FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The bill hadn't been pinned on the Computer Lab's Community Board yesterday and so Biscuit got the first tab. The woman that picked up at the other end of the phone number had a detailed list of questions about his physical type that ended abruptly after "Species."

"We'll take a Wistar any day," she said in a perky voice that sent a thrill up Biscuit's twig of a spine. He could detect the hint of the feline purr behind the static on the line, smooth as if it were drenched in honey tea. It made his ears tinge, turning him into a beacon outside the Lab door. "They're as good as commodity futures. You want a Wistar, any Wistar'll do, and any Wistar'll do it!" It sounded like she'd said that plenty times before.

"Yeah... they say that," Biscuit averred and averted his eyes from a woman across town. "So you mean you need a lot of us for the shoot?"

"No, no, you're the one," the voice reassured him. Her obdurate charm beat upon Biscuit's tinny heart in his slight chest, made it come to life like a rattle. "I mean, you haven't, like, lost a leg in any industrial accidents, right?"

"I haven't- I haven't lost anything." Biscuit stammered. "I'm a student." He could sense the phone call ending and wanted to keep the cat on the line just long enough to get the courage to ask her if she really was. She hung up with the curt but polite salutation of a person who has more important things to attend to.

She wasn't at the photo shoot, but a score of foxes, wolves, huskies, and horses were. They struck the frail rat like a violent gang, or a gymnasium come unstuck in time and place, or a public pool's changing room. They joked and caroused with each other, seeming to strike up an immediate community. They commented on each other's bodies, startling in their frankness, their discussion reflective and practical. The photographer was late, and as they gabbed to pass the time the rat strained his eyes to recognize any of the issues overheard. Biceps developed just a tone under or over how the fashions trended, abdominals uneven by imperceptible degrees. Men hiked up their gym shorts to trace the routes of veins, actual and preferred. Several of the men complained it wasn't their fault they made some of the tighter pairs look grotesque, that was just their species. They call them bulges for a reason.

The waifish rodent couldn't help but feel that their testimonies bore against him hardest if only because everybody in the room so pointedly ignored him.

Before it became too unbearable a towering lion entered from a back door, and though he lacked the camera Biscuit had been expecting the sudden hush of the mob gave away the photographer. The large-maned lion took a commanding position at the front of the studio, framing his boxer's build softened over with a layer of fat like hubris against the pearl white backdrop. His mane seemed impossibly lush. Biscuit could only wonder the care that went into it, though it, too, had gone a bit to mat and twist as if having survived a workout and no shower. The curious rat stood straight up at attention, fully appreciating the layer of privacy his sweater vest provided.

"Ah, you made it," The lion announced to Biscuit. He screwed the runt down for a moment with a deep glare boiling out the irises with intent and design. His neck snapped with a turn to the gathered crowd, flipping through the faces in the crowd only once. He fingered a panther with an artistically-cocked wrist, "I remember you," he grinned, "you were good. You were real good," he repeated for effect. "Maximilian?"

"Thank you, Mr. Mannino," the panther said with a cordial nod of the head. "It's been awhile, I know," he admitted. "But I don't control when the coke habit returns, my finals schedule does." A wink revealed a joke but nobody in the group seemed to find it very funny.

The panther stayed and the rest filed out past the rat, glancing at him only sideways. The lion directed his models as they left, his voice broadening to reach the corners of the room as men filed out "We'll need three for a shoot at 2:00, gentlemen, we got an Eastern theme and Lanny I know I'm going to want you."

Biscuit thought he might read something in their looks, but the last shut the door to leave the three alone on the set. The lion didn't bring any crew with him, and the Spartan setup consisted of little more than a pair of dim lights and a few modest flash lamps. They shined upon a bare wooden bench and a set of tall grey lockers that looked like they'd been scavenged at a high school's foreclosure sale. The lion - Mr. Mannino - pried open one of the old, rusted doors, and pulled from inside a shopping bag filled to the brim with fresh new pairs of underwear, tags dangling from each like earrings. He overturned the bag to the right of the backdrop, kneeling down to pick eagerly through the pile of rainbow materials.

"We've been doing some thinking," the lion said as he rummaged. "Who buys underwear? Anybody with a body. But who buys designer underwear? Anybody who's insecure about their body." He tossed a deep blue jock of a clean and simple cut to the panther, who dropped his shorts to reveal a pair of boxers with a hot dog print. They fell down the black trunks of the panther's legs and were shunted aside. Biscuit watched the cat as he held up the mess of string to orient it before stretching the forgiving fabric around his thighs and pulling them up. The panther scooped his shaft into the pouch and snapped the elastic shut, and immediately he seemed cut right out of a catalogue. The fine lines of his delicately cut body already looked airbrushed. The cat regarded himself, tugging and snapping at the thin bands so that they fell into place cradling his muscular cheeks. "Yeah, it's a competitive world," the lion's monologue continued as he admired the scene, "But we're pulling for the underdog, too. The little guy, the fella who can't finish the season above the Mendoza Line. Never quite cracked .500. The groups of guys that win lottery picks, you know? Who play so bad they get studs like this. Love the glasses."

Biscuit nodded politely as he let the metaphors soar over his head. Sports, he got something about that. As the undies spread out over the floor, they all seemed of an athletic cut, a healthy preponderance of jocks in the mix. Block numbers and sporty logos appeared on the hips and asses of brightly colored briefs cut like something Larry Bird's embarrassed to have been seen wearing.

The lion seemed to settle on a black and yellow pair emblazoned with the numeral 7 over the right hip. On the other hip, a locomotive had been stylized in the angry sense, the face of the engine seeming screwed in to intimidate, the heft of the object stressed by how it seemed to bulge out of the very logo itself. He turned them over in his hands, feeling the fabric between his fingers, testing their give. He turned his glare to the rat, dark professional eyes undressing the slim figure like a tailor. He held his forearms out front, framing the undies on the slim body and his smile grew deeper-set.

"Drop the pants," Mr. Mannino ordered with affected impatience to get the rat moving. The rat fumbled with his jeans zipper for a moment, then bent over at the hip as he scrunched the snug-fitting jeans around his feet and stepped out of them. As the rat stood up, his bottom half bared, the lion could place the pair above the bare white thighs. "Step forward a little," he said with impatience au naturale, motioning the slight body closer to him so that he could hold them against the snug orange brief Biscuit had chosen over fifteen agonizing minutes that morning. "We got the right size for sure," the lion mused to himself.

Biscuit's chin dug into his chest. He could see himself in them, already, even though his knees shook with anxious tremors. His slight chest rose and fell underneath the warm vest.

"Let's see how these look on you," the lion ordered,crouching down to the rat's height. His fingers slipped under the elastic waistband and peeled the cottons off the trim figure. Biscuit resisted the urge to cover his modesty with his hands, but it was there.

For what it was worth, the lion didn't seem to regard the rat's package at all, instead focusing his eyes down where he held the sporty pair open between his fingers. Biscuit knew what he was supposed to do, but only did so immediately after the lion invited him to step into the pair. The burly hands grazed along Biscuit's legs as the undies wrapped around his waist, snapping into place just under his tail. The wandering paws continued to rise and lifted the sweater and shirt over the rat's face, and left his wireframe glasses askew on his nose when they came off.

"He's a Wistar all right," the lion contended, "and I'd say a damn fine one too." His charm dug right under the skin. Biscuit surveyed himself, slipping a fingertip underneath the slick fabric to snap the elastic into place. They fit snug and balled the rat's modest manhood into a tidy package, a seam running down its center. Biscuit cupped his hand under his bulge, plying and adjusting it. The lion retrieved his camera from a nearby case and snapped a picture of the rodent tooling with himself. "You see, sweet cheeks? You're already making for good pictures," which really did make the rat blush.

His focus turned to the panther again, who had taken a seat on the bench to enjoy the view. The pouch of the jock seemed to have swelled a degree. The tip of the panther's tongue curled just a bit over his lips. "C'mere," Maximilian huffed, gesturing the rat over to him. "No, c'mon," he urged further, easing the rat by inches onto the set. Once within arms reach, Biscuit found himself pulled into a grapple, buff arms wrenched wrapped around his body, the beefy black hands pushing against the back of his head.

"That's just what we're looking for," Mr. Mannino gushed, dropping to a knee to snap a few photos. "Smile for us. It's fun," the camera clicked and clicked as Biscuit struggled. The fight was futile, only a show. The panther turned him around, put his hands on the thin hips, and pulled the pair down just a tease.

"Oh, I'm not sure they can use this," the lion mooned to himself. "But hold them there, I'm digging the attitude Milian," click click click. "You're a natural, Biscuit," the lights popped and flared.

Biscuit's body glowed to a beacon red, the tinge coming to the surface in his pert ass. The panther pulled the elastic over and under the pair of cheeks, alternating between shots for the papers and shots for the desk drawer. After the steady stream of clicks slowed to a listless pace, the undies came all the way off, and for a time the rat stood stark naked in front of the camera, which quickened with supreme vitality for a long while.

The camera cooled and the lion dug again into his menagerie of underwear. Biscuit was made to switch teams, nearly jumped into a pair of briefs of the same blue hue the panther had just modeled, though those had now been dispatched and the panther picked through the pile for something new. As Biscuit watched him on the bench, he couldn't help but notice how the loosed cock extended down to the laminated wood of the bench carved from end to end with vulgarisms. The panther tucked his pride into the front of a Tiger orange jock. The black accent bands seemed to disappear into the void of his short-trimmed fur.

"Catch," the photographer chirruped, tossing a football in a soft arc to the rodent. It bounced off his palms and to the panther's feet, who helpfully picked it up and handed it over.

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Well don't cover the product, darling."

"Oh," Biscuit blushed, bringing the faded leather ball up to his chest. Milian mimicked cradling the ball in his arm like a proper Fullback - plus a helpful, somewhat impatient smile. The rat did his best to imitate and the clicks came back to life. He shifted the ends in his grasp, looking up at the panther for approval. The cat's golden eyes pierced him, flashing with the violent stabs of light from the lamp. His brawny arms folded over a broad black chest. He loomed over the rat as if standing on the balls of his feet to cast a shroud over the smaller body. Though every snap of the shutter flooded the scene with brilliant lights, the lush black fur soaked it in with the intensity of a collapsed star, a void of space where everything else erupted in a sudden wash. Where the jovial grin had been now sat an etching of severity, a grimace that questioned why the rat was here - why he had invaded this locker room. The nostrils of his nose flared with the anxious tick of stalled competition, the fine mesh of whiskers flared out like pride flags. All in all, he had grown about a foot.

Biscuit dropped the ball.

"Fumble," the panther cracked, leaning down to pick up the ball where it had rolled against the locker. The tumult of flashes ceased for a moment. "You have to get it in the crook of your elbow, like this," the panther said, putting the ball in the rat's arm. "You get a good grip on the nose, and then you're going to tuck that nose right here," and he put his long fingers on the rat's chest.

"Thanks," Biscuit said in a thin voice.

"You've never done this before, have you?" The panther asked. His grin seemed too friendly, now. The points of his teeth showed. "Modeling, I mean."

"No," Biscuit said in a flat voice.

The rat kept his glare toward the camera, not wanting to turn around to see the built body providing such a stark contrast to his own. But even staring at the lion's figure, softened over as it was, flooded the rat with twinges of envy. He shuddered to imagine himself in contrast to the overlabored figure behind him, especially so now that they both fell under professional review. He imagined the hours invested in crafting the muscles that loomed over him, the gallons of sweat and barrels of supplements. He envied guys who seemed to take so well to the gym environment, knew that some of them must feel the same pangs of insecurity that he felt but had a much hardier defense against themselves at least when looking in the mirror. It must at least be something for your confidence when you can at least pick up a woman- even if you didn't want her, it must be nice to know you could.

It's not hard to pick up men, he thought. The lion and the panther traded demure glances, the panther being a tad more aggressive in the exploit. The treatment wasn't special, really- it was the same brand of sweet affections that Biscuit had proved cold to. Mr. Mannino set the hook deep, though, and reeled the compliments in. The lion seemed the type who found it easy to return affections, and make that much more on his expenditure. It didn't take long before their entreaties gained a twinge of a purr.

Biscuit cradled the ball in his elbow and thought of the cat who had answered the phone. They must ask her not to come in on days they mean to shoot. Her name was- She had introduced herself with the company's name. He couldn't remember the company's name, either.

"I see what your plan is," the photographer purred at his subject. "You want to make me say such sweet things about you so that you're going to fill out the front of those undies all the more. "

"Oh, don't pin this on me," Milian teased, hiding his face behind a paw to ruin a few shots, "You already knew I was that kind of guy."

"And what kind of guy are you, Milli?" the lion tried to coax ever more personality out of his subject; wrangling for momentary glimpses of pride, genuine and unfettered, from the cynical figure. "You're a stud for the camera, that's for sure. You're giving me nine inches of good roll," he exaggerated by only a small degree. In his pants, you could see the obvious inspiration for the double entendre, as tightly packed in his tight denim pants as a Christmas sausage.

Biscuit noticed when the camera shutter stopped. The camera was last in the attentions of the two cats, now, and was put aside on a low table. How many shots had been taken to that point, he had lost count. Milian gave him a pat on the shoulder as he stepped over the squat bench. Mr. Mannino was already unzipping when the panther stood up next to him, his hillock of cock spilling into his open palm, the designer fabric tucked under his heavy orbs. When the lion's prick like a redwood trunk sprung from his jeans, it seemed the clear winner, swelling in the actual sense, branching with thick veins up along the crimson staff. A little stroking by the beefy paw pulled the tight foreskin back to expose a head glistening and slick. The panther admired this sight as he tooled with himself, gently massaging the supple meat into a stiff ebony rod to rival the alpha cat's. On the bench, as if blended into the scenery, Biscuit watched the men size each other up, jolts of jealousy coursing up his spine. They'd let him keep his glasses on for the shoot. He felt for sure he could see every crease in the texture of the skin of the splendid cocks, felt as if he couldn't recognize them as anything but pillars of excellence. Even the bodies of the men seemed to come into sharper focus- the real hardness of the muscles carved as if by mathematical divination, the harmony of bodies blessed by the turns of a universal numbers game. And he remembered the feat he had accomplished to be the Wistar, of all or any Wistars, to take the honored spot on the bench next to those brilliant feline specimens; that he had been the first to call and volunteer.

Now their eyes were on him, and their hands were on each other. And after the lion got his digits curled around the panther's fat cock, he dropped quickly to his knees and wrapped his lips around it. Mr. Mannino used one hand to keep the plump head steady on his broad tongue, the other to stroke his own throbbing manhood, leaking at the slit like a rusting fountain. The package was still supported at the balls by the tortured orange fabric, the lion having to slip his fingers underneath them to squeeze the panther's toned glutes. His tongue lolled exuberantly to covet the underside of the fat black rod, and as his whiskers twitched he kept his eyes locked upon the timid rat on the bench, screwing him to the cheap wood. He waited with surprising patience for the roar that would chase him from the room, but so long as his gaze didn't waver from the pair of bodies set before him, neither seemed anxious to lose the audience. The rat watched as a thrill of adrenaline went through him, a rather distinct feeling not of where he didn't belong, but where he shouldn't be.

The lion made his lips pop on the fat rod as he pulled it from his muzzle. "Sharing is caring, Biscuit, don't let me hog it all." Mr. Mannino held his fat cock in his hand like an offering. "I wouldn't object if you wanted your own, though."

"This one's straight as a board," the panther sneered. "Just figures he'll get paid after the queers finish."

Biscuit meant to speak, but the lion snapped a dumb look to the other cat. "You can't possibly think so. I don't know if you saw how you made him blush, but I could show you the pictures."

The panther rolled his eyes, "They just do that, he's a Wistar. They flush when a car hurries them across the street. Look at him he's glowing with radiance now."

"I am not-" Biscuit defended himself, covering his rouged cheeks with one hand. With the other, he tried to hide the bulge that had developed in the pouch of his underwear. "I- I really should go-" he protested. His eyes scanned the room for his clothes and an exit.

"Don't let him chase you like that-" the lion insisted, stalling the rat for a moment. "Don't chase him off like that," he rebuked Milian, who only folded his arms. Biscuit sat stone cold and patient on the bench for the lion to finish, a mesh of his bald pink fingers forming a shroud over the tent in his underwear.

"I won't let him bully you off like that. So some guys are shy. Some guys are in the closet. It doesn't-"

Now Biscuit insisted, "B-"

"He can suck your dick," Milian interrupted. The rat still held his hands up in a plea, exposing where a pool of precum had formed in the pouch of the pair.

"Fine, he can suck my dick," the lion assented. "You're welcome to come suckmy dick, Biscuit, and I'll try not to bite the balls off Proud Mary here." He gave the sagging rod a diplomatic lick, starting at the balls and ending with a playful nip at the hooded tip. The panther purred a meek resistance.

"He can suck your dick," was all he said, and jerked his head to call the meager rat over. "Because the straight boy isn't even gonna take one step toward it, he's just gonna walk out and hope a check shows up in the mail."

"Why do you think you can bully him like that?" the lion demanded, but the panther had put the matter to rest. Through the banter, the lion's prick still stood tall and proud, the burly fingers wrapped around the trunk. Stuck in the lion's fist, you could see the branching of a great vein. The stream of pre hadn't yet reached the cat's fingers. Drops collected and dropped where the vein made its greatest divergence. Biscuit could see this from his spot on the bench, where his hands had given hiding his manhood and instead gripped the sweaty wood of the bench to keep the slightly shivering body in place as the eyes roamed over the whole sight of it. After they'd surveyed all they could, and the weight of his awe for the bodies finally settled into him like a rust, his bony fingers unclamped. He took five solid paces toward the pair, lowered himself to where the lion was kneeling, and pressed the breadth of his tongue where the head of the magnificent tool met the shaft. It tasted mostly of what the bench did. The rat's lips wrapped around the knoblike head, taking what care he could that his teeth didn't scrape the sensitive meat, then popped it all out of his mouth with a tender kiss.

He seemed satisfied, then. A strong paw bore down on the top of his head, mashing an ear against his skull, and tousled him, so that a cheek beat against the fat cock, and a string of juice strung from under his eye.

This was a huge mistake, the rat thought. From ears to ankles he burned like a bonfire. He was nearly as red as the cock he caught in his lips, again. This time he brought his hand up to it, too, finding ample room for it between his lips and the lion's fingers. He angled the rod to something that suited him more and thrust it onto the back of his tongue. He held it there, firm as a stake in the ground, so that his tongue wriggle and writhe around it and nail down its taste. His confidence rising a tad, he pulled the prick from the lion's paw, and stabilized it to stuff it down his throat. He coughed and gagged through a handful of attempts before having satisfied his curiosity about his limits. Yes, the rat thought, yeah. He resettled his glasses over the bridge of his nose.

"He seems like quite the cocksucker," the panther quipped and rolled his eyes. The lion didn't notice, so he only mumbled his agreement over the onyx staff in his muzzle. He handled the daunting, throbbing mass with expert care, his silky slick lips glossing over every inch as beautifully as oiled machinery. Like a true model, none of these earnest and simple lavishing touches coaxed Milian out of this mood. He kept his thumb looped under the elastic of his underwear, keeping it tucked under his balls, as if he were ready to snap them back at any second. He bucked his hips, slapping the balls against the broad, fuzzy chin. Mr. Mannino seemed in ecstasy, then. He met the panther's enthusiasm with equal parts of his own, bobbing his head on the pistoning cock and not being deterred in it even when a hand grabbed hold of his messy mane. The big cat seemed to prefer a faster pace, and once or twice his broad muzzle shoved against the panther's pelvis. The spit-drenched rod only left the inviting muzzle for the lion to vocalize his praise for the stud in terse, ejaculatory statements. "Milli, your cock is to die for," accompanied by a lap of the tongue from balls to exposed head, and another plunge of the muzzle to engulf it. "Mmf-" He would punctuate these statements, as the cock left his loving lips. He really pulled out every stop to keep the man satisfied, and to his credit and his experience in the industry, the panther couldn't hold back every smile or resist every grasp. And when the flick of a tongue sharpshot against the most sensitive spot on your shaft makes your spine shiver, it makes it harder to fake otherwise.

With dumb, blind hands Mr. Mannino tried to direct Biscuit in his efforts, but only ever really managed in shoving the stout rod further into the rat's gullet than it ought to have gone. An apology came for this once, but the rat adjusted himself to not getting them soon after. He tried his best to keep the rod on his tongue, but off his teeth, wanting to lavish the idol from all around until he went dry of spit. But the gruff hand demanded more, and so Biscuit continued to cough and gag on the rod until his throat became more supple to the encroachments.

Around the time that it started to, the dick slipped from his lips, the lion taking his rod back in his hand to stroke as he seemed to be working the panther to a crescendo. The long, thin tail whipped back and forth as the cat tried to push the lion's head down. But the photographer stood up, cradling the bulk of the large body in his arm and pulling it closer to him. He snatched the pulsing, slick tool in his hand and beat it in his fist.

"Don't stop sucking my cock just cause I'm up here," the lion briskly brought Biscuit up to his knees, his tongue supporting the hefty weight, the great red rod disappearing into his slight white snout. He blinked often, his eyes crossing to try to see the tool he was working on. He stole glances at the panther, too, not content to awe at just the one. Even in how different their bodies were, they both seemed individually perfect, like well-balanced arguments. His hands came to rest on the muscular thighs, and he stroked them to calm himself. Feeling the energy stored in the brawny muscles gave him a start, as if he'd touched a cattle fence. He wondered if it was a sensation any layman might be troubled with, or if it was a gift of his intuition, what he figured a particular sense of his own knowledge. He knew the power in those limbs, in its rawest sense, in the figures and language you might express in a textbook. The newtons of energy the muscle group could generate, the litres of blood that would pump through them as they sent that perfect body over time and distance toward sustenance, in some more primal time. Knowledge like that seemed to stick in his head. He wondered if a more ignorant person might feel so much warmed up fur where his fingers were just then. If they might taste nothing more than their own spit on the daunting rod his mouth serviced as his mind churned. If they might see something less than the tip of the bell curve in the beast's cocks. But if they didn't know, it couldn't help or change the fact that he did.

The practiced wrist glided along the length of the rod, bringing the shimmering head to light with the culmination of each. While the rat stuffed his face with dick, and stared down another, Mr. Mannino cloyed the other cat with more praise, interspersed with flicks of the tongue against the erect nipples.

It was only a moment later that the bulb at the end of the panter's shaft rushed with blood, pulsing and engorging like a great pump in the lion's pistoning fist. The brutish knob gushed a torrent of cum that first launched over the rat's head, and then square between his eyes. It splashed against his cheeks before blinding the left lens of his glasses. Three wads streaked over his forehead, and pooled on one side of his snout. The rat kept his tongue clung tight to the rod of the cock as a seal against the taste, but it seeped in through the corners of his mouth. In those trace amounts, it tasted slightly of musk. As he huffed for breath, it did more so. The panther's cock didn't rest until the rat had been duly soaked and off-white globs of cum commingled with saliva and dripped from his chin. His cheeks burned red, and when the cock popped from his mouth the quiet whines were no longer choked off. He wiped the back of his hand along his cheek, doing little more than making it completely sticky and exposing the blush a shade or two more clearly. He lifted his lenses and wiped the back of his other hand over his nose and the lids of his eyes, mostly smearing it to either side so that it ran in grotesque masses down his cheeks.

And then the next load struck the rat, announced itself with a gush of hot fluid up his nose. One look at the lion's cock established him as its source, and the rod promptly spit a dollop that nearly impregnated the glistening red eyes, but only forced them shut at the last second. The rest of the rat's work was quickly undone, another coating of seed - this one offensively muskier. And with the rat's nose gobbed up, the lion was free to spurt his seed into a gaping mouth. The rat tried to turn his head, but only took the brunt of that damage to that side. He lifted a hand to deflect the onslaught of seed gushing against him, but succeeded only in giving his fingers a glossy webbing. It was all Biscuit could do to wipe the mess on his hands onto the brand new undies still snug under his tail, so that he could clear his eyes again. His face was a mess, and warmed all over, as if a heat pad had burst on his forehead. He felt just a little sick, too. The muscles of his stomach ached, as if they had been run through with tension. He pawed as the bulge in his undies because his nuts stung. He could feel the sticky mess he'd made of himself somewhere amidst the tumult. At the realization that he had cum in his undies, the rat nearly collapsed, but only wavered on his knees like a repentant drunk.

"Jesus Christ," the lion's voice boomed. He was cleaning what of his seed had dribbled onto his fingers with a wad of loose tissues. "Those were brand new." That turned the panther's look on him, too, and they both laughed. "You can take them home."

"No- no thank you," was all Biscuit could stammer. He stood to his weak, wobbly knees and slipped his thumbs under the elastic. He felt the retail tag tucked into the back and digging into his cheek. It was still dry and crisp. But the front peeled off his shrinking cock with a grotesque schtck. He stepped out of them with the pair of men still hushing chuckles and tossed them toward the nearest waste basket. They missed by a good five feet.

The pile of undies seemed to have disappeared, and Biscuit's eyes spent so long looking for it as he stood with his shame covered by a sticky paw that Milian got a better idea.

"He wants to try the panties," the panther suggested helpfully.

"Yeah?" The other cat asked. "I hadn't thought of that."

"C'mon, I know you want him in the panties. The camera wants him in the panties. Don't you think they're what he'd look best it, with the effeminate little frame of his? All he's missing is the hips. Yeah, you got to put him in the panties."

Biscuit didn't say a thing. He found a sudden difficulty concealing his shame at the mention of the word. His head was shaking the meekest of resistances. The lion seemed to be taking up the panther's view.

"They gotta make pairs special for the femmy little bitches with no hips," Milian reminded the big cat. "That's the designer stuff. The high-dollar stuff. He could move those panties. The advertisers and publishers want him in panties. He would move them. He'd move them a hell of a lot faster than anyone else who's gonna be back here at 2:00."

A sense of finality washed into the room. Mr. Mannino stood up, proud cock bobbing and swaying as he strutted to a back room and returned with a fistful of stringy, pastel bundles. The tags still hung on these, too, emblazoned with the brand name BLUSH. The lion grabbed a handy rag and gave the rat's cock and thighs a quick rude scrub. The thickset fingers seemed a little awkward manipulating the dainty fabric, but the lion managed to hold out an olive green pair for the rat to step into, which Biscuit obliged to do. The scant fabric fit his modest member snug, compacted it into a tidy pouch in which one could see the delicate handiwork in the lace. A gentle teal bow on the ruched trim completed the piece. When the lion had the rat step out of them and into a matching pair of lavender and orange, he was perfectly satisfied.

"Look at that," the lion said, a smile cracking already to the back of his cheeks. He gave the rat a slap on the rump. "He's red, the whole of him is red. Goddamn, look at him, ears to toes. It would have been like Christmastime with the green, I had to go with the lavender." The lion's paw groped blindly for a camera. Biscuit was still blazing by the time it turned up.

The camera tilted downward to crop out the cum-smeared face. The effort seemed futile. Despite the lion's brusque efforts, wet patches of cum had soaked into the rat's stomach and chest. The shots could only be classified as pornography. The pair couldn't possibly imagine the pictures ever seeing a catalogue page. Biscuit reasoned, at least. He felt as if he were growing stiff in the panties, but the constriction made that difficult, no matter how rigid he seemed to feel down there. He wished his dick would get hard, if only to stretch out the tight confines by a slight degree, or pop from the frilly pink border sweaty with the effort.

The panther settled into the frame of the picture, behind Biscuit. He wrapped his arms around the slight figure to cradle the slight purple bulge in his beefy black hand, and the camera loved it. One brawny arm bore over the scrawny chest to hold the trembling rat still, and the other stretched the panties down a tad to give the cock the freedom it had whined for. The anxious little prick swelled to its meager extent like a toy balloon surging with water, and the camera loved it. The panther tugged on the bare, pink balls to bring a dollop of milky juice to its tip, and the camera loved all that, too.

"Yeah, I would never let a straight guy get his amateur fangs near my prick," the panther said, his paws searching over the lean body, one coming to rest on the rat's pert cheeks, "But there ain't much damage they do with their ass."

"You're not still on that," Mr. Mannino said, rolling his eyes. "Look how stiff he is. What proof do you want? The guy just likes things better unsaid." The lion snapped picture after picture, as if the flash alone might convince the panther to stay quiet. In a hushed toned of admonition he added, as if he expected the rat to pretend to have heard, "And you're spoiling the fun."

The panther could only sneer at that. He wrapped his fingers around the slight pink pole, shrouded it as neatly in a fuzzy black sheath, the thumb jammed over the head as if corking a bottle. "Get a shot of this," he said, and the flash came. "I'm fun. I'm lots of fun. You wanted me, didn't you?"

"Of course I wanted you," the photographer comforted his star through the lens. "And I want you to fuck him."

"Oh, I can fuck him," the panther purred. His grip tightened around the frail body. The cat could have lifted him right off the ground. Although it had been drained only a minute ago, the mammoth cock dangling between the panthers leg started to grow. The panther knelt so that he could push his hips against the small of the rat's back, and let the belabored unit stiffen lazily between the slim-toned cheeks, like a hot dog swelling into its bun.

Biscuit protested with a meek whine, a trill of a voice barely building to a crack- "Don't fuck me, please." The lion's face fell. The panther squeezed and choked the air out of the little rat. The black cat's cock quickened with life, then. "I can't-" he fought to say, though his courage pooled quickly after that. "He's right, and I don't want to get fucked. He's so big. And it's too much. You guys are- You guys are everything-" he said with a drawl of defeat in his voice "But that's just too much."

Mr. Mannino was fondling himself, then. Intrigue settled into the lines of his face. "You've never been fucked, rat?"

"I'm straight." The rat offered with sincerest humility. It didn't pacify the lion. "You guys-" Biscuit tried to form an explanation. "You guys found my limit. That's it. I'm telling you. The rest is all fun. The rest is all just fun. That's what I mean, it's just fun. I can't do this."

Mr. Mannino seemed concerned, then. He parsed what Biscuit said about as well as an alien language.

"Now now, little thing- Maybe Mr. Mannino was onto something. Maybe you could be queer just yet."

Biscuit's squat snout shrunk to a severe, yet quivering line. "I'd rather not."

"Uh-huh," the panther spit. "Yeah," he added upon consideration. A groping hand peeled the string of the panties from between Biscuit's cheeks. They dropped to and became tangled in his knees so that Biscuit couldn't hope to try to stumble away when Milian pushed him by the shoulders and bent him at the waist. The rat had nothing to steady himself by, and would have tumbled flat over onto his face and snapped his dick in half if the powerful feline didn't hold him by the scruff of the neck. Dangling like a suspension bridge, Biscuit faced the other cat, who still seemed dumbfounded by the rat's turn.

"You really are in the closet, huh?" the lion offered the dialogue.

Mr. Mannino stared past the rat's glasses with something like pity. A daub of juice hung from Biscuit's chin. His tongue curled over his lips to clean them for the dozenth time. As the broad cock slid in the cleft of his ass, settled as much on top of the cheeks as between them, the rat's cock throbbed and leaked. His knees knocked awkwardly as they struggled to keep the panties from falling to his ankles. The lion reached for his camera and drew the lens back to take in the whole scene. Each time he snapped a picture, the rat blinked and averted his sensitive eyes, and when the white film cleared from his vision the camera's view screen was being held in front of his nose. In the picture, the panther bit his lower lip.

Biscuit didn't make an immediate answer to this, but his head swiveled as if it had always done that and always been benign, though his round red eyess stayed on the screen. Mr. Mannino turned the screen back to himself, he compared the two scenes before him, trying to spy the subtle differentiation. In digital, the motionless body attracted a warmth shaken out of the trembling form as it actually was. In the image, the lush red under his fur shone true through the silk of his fur, even before it was treated to a vibrant chemical bath. The faintest of a smile glimmered through a frozen, sullen look of the face soaked to the skull in cum. You couldn't see where there cat held that rat by the scruff of the neck, so the white figure pictured seemed to simply float on its tiptoes, like a sputtering angel.

"You got the look," the lion assured his subject. He put the camera aside and pushed himself into the panther's place, taking grasp of the fragile body and pulling it sharply upright. The lion's broad paw played the same trick on the stiff pink prick that the panther had played. "And you got the body, for sure." The lion bent his knees, nearly having to get onto his haunches to make up the pair of feet between them. He snuffed his nose into the nape of the rat's neck. "Even smell like sweat and lilac, rat. The queer's in your DNA." The bright red cock grew, and the lion saw that it expanded into the pliant spot the panther's dick had just vacated.

"No, they all got the same DNA, that's the point," the panther interjected now. "That's how Wistars are. That's why they're Wistars. That's why they're meant for experimenting."

Biscuit shrunk at this comment. "We're not meant for anything," was all he could reproduce, and hearing how it came out, he quieted himself from there. Wistar biology wasn't the most important subject, at that moment. His concentration directed itself to his cock. The rat's thighs tremored with the effort not to spurt into the lion's paw. Biscuit struggled to pool his confidence and assert his feet beneath him, but the undeniable presence of the mammoth manhood growing against his ass kept him anchored down. Mr. Mannino pulled at Biscuit's rump, and slid the length of his cock up and down under the rat's tail. When the base of the long root nestled underneath the vinelike appendage, the bulbous head of the monster pressed against the rat's thigh, soft as an overripe fruit.

When the rod had grown so stiff under the rat it threatened to lift him up like a simple machine, the lion took a few steps backward and sat himself on the short bench. The rat settled into his lap, sitting on the fat tool like a support. It jutted out between the rat's legs like a see-saw. Let free from the tight grip, the rat's bald package rested in stark contrast along it's length. The heads of the two cocks met and touched. As if he could hold it there, where it couldn't do any harm, the rat tried to wrap his hand around the pair of dicks. The red meat slipped out of his fingers so that the intimidating head could bear against the rat's tight pucker.

"You don't know what you're doing," Biscuit moaned feebly as the dick threatened to pry him open. "You don't know how you'll hurt me, I never have, I've really never."

"Never, before?" The lion repeated the choice wordss. He playfully pulled the hips toward him, a consciously hopeless attempt to spear the unforgiving ring.

"That's not what I mean," Biscuit pleaded, the confidence in his voice growing by minute degrees. "I don't want this, I wanted-" he choked on his own reasoning for a moment. "I was only curious," he argued in his sake. "It's just awe. It's just a sense of awe. I can't do this. You can't do this to me. Look at what you're doing," the rat spoke in a voice that cracked freely. The rat wriggled his ass against the expanse of cock pressing into him, as if trying to wrench it in through false determination, as wanting to show for the record that it wasn't possible, no matter his feelings. The lion met these mocking entreaties with sincere ones of his own, his spit-slick cock settling into the center of the ring, budging it a tad so that the mouse shrieked.

"Oh, I've played Cat and Mouse before, sweet cheeks," Mr. Mannino gave his ample assurance.

"Surprised how much you enjoyed the taste of that cock, rat?" the panther asked now. He let the heft of his still-firm cock rest on the rat's nose. His tongue reached out instinctively to care for it, only to feel the backside of a thick paw against his cheek. The dark manhood padded the spot where the hand hit. "I said you weren't to suck it. Sir, are you going to fuck him or not?"

For a moment, the rat seemed to balance on the end of the dick like he was stuck up a telephone pole. The head was moistened only by a patina of their sweat intermingled, the shaft lubricated by effort that had dried out the lion's mouth. The lion gripped his prey by the arm, and the nails dug into the skin. Hot breaths brought up the bristles on the back of the rat's neck. His eyes seemed to focus backwards, as if to focus on the scale's tipping. From behind its ring of mangy brown hair the proud face sat cold and even, the lips parted a bit, the dehydrated tongue pouring over them by a tab. Lunging toward the rat's neck, he dragged the rough plane over the bare neck and whined just about to himself, "I used the last of the lube yesterday."

The weak knees failed completely once the rat's cock erupted. Biscuit's finger's dug into the muscular brown thighs beneath him. String of the rat's seed soiled the floor, though it flew in wide, expressive arcs, so that much of the rat's chest and the lion's arms were winged in the eruption. What didn't splatter against the broad underside of the panther's cock doused the rat's throat.

The frail body collapsed into the lion's as if it were a hammock. His arms gave only token service in keeping himself suspended, and before long, his hands began the curious journey of assessing the damage over his body. The beefy lion's paw smeared the seed in a film over him, all in the name of trying to rouse the rumpled body to vitality.

"Can he go now?" Milian asked. He was cleaning the cum from his cock with one of socks the rat had worn in.

"You can't bully him like that," the lion demanded again. "He won't come back when I have lube."

"Aheh," was all the panther said. He eyed the water fountain from across the room, smacked his parched lips.

The rat bruised through the daze, disregarded the mess soaking into his fur, and came to the sense that he was out of danger. The great paws were off him. He crawled off the body and took a seat next to it on the bench. His eyes wouldn't break view of the stiff cock, with the same insistent relief that keeps you staring at a ledge after you've backed down from it, remembering just how far deep it went. The rod stood proud and unsatisfied, and though the lion's hand appeased the behemoth with a few disinterested strokes, the prick seemed content to be let down slowly.

"I'm sorry- Thank you-" the rat offered like non-sequiturs."I don't think- You couldn't possibly have any use for me like this."

"No." The lion admitted. "But you don't mean you want to go? The boys won't be so shocked to see you-"

"What time is it?" Biscuit demanded now, cutting off the lion. He found a clock for himself. 1:40. Nobody had showed up to interrupt the shoot, but the other models would return any minute. "I-I-I don't have to come back to get paid, do I?"

"We didn't get a bit of information from you, did we? There's always time for that, of course. Why, he could even come back and do the paperwork another day, if you're in a rush. Do you have a class?"

"I have a class," the rat interjected as if to cut off the lion's punctuation. He didn't want to come back to the paperwork. Maybe he could call that number again, get the same voice on the line that had told him how to get here. Maybe she could help. But for the meantime, the pair of cats kept the rat between them for a moment longer.

"You'll have to come in, absolutely. You can't just hand over five thousand dollars."

Biscuit's stomach sank. "Five thousand dollars?" He could feel himself going weak in the knees again. A figure had never been discussed. He'd expected to put up an argument over hours of wage.

"Five, thousand, dollars," the panther cut in. He arched his eyebrows and tried to share a smile with the rat that said, I know.

The rat asked politely for his clothes, and what hours they would be available tomorrow.