FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Wamocha pressed his back against the stable wall, feeling the delicate tendrils of a spider's web strain and snap within his mane. The occupant of the web scuttled up the string to the safety of the wooden rafters above, the intruder seeming not to even realize he'd just destroyed her meticulous home.

Wamocha knew. He hated spiders. Hated their webs. Could swear a hungry pack of tarantulas were descending upon him, but stayed quiet, pressed tight against the flimsy wood. Nobody lived in these shitty stables. They were old peasant quarters from when his family was allowed to own slaves, too remote for his family to bother tearing down.

A clumsy handler stomped past several yards down the field, mercifully ignorant of Wamocha's presence.

When the footsteps sauntered over the hill, Wamocha tore himself from the stable wall, brushing a swarm of imaginary spiders from his tight-cropped mane, pounding at his shoulders as they retreated beneath his shirt. After several moments of cursing and swatting he regained himself, dropping to his knees and grabbing at his forehead. They were going to find him eventually. He was the only thing they cared about-their precious little cash cow, being milked back into the estate that had raised him.

"Someone looking for you, rich boy?" he heard a deep feminine voice say from behind him. The airy voice, the deep-throated growling of long vowels, the subtle yip of the short ones-the voice was unmistakably canine. Probably a coyote.

His legs tensed, preparing for a sprint, ears flicking about in search of an excuse. He heard someone rise from behind the thick doors of a tiny stall at the back of the barn, but didn't approach any closer than the stall door.

"What could someone with so much possibly be running from, I wonder," the voice continued. The heavy wood of the pen creaked as weight was pressed upon it, giving the voice body.

The creak was only light. She was either young or malnourished. Wamocha let himself relax a little. "Nothing is free," he said, still facing the unkempt green fields of the forgotten end of his family estate.

"Oh, I'm sure you've worked very hard for your family money, what with all that tiresome running in a circle you have to do every three or four months."

Wamocha turned, finally laying his eyes on the potential predator. She was slightly past her teens, her thin arms crossed over the wooden fence, bony shoulders framing her face, head drooping down to rest on her forearms. Her large brown eyes didn't have the faintest spark of hunger within them-only boredom and defeat. The pen's large wooden fence hid the rest of her body from his sight. "Oh," came his first reaction. "I'm sorry."

"What, this?" The coyote shifted her weight and made a heavy metallic jingle from behind the fence.

'Well,' Wamocha thought to himself; 'at least it's still attached.' He knew this didn't mean anything-that he was afraid to investigate just how attached. "Are you-" he began. "How-"

"I've been here a couple days," she sighed. "My mate-" she paused to rethink her language. "My ex was supposed to bring help."

"I'm sorry," Wamocha said, swallowing his fear and approaching the pen.

A large metal clamp gripped the girl midway up her calf, flecks of the bedding straw that had hidden the trap still stuck within it. Thankfully for the squeamish stallion, she'd made no effort to gnaw away the knee, like in the traps he'd seen when he was a child.

"You didn't-" he began.

"I waited too long," the girl sighed. "I haven't had anything to eat since a few days before I got stuck, and it's been two days since I've had anything to drink. I'd probably be dead if your roof didn't leak."

"Do you want me to-" Wamocha began, stopping to think about what he was offering. A three hundred pound slab of extra-lean meat, releasing a starving predator from a trap?

"Even with both my legs, I wouldn't make it off the grounds without being shot," she sighed. "I'm done. Just killing time 'til my body finally realizes that."

"I'm sorry," Wamocha repeated. "My parents-hell, all my family. They're from-the old way."

"Mine, too," the girl sheepishly admitted. "They don't care what the politicans say. I always thought they were just bitter about not being on top."

Wamocha nodded. "The food chain is obsolete," he agreed. "I still don't understand why they won't let carnivores race with us."

The girl smiled. "Because we'd win," she said playfully.

Wamocha couldn't help but smile back. "If someone were to give you some food and water, do you think you'd be able to sneak out of here?"

The girl knelt down and ran her hand over the trapped half of her lower leg. "I can't feel anything," she said. "I think something important might be pinched or torn. That's sweet of you, though."

Wamocha vaulted over the fence and knelt down next to the girl, gently squeezing her calf. "Can you feel this?" he asked.

When he met her face, her eyes were wide and bewildered. She shook her head slightly.

Wamocha jammed his fingers into the trap and pulled at it as hard as he could, but to no avail.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Wamocha lifted a hoof and tried to wedge the edge of his horseshoe into the clamp, "Helping-" he grunted, pressing down with his massive leg, prying the trap barely enough for the girl to slide her foot out.

"What if this was a trap?" she asked as she freed herself.

Wamocha quickly pulled his hands and feet away, letting the trap to snap shut. The metallic crunch sent the trap skittering off into the corner of the pen. "Then you've just got me," he smiled.

The girl narrowed her eyes. "You trust me?"

Wamocha took the wounded leg gently in both hands, the young girl still holding herself up against the fence.

"Oh, god," she muttered. "I'm starting to feel it now. Oh my god, it hurts."

"This a break, not a tear," Wamocha said, stomach churning as he watched the two ends of the break shift beneath her skin. "I'm going to need supplies from home to patch you up."

"You know how to fix it?"

Wamocha's head bobbed around in uncertainty. "Kind of. I've seen it done. And my dad has books."

The girl winced as Wamocha took her gently by the knee, bringing a shoulder near to hers and throwing an arm around his neck. "Stay off that no matter what," he said as he helped her to the ground. "I'll be back later tonight with food and water, after-" he trailed off.

"What, more running?" The pain made her words come out more bitter than she'd intended.

"Chores."

"Oh, heaven forbid you miss your chores," the girl said, lightly this time.

"I'll see you tonight," he said, brushing himself off.

"Wait-" the girl began, wincing as she tried to raise herself to stop him.

"For God's sakes, just stay still," the steed urged.

"I'm Eshe."

"Wamocha," he replied before hopping back out of the pen and jogging back home.

* * *

"Wammi," Wamocha's mother chimed, pleasant tone letting him know that a client had arrived. "Where were you?"

"Sorry, ma," Wamocha replied, jogging from the expansive foyer into the sitting room where his parents made their clients wait. "I was out for a run and just lost track of time."

"That's my boy," his father said. "Such a dedicated sportsman."

The white-haired equine couple sitting next to the huge window, tiny porcelain teacups in-hand, glanced Wamocha up and down.

"He doesn't seem sweaty," the old woman shorted.

"Conditioning," Wamocha said with a smile. "It takes a lot more to get me dripping than when I was younger. Besides, I realized the time before I'd gotten a proper workout."

The couple glanced to eachother, exchanging looks, snorts, and murmurs.

"They say he's a wilful one," the old man grunted. "We don't want to take care of a troublemaker."

"He's a bit hard-headed," Wamocha's mother pleaded, "but that's only because of his strict training regimen. He wouldn't be the best if he wasn't dedicated."

"And if it doesn't take?" the woman said.

"You won't need your certificate until you have a grandchild," the mother said. "The initial charge is for his time-but have you had your daughter tested?"

The couple nodded in unison.

"Then it should only take one try. Come, let me show you the kitchen-Wamocha, they need you in the clinic."

Wamocha nodded, leaning against the wall as his mother led the strangers away, gloating about all the virility and potency supplements she'd been stuffing down her son's throat for as long as he'd been eating solid foods.

'Another blood test,' he thought to himself as he sauntered through the mansion's winding hallways, towards the little white room that joined the indoor track and the field used throughout the summer months as an outdoor track.

When he finally reached the clinic, the heavy oak door was ajar. He pushed it slowly, peeking into the room to see a grey-haired lapine crumpled over a stack of papers. The old man's lips moved slowly as his eyes flew through the writing, flicking a page every few seconds.

"Doc?" Wamocha said, causing the lapine to start.

"Wammi," the old man said, patting his chest, eyes googly through his thick glasses. "You just about scared the dickens out of me." He pulled the ridiculous spectacles from his face and gestured towards the chair with the armrests-the chair you sat in to get stabbed in the arm. "Have a seat."

"What is it this time?" Wamocha asked as he slumped back into the leather-padded chair.

"Nothing of concern," Doc assured him. "We'll just say that there have been some questions of paternity with another of your clients."

"Heaven forbid," Wamocha muttered, mimicking Eshe's tone.

"Considering how much these people pay for your services," Doc began, fixing the needle into a sheath and plugging in an empty tube, "it might seem strange that a woman would throw away something so valuable." Doc gently pressed his hand against Wamocha's bicep, veins poking out almost immediately. Without warning, Doc stabbed the needle in-Wamocha grunting as usual, but thinking little more of it.

"Is it because the drugs aren't good enough?" Wamocha asked the old family friend.

"Oh, no. Many of the mates go out beforehand with their childhood lovers, finacees, or whomever else might tickle their fancy." Doc pulled out the tube, now filled with blood, and plugged in a second. "By the time the parents come to collect you, they're already pregnant."

"It doesn't seem so strange to me," Wamocha sighed.

Doc popped the second tube out of the needle and brought a cotton ball to Wamocha's arm, slipping the needle out from beneath it. "It seems as though they've found you a model this time," Doc said in a cheery tone.

Wamocha shrugged.

"You actually prefer the racers?" Doc asked. "That's peculiar, because I've always found them to be somewhat-"

"Sorry, Doc," Wamocha interrupted, not wanting to hear Dock yammering on about his sexual preferences again. "It's not that. Something's on my mind."

"Oh?"

"It's nothing-but, can I ask you something?"

"Absolutely." Doc slid the two blood tubes into a rack and then returned to the chair behind his desk. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to learn how to set a bone."

Doc's pupils shrank. His breathing slowed. This wasn't the reaction Wamocha had expected. "Then-you've finally-oh, I'm sorry." Doc stammered.

"Sorry?"

Doc shook his head. "Silly me-yes, mending a broken limb. You want to know about the leg, right?"

"Yes."

Doc glanced up knowingly. "Right shin?"

Wamocha glanced nervously out the door, towards the horizon over which Eshe was helplessly incapacitated in a stall with a shattered right shin. Doc never left his office. How could he have known? "You aren't going to-" Wamocha began cautiously.

"Heavens, no," Doc laughed, turning towards his bookshelf. "If you ask me, they should teach all you runners about this sort of thing, anyway, regardless of superstition."

Wamocha finally remembered. It was supposed to be bad luck for a racer to know first-aid. Most people figured that learning it meant you expected to need it. Still, Doc was acting a little strange for just a superstition.

"Can I get cast stuff, too?" Wamocha asked, nervously pushing his luck. "For practice."

"Of course. Just don't let your parents find out, whatever you do. And if they do, I had nothing to do with this." Doc dropped a heavy medical textbook on his desk, the force of which sent papers fluttering to the ground. "How long do we have?"

"Mom's giving the clients the grand tour. I'd give it at least an hour."

Doc nodded. "Good. We at least have time to go over the basics."

* * *

Faye sat naked in the corner of the room, knees pulled up to her chest. The whites around her large dark pupils and her eyes were puffier than in her pictures. Wamocha had seen her lithe body lining the first and third corners of the local track, black body covered in white lingerie, on her knees, head thrown back, one hand creeping up her inner thigh, other tangled in her mane. The ad was for men's cologne, but he knew she had similarly provocative ads for underwear on the sides of a couple of busses and vodka in some magazines. Wamocha had seen her here and there since he was fourteen. He had lusted for her for as long as he was lusting at all.

Now she sat naked in the uncomfortable sterile-white room. The only furniture was a soft downy mattress on the floor in the opposite corner. Two black cameras hung from the ceiling, tiny red lights blinking next to their cold eyes. This was a place of business, not romance.

Faye stared at Wamocha with hatred in her eyes, watching him silently appraise her.

"Let's get this over with," Wamocha sighed, pulling open the belt of his white silk bathrobe.

"I fucking hate them," she muttered as she started to rock.

Wamocha shook his head. "Do you think I want to be here?"

"What, fucking women for money? I fucking hate you, too."

Wamocha let the robe slide off of him and walked towards the girl, kneeling several feet away, crossing his legs in front of him. "You got me," snapped. "I'm living out every man's dream-to have sex with girls who hate me. Who keep their eyes shut throughout, and cry when it's done. Who have lovers, boyfriends, and husbands who they're forced to cheat on because of a fucking piece of paper."

Caution saturated her eyes, blotting out some of the hatred.

"And all for what?" he continued. "So my parents can get rich. So that when they die, I'll be able to subject my own kids to the same. So that the estate will thrive and live on."

"I'm sorry," she said, caution beginning to subside. "I didn't-"

Wamocha silenced her with a shake of his head. "Don't be sorry," he said. "I hate most of the people who come through here, too."

Faye stared into space for a second. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

"I don't mean you."

Her emotional front withered away with her spite, and she started to cry. "Bullshit."

"I see your ad at the track all the time," Wamocha said with a supportive smile. "Your work is incredible."

She opened her mouth, taking a moment to choke out, "It's my photographer."

"Even the best photographer can only do so much."

"No," she stammered, staring up at the camera. "Nevermind."

"Those things are video only," he said. "I won't tell anyone. So what about your photographer?"

"We're-kind of engaged. My parents don't know."

"A photographer's nothing to sneeze at," Wamocha assured her. "I'm sure your parents wouldn't complain."

"He's a-" she stopped herself for a moment, but then shrugged, knees dropping to her side, giving Wamocha a glimpse at the torso he'd been dreaming of seeing naked for years. "He's a lynx."

"Oh."

"Yeah. My parents are-old."

"Mine are, too," Wamocha nodded. "I guess this isn't too bad a thing for you two, though; carnivores can't breed with us."

She shook her head. "It won't be his."

"It's going to be the child of the man who raises him, not the man who sires him."

Faye lurched forward and threw her arms around Wamocha, pulling him tight. "Thank you," she whispered into his ear, kissing his neck lightly.

"Should I make it quick?" he returned into her ear.

She sniffled, kissed his neck again, and said nothing. He'd managed to calm her down, but the time still wasn't right. "What's he like?" Wamocha asked.

She sat back, taking his head by its cheeks and caressing him as she answered. "Sweet. Fun. Compassionate."

"Does he know?"

She nodded slightly.

"And what does he think?"

She choked out a laugh. "What you said. It'll be his, even if the papers say it's yours."

Wamocha brought his thick, strong fingers to her neck, dragging them slowly, gently, down her shoulder and towards her chest, his touch dwindling above her breasts. "You're a lucky woman," he said.

Faye nodded and leaned back, resting her palms on the cool floor behind her, reluctantly pressing her chest out for the mare to explore. "Thank you," she said in a laboured hush as she felt Wamocha's hands delicately descend upon her breasts. "You're so much like him."

Wamocha's tongue trailed gently down the coarse textured onyx fur that covered her flesh, tracing a wet trail from jaw to collarbone, hands dipping down to her hips as he reached her chest. Faye whimpered beneath his tongue as it explored her soft, fleshy breasts, swirling up to tease the solid nipples-those beautiful little obelisks which Wamocha had been worshipping through light-coloured, silk-thin lingerie, swimwear, bed sheets...

Faye let loose a squeaky moan, her breaths coming faster and harder with every second spent on her chest. Wamocha cradled the small of her back with one hand and brought the other to between her legs, to the pink little slit that had been peeking out at him knowingly ever since he'd stepped foot into the room.

"Oh God," she said, pressing her hips into Wamocha's hand, grinding up against his palm. "Oh God, oh God, oh God," she repeated, pressing her slick flesh into his hand.

When Wamocha finally brought himself to task and slid a finger in to see if she was ready for penetration, she was already clamping down in orgasm, her perfectly toned body writhing beneath him. This wasn't good. He'd gotten too caught-up in his fantasies. When he lay in bed as a teenager, she would service his imagination for hours on-end, having orgasm after orgasm-but he knew the real world didn't work that way. In the real world, most girls would come once or twice and be done for at least a few minutes. There was no way he could even get hard enough for full insertion before she finished shuddering and collapsed.

He hooked his fingers to reach her most sensitive spots and coaxed her orgasm to fruition. If she was going to have to endure more, he should at least do what he could to help her enjoy it.

The beautiful model clamped down harder as her bucking slowed, squeaking into pursed lips in time with her body's slowing undulations. She brought a hand up to knead at her left breast as Wamocha's tongue worked on her right, his fingers gently pressing into her to coax out a few aftershocks once her climax had passed.

Wamocha lifted his head and withdrew his fingers, pulling her into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?" Faye struggled to say, breath having run miles ahead of her. "That felt really good."

That line always brought pangs of both pride and shame to Wamocha. Pride for the obvious reasons-after so many years in the business, he had become mastered at arousing women. Shame because he was taught these techniques to have comfortable sex with what his father called 'type-threes': Women who needed to have their arms, legs, and hips fastened in-place. Women who would sooner murder him than bear children by him.

Wamocha had been told that Faye was a type-two-she was melancholic about the idea of being inseminated. His father called her type 'unwilling/unable'. If Wamocha didn't share her contempt for her parents, he would only have them charged as though she were a type-one-one who actually looked forward to bearing children-which would cut the price of the encounter itself by nearly half.

Faye gently pressed her hands against Wamocha's chest, coaxing the mare to the ground, laying his back to rest in the pool of his robe. "Just relax," she said.

Overhead, the two black boxes' irises closed, filling the screens of the upstairs control panel with tight images of the beautiful model descending tongue-first upon Wamocha's sheath.

"Can you fucking believe that?" asked a hulking brown bull in the central security room.

His petite colleague narrowed her eyes as her dainty hands worked the camera controls. "Hmm?" the mouse mumbled.

"Dalila!" the bull shouted. "I'm talkin' to 'ya."

Dalila released the controls for the mating room cameras to rub her temple. "God damnit, Njau," she hissed, tearing her eyes from the screen to narrow them at the security guard. "Must you always be the centre of attention?"

"It just so happens I do, small-fry," the bull snorted back. "Now, like I said, can you fucking believe that?"

The girl's eyes snapped back to the screen. "She seems to know what she's doing, but she's not amazing."

Njau ignored the mouse's reply and answered for himself. "When he walked in there, she was a blubberin' wreck. Not two blinks later, she's chokin' him down like he's the god damn cure for cancer."

Dalila once again pulled her eyes from Faye to give the security chief an odd glare. "Sometimes your metaphors make me question your fitness to be my superior."

"Well, you know what I mean. 'Sides, you don't gotta be wordy to keep on top 'a things."

A dismissive sigh later, the mouse was watching Faye lift her head and speak with Wamocha. One camera zoomed into her lips, the other out to catch Wamocha's reaction. She narrowed her eyes, trying to sound out the motions of the client's lips. She could just barely make out a 'just like' and an 'm' syllable before the model dove back upon Wamocha's swollen length.

Njau fell silent while Faye spoke. Dalila had noticed that he always did that whenever Wamocha's full length was in plain sight. She'd dated a bull back in high school, and so she knew how much racial pride they generally took in the size of their peckers-and she also knew how much bigger her employer's son was than the average bull.

With Wamocha's cock once again stashed away in the model's mouth, Njau continued as though he hadn't missed a beat. "You reckon we can get sound put in there?"

Dalila shook her head, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Why in the world would we need sound? The only reason we even have cameras in there is for a record of insemination."

"I want to know what he says. I bet he manages to nudge at least half the unwilling clients down a type-that kid's one smooth mother fucker, and I'd love to know a few of his tricks."

"And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that he's good-looking and well-hung." She didn't like going there, but she wanted nothing more at that moment than to scare the bull away, lock the control room, and enjoy the show in peace.

"That shit didn't seem to help his dad any."

Dalila nodded. "Right. Forgot how long you worked here."

"Back then, we didn't have this video shit set up," Njau began.

This was a mixed blessing-Njau's old-days stories were way too long, but also easy to drown out.

"We didn't use videos." Njau's words passed through Dalila's head. "He would actually have two witnesses standing guard in the room. And I say standing guard 'cause the old man would sometimes nudge his twos-hell, even his ones-into threes. And when an equine bitch in heat goes crazy, she flips right the fuck out."

Dalila's brow furrowed. The master of the house had managed to make willing girls try to kill him? He was starting to get a bit up-there in years, but he still was a pretty damn handsome guy. "Maybe the young master just uses decency and rationality to calm the girls down."

Njau scratched his fuzzy chin and nodded. "That could work. Tell 'er everything's gonna be alright, bend 'er over, and then tell 'er the mistake she's made while 'yer poundin' 'er. Show 'er how a bull rides."

"You're disgusting," Dalila spat. "Haven't you noticed how the young master treats us compared to the master?"

"Yeah. 'Cause he's afraid of the guys, and he wants to sleep with you."

Dalila flushed as the beautiful black mare lifted her head from Wamocha's member, giving it a few strokes before dragging the swollen head down her body, rubbing the underside of his shaft between her legs. "That's not tr-why he's nice to me," Dalila muttered.

Njau squinted at the screen, watching as the flat head of Wamocha's cock pressed against the jet-black model's pussy, stunned and fixated until the head popped in. He looked back to Dalila, who was completely transfixed, the tiny nipples that crowned those little mounds beneath her tight white shirt poking through. She shifted slightly in her seat.

"You actually want to try him for yourself, don't you?" Njau finally asked, cheeks pulling into a grin.

"Of course not-he's just-this is my job," Dalila stammered without looking away from the screen.

'Show you for calling my dick small, you little bitch,' Njau thought to himself. "I don't know what the hell's going through your head, girl," he scoffed. "He'd poke out your mouth if he didn't split you in two first-that thing's bigger 'n you are."

The little mouse blushed in spite of herself. "I'm not that small," she said defensively. "I'm only three feet shorter than him. Besides, you're reading into this way too much. Like I said, I'm only doing my job."

The bull chuckled. "Sure you are."

The corner of Dalila's mouth pulled into a little sneer. "Don't you have some checks to do or something?"

Njau shook his head. "I've got all afternoon."

Mercifully, Dalila caught a dark flash out of the corner of her eye. "Did you see that?" she asked. "Someone just ran by the gate two camera."

"Probably just another fucking jogger," Njau grumbled. "But, yeah, I saw it."

Njau and Dalila sat and stared at the girl who was riding on top of their 'young master'.

"And?" Dalila said after a few moments.

Njau growled. "Yeah, yeah. I'm on it." He stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him, finally leaving Dalila to her peace. There would only be a few minutes left-but that was more than enough for her to take care of herself.

Dalila waited several seconds for the bull to saunter out of earshot, the steamboats running through her head in perfect time with the beautiful black creature's motions up and down Wamocha's cock, keeping her full attention on the monitor as she kicked off of her desk with blind precision, catching the lock before rolling herself back and hiking up her skirt. She gently stroked her thigh with her left hand as she readjusted the camera with her right, adjusting one to zoom out and catch the entire scenario that was laid out before her, tightening the other more exclusively on her young master.

Releasing the controls and wriggling her skirt even further up her thighs, Dalila dipped a hand into the mound of naked flesh, fingers working along its moist length, allowing herself the attention for which she had ached. She'd stopped wearing pants to work after a few close calls, and stopped wearing panties shortly thereafter-not for any safety reasons, mind you, but for reasons that flooded her head as she watched Wamocha's face pull into a smile in response to some unheard comment.

Dalila hardly ever got a chance to see Wamocha in-person, and the few times she did, there was always someone else-his parents, Njau, another security guard-there to foil her grand plot. But one day, she told herself-one day she would get a chance to drop something, to crouch open-legged in front of him, to sit before him and flash her legs open... and then... and then...

Two fingers entered her, then three, her digits treating her insides with a rough passion, as she imagined Wamocha's enormous member would. "Fill me," she hissed under her breath, imagining what it must be like to mount him like the monitors showed. "Fill me all the way up, Wammi. Oh, god, yes, fuck me more. Deeper. I can take it." She always wished she could have brought a toy with her-Dalila always felt somewhat hollow watching Wamocha in action with nothing more than her own digits to please her, the idea of using so little to simulate so much giving her a sensation of being cheated.

The little mouse shuddered in her seat, whimpering slightly, biting her lip as she watched the girl riding her master do the same, watching Wamocha's jaw clench and eyes close as his hips thrust violently upwards, unleashing within her enough thick white seed to fill her beyond capacity within the first torrent, squirting out around her-as he squirted out around all of his clients-with each following volley of liquid. Dalila shuddered again in aftershocks as she watched his seed gushing out of her and down his thick cock, imagining what it must be like to be flooded so thoroughly, wondering how much of her minute little body would be covered were she to suck him off.

As her orgasm finally subsided, a peculiar thought occurred to Dalila. Wamocha hadn't been around any girls aside from his clients, whom he was legally obliged to finish inside of. Had he ever known what it was like to pull out? Or to finish in a girl's mouth? If he was as unhappy with what he did for a living as she thought, would it not be an incredible turn-on to see so much liquid gold go to waste?

"Alright," Wamocha told Faye, who had slumped forward and begun to embrace him. "That's the end of that."

Faye sighed. "I can't believe I just-"

"You did what you had to do," Wamocha interjected. "Look at it this way: Your baby will have all the perks of thoroughbreeding without the drawback of being raised a bigot."

Faye shook her head. "No, not that. I've accepted that. It's just-I enjoyed it." She slumped into Wamocha's chest and began to weep.

"If all went well, we'll have just brought a child into the world," Wamocha said, squeezing her gently. "That should always be a joyful thing." He rolled out from beneath her, laying a kiss on her forehead and saying, "Now, go tell your Lynx he's gonna be a daddy."