arch his back and bask in bliss. He had to keep staring at the screen. "Good cow. You are a good cow. This is not a reflection on your performance. This is a formulaic truth. You are a good cow. You are not a bull. You are a good cow. You are not a bull. You are a good cow. You are not a bull. This is what you are 3819. Good cows produce milk. Good cows feel pleasure. Good cows obey their instructions. Good cows enjoy their milking. Good productive cow."

The trigger hit his body and his hair trigger cock spurt once more. Jets of messy semen spurt from his cock--enough to splatter a painter's canvas top to bottom. Every last drop disappeared into the tube while the milker proceeded to piston back and forth, unconcerned with the soreness already aching in his balls. His hands remained still on the armrests. He needed to prove he could remain still. He needed to prove how good of a cow he was so he could move onto stage two. He had to keep gyrating his hips as his past self conditioned him to learn all the wonderful things a good cow had to know.