FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

It's night. The room is dark - having light filtering in through the window at such a low level it seemed nonexistent - except for the ghostly flow of the desklamp in one corner of the room. The student hunches over his desk, lost in the unmapped maze of convoluted thought processes while he chews absently on the wood of his pencil with his ears half-down and his gaze unfocused. The papers in front of him look foreign and strange, pristine white marked with symbols and glyphs of intimidating black ink - numbers and letters, italics, swirls and crosses, underlines, some Greek shit he's never been too sure about. I love baseball - not calculus, he tells himself each night. Why do I have to do this? - when will it ever be useful to me in any way?

He focuses himself, looks down, flicks the flake of yellow enamel chewed off his pencil over his tongue - the same unfamiliar characters glare back at him, two of the forty questions answered with a response that makes about as much sense to him as those scientific names from his biology class. So many nights before had le laid his pencil down and given up: now, though, because of all those nights spent in half-admitted defeat, he - and his grades, and thus his spot on the college's baseball team - couldn't bear any more of it. He couldn't remember when it was that he fell behind in class, but from then, it had all started piling together and forming a load more formidable than it was after the last class, and in the end amounting to a problem he couldn't even hope to combat.

He's not even sure why he still tries - nothing he does could ever possibly bring his grade back up, even with the help of the tutor who should arrive in maybe ten, fifteen minutes. That was the truth to it, and he wished he had realized it sooner.

He sets the pencil down on the desk - well, more slams it down - and leans back in his chair, arms up behind his head. Nothing about this is making sense to him, as it rarely ever does - he has nothing to do now but wait for his tutor to arrive. It seems no matter how much he tries, he still never gets better - after all, he was already in the lowest class, and there's no way that's getting better in the course of the rest of the year. If anything, the sigh that currently escapes his lips is the best of ways to vocalize his predicament and defeat other than the following muttered "...fuck".

He stands and paces around the room, walking to the bed, then the window, then back to the desk, then to the bed once more... one that desk waits his enemy, something so simple yet formidable that somehow still remains undefeated. Again, sigh, fuck. This isn't working, but there's nothing he can do to change that; the dejection and resignation that washes over his soul brings his body down onto the bed where he rests with his muzzle across the dented pillow. The bed is unmade, as usual, and smells of drowsy laziness, himself, and comfort: if he really wanted to, he could just go lock the door, return to his bed, and fall asleep; the appeal of this thought tempts and teases his sleepy mind, and he even goes so far as to strip off his shirt before he realizes what he's doing.

His laziness fires back at his logic when he sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at his bare feet: what's the point? There is none. Of course, there is no harm in trying to get better - other than the constant strengthening pull of the black hole that once was his wallet to pay for the tutorials. So much stress in life, so many undeserved and unwarranted problems - sometimes, he needs a night alone - or one with someone else, in a different sense than his tutor - to bring a well-needed release as a reward. Many times before has that happened - each memory bringing a warm stir to his sheath as it passes - and it has been long since the last time.

He stands again, hooks his fingers around the waistband of his shorts, slides them down and kicks them off his feet to the side. He still wears his jockstrap from practice earlier in the day, and upon realizing this, recalls how the others on the team also wore theirs - a gay jock such as him is indeed something rare, and he had - of course - been teased and tormented for that in the past, but now, he is known as so valuable of a player that it could be ignored... and, on some occasions, enjoyed, given some of the stains on his floor, wall, blankets, and pillow. Not that he minds, of course. In fact, he had half a mind right now to get his phone from the nightstand and call up Mitchell...

The white corner of the paper catches his eye as he prepares to pull his underwear down, a forlorn siren of old mythology to the wandering sailor of his concentration - again, he tells himself that there's nothing he can do, that he's already tried all he can. Though, which does he want to pay attention to - that, or the warm growing mass of eager flesh behind the fabric of his underwear? Tonight is his night. It's about time he realized that he should've given up long ago.

The jockstrap falls to his feet as well and too was kicked to the side before he sits back down on the low edge of the bed. Having not yet showered - usually something he does before going to sleep - his musk of the day wafts up to his nose, a hot and rich scent that urges his meat out of his sheath a bit further. His paw on his sack and sheath is warm when he reaches down to feel and squeeze himself, and his revealed tip moist on his fingerpads. Being a German shepherd, he is naturally more gifted than the most of the other canines on his team - something that elevated both his reputation and pride... and fun when he was asked to prove it, in the 'totally straight' comparisons of fully-hard lengths of male players which usually led to other less 'fully straight' events.

He is reminded of some of these times as his almost-nine inches slides out into his waiting paw: so many different scents, so many different voices moaning and grunting, so many different tastes and warmths. It's not long before he's rubbing at his thick knot through his sheath, gently pulling the warm-furred skin over the rounded and contoured flesh. He looks down: thick, red, glistening meat resting and throbbing against the dusty tan-brown of his bellyfur that makes his own mouth water and brings him to lick his lips. There's another of his species on the team, the third baseman, who has much more endurance than it looks like he should - in more than one sense. Daryll - this German shepherd sitting on his bed with his hard cock in his paw - had been caught staring in the shower more than once, but he, too, had caught the other staring at him about as many times... and that other shepherd's cock had failed to disappoint. Daryll can still remember the taste of it on his tongue the night after the third or fourth time...

Three knocks on his closed door jolt him back to reality, in turn making him jump and thus elicit a frantic squeak from one of the springs of his mattress. "U-uh... hang on! One moment, please!" He stammers this out while scrambling on the floor for his pants, disregarding his underwear - that must be his tutor at the door. He had forgotten! So stupid - here he was, sitting nude on his bed with his cock in his paw, while he had someone coming over! He stumbles over to the door, still in the process of pulling his pants up, and opens it: the familiar face of Michael, his tutor, looks up at him.

"Oh... uh... good evening, Daryll," stammers the wolf at the door, a bit surprised at the unkempt and shirtless dog in front of him. "I, uh... trust you weren't busy? You didn't forget - like you did last time - did you?"

Well fuck. Daryll flattens down the raised fur on the back of his neck, the awareness of his still-present boner on the loose fabric of his gym shorts burning a million holes in his fortitude. "Oh, no, no, no, I didn't forget. I was just working on it - see, it's... it's over there."

"Well. That's good. I just..." Michael looks over Daryll's bare chest, and seems to zone out for a second. "...just wish you'd be more properly dressed. It's shameful."

Daryll bites his lip as his ears lower unintentionally - other than being just a tutor and teacher, Michael's a friend and classmate, and the shepherd holding the door open - cock just now beginning to slip back into his sheath - cares about what he has to think and say. He steps to the side and ushers the slightly-shorter wolf in past him, then pulls up a chair for him.

"What is it that you were having trouble with? I see that you at least... well, that you at least tried." Michael pulls the paper to himself and looks it over, eyes scanning smoothly over the almost-indecipherable scrawls.

"Just about everything. I don't understand any of it." Daryll folds his paws in his lap, tail curled halfway around the leg of his chair.

"That much is clear... this one's wrong. Well, again, at least you tried." Michael takes the pencil and works the problem, then does it again - slower this time, for the sake of the hopeless dog net to him. "See? It's really not that hard. Looks like... yeah, here. You were doing the first step wrong."

Daryll is painfully aware of the visibility of his sheath in the shorts he wears, but there's nothing he can do to hide it without being conspicuous about it. Instead of moving his paws to fix it, he just wiggles around a bit; he's silenced, however, with a questioning glance from his tutor, and sits there with a blush warming his cheeks while trying to keep his ears up.

Time passes. Slowly, slowly, he comes to understand the topic - as he usually does after a while, and manages to work three problems - three! - before he's stopped once more and corrected. "you know," muses Michael, pulling up a blank sheet of paper to correctly work the problem, "You sports types confuse me. I mean... come on. Gayest district of anything you can possible be interested in, and yet everyone vehemently claims not to be. I don't get it."

Daryll blinks, caught off-guard by such a strange and unexpected statement. "...Well, actually, here, it's really not that big of a deal. I mean, yes, there will still be the occasionally nut who hates homosexuality for whatever reason - yeah, we have ours - but, everyone on the team is each other's friend. We're just a big dysfunctional family. Stoners, hippies, feminists, vegetarians, atheists, whatever. People really don't care as much as one would think they do."

Michael holds the pencil still, in the middle of drawing a four. "I care," he hisses, the tip chipping under the weight of his paw. "You'll get nothing done if you've got all the players working on each other's fur in the showers - among other places - instead of their own. A bunch of lazy, horny college boys focusing on balls other than the ones included in the game? True counterproductivity at its finest - and the tight outfits really don't help. I don't approve."

The wolf must pick up on Daryll's feelings in reactions when he sits back in his chair, as he looks mover and flicks his ears at the dog. "What?"

Daryll closes his eyes and lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing at his muzzle. "Michael..."

"I said - what?"

"I'm gay. Don't you know that? I mean, it's really not something that anyone cares enough about to keep secret."

His eyes visibly widen and his ears fold back a bit. "Well, now I know. Alright, I'd say this lesson is over - I'll be on my way, and good luck to you. Try not to kill yourself over your grade."

"What? But there's still a whole half-hour left - you got here fifteen, twenty minutes ago. You're not going to charge me for this, are you?"

"Full charge." Michael stands, knocking over an empty glass that once held water, and gathers his things. "Get it to me in physics tomorrow, as usual."

"W - but that's bullshit!" Daryll stands, too, and blocks the door. "I still don't fully understand this - you can't do this. What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem. You appear to understand the material just fine - my work is done. Now, if you'd please just stop making such a big deal of this issue and move -"

"I'm not making a big deal out of this - after all, I am being cheated. I understand the homework only very slightly more than I used to, and it's clear that you've got a problem with me and the team. Why'd you even bring it up if you knew this could've been the outcome?"

Michael stammers out a few words, his ears flattened to his head. "I said, it's nothing. Never mind." He looks away and lowers his voice. "You know, you're probably the reason we lost the last game. Too busy fucking to practice or something..."

Daryll leans against the door with his arms crossed in front of his chest, only barely resisting the urge to beat down this stunted creature in front of him. "Let me tell you a little something, Michael. John, and Mitchell, and our star pitcher Trevor... they've all been here. They're on the walls, the bed, the floor, the chair you were sitting in. Being gay doesn't automatically turn you into a rainbow crossdresser who offers blowjobs a dollar a dozen. Just look at me - you had no idea until I told you. My mom doesn't yet know. Oh, and Nathaniel - you know, the panther who hit two home runs last Sunday? - he's got a boyfriend, and he's had one for the past few months. You can't tell just by looking at someone; he's got a voice almost two octaves below Frank Sinatra's. In fact..." The larger dog leans forward and presses a clawed finger into the chestfluff of the smaller wolf trembling before him. "...I'd say that you're gay, too. I know your type - the illogical hypocrite. You hate the very thing you are, because it's something that you don't want to be."

Michael drops the books in his arms - they land with a resounding thud on the floor between his feet. "I - no, you -"

"No, no, no, shush. Your eyes, your tail... they all give it away. This isn't the first time I've done this with someone - he stood in that exact spot, in that exact position. He denied it at first, pushed it away, made wild and ridiculous unbelievable claims, but eventually..." Daryll opens his paw and presses it forward, gently stroking the fur beneath the wolf's shirt; Michael slaps at his paw and pulls away, but Daryll's other arm holds him where he is. "...he gave in, and ended the night bent over the desk beneath me."

"Daryll, I'm not - I don't -"

The German shepherd slides his paw slowly down Michael's chest, stopping just above the fly of his pants. "Oh, you're not? Then, explain to me, wolf: why can I feel the heat of your boner, and why can I see it in your pants? You love me touching you, whether you wish to admit it or not."

Michael moves his lips to say something, then does it again, and again, and again, but never does a sound come out; his ears are flattened against his head in anger, but his eyes look up in half-concealed guilty eagerness. "I..."

Daryll pushes on his chest, and he falls back into the chair with his legs apart. "No more words. You've told me not to worry about my homework - now, I'll tell you not to worry about anything. It's long since time you give in, because really, what's the point of hating yourself?"

The shepherd's fingers are warm through his pants and in the fur of his belly when he moves down to work at his fly; Michael can feel his heartbeat in his throat and wants to move, to get out of here, but... then again, he doesn't want to, and instead wants to stay forever. Oh, never has he been so confused as to what to do and what he wants! Daryll's smooth baritone voice soothes his nerves and lifts his ears - along with another part of his body - up, up, up. The thought of going through with this and finishing - his first time with another guy - is tantalizing and delicious, yet oh-so-frightening, and that last little shiver of anxious nervousness still skitters up and down his spine with each movement. He closes his eyes, leans back...

...and shivers when Daryll presses his tongue against his almost fully-hard cock. Such a warm feeling, such a different sensation for both of them... Daryll moves his head up and gradually liiiiicks the hard veined meat, and Michael lets a soft murr escape his lips and arches his back just a bit. With this, anything and everything that could have ocne been called nervousness melts away into rich, sweet pleasure and ecstasy. Seduction has never before worked so well for Daryll, not even with guys who he had done before - it is clear to him that this is something the wolf - who it is also clear to - really, really wants...

You poor, poor guy, the shepherd wants to say between slow, measured licks. You've been denying yourself something you've wanted for so, so long... well, I'm here to give you what you want. And, oh, you will not be disappointed. Such a thing is as likely as the universe imploding around us right now.

He slips a paw into the front of his pants and runs a finger up his again-hard cock; he strokes himself slowly but with deliberate, succulent taste while he laps up and down, up and down Michael's meat. Never before did he think he would be doing this with his tutor and close friend - but, oh, he wasn't at all complaining.

He plants a kiss on the blunted point of the wolf's tip and leans back, having pulled his shorts down to freely stroke himself. "Just look at me, taking the spotlight in your first time... this is for you." He motions down at his cock, then uses two fingers and his thumb to slip the skin and fur of his sheath past his knot. "Go ahead. We're both waiting - you and I."

Michael peers down at him from the chair, a warm blush under his cheeks and his slight panting visible in his chest. He moves with a kind of shy, nervous grace, as he slips down to one knee, then the other, and then crawls forward between Daryll's legs. The meeting of two pairs of eyes, the licking of lips, the gentle push of musky hips upward - he steels himself and dives in, burying his nose In the hot fur of the dog's tan sack. He inhales deeply, breathes in the moist perfume that tickles at his sensitive canine nostrils and puts a small, eager wag in the base of his tail.

Daryll spreads his legs further and leans back on his elbows; the first time he gave a blowjob actually wasn't much unlike this, with him shy but determined and headstrong. Now, he was passing on that favor of exploration and discovery to someone who meant something to him ,despite the occasional fight or argument they had; he isn't expecting much, but still expects something. He looks down through half-lowered eyelids, sees Michaels' eyes closed and tail swaying back and forth, back and forth, and knows he won't soon be disappointed.

The wolf angles the cock towards his muzzle with a paw and dives right down on it with the underside cupped in his tongue. His fangs graze ever-so-slightly over the hot, sensitive flesh, which makes Daryll lift his hips further and breathe out a soft curse of pleasured pain - Michael doesn't hear this (or either chooses to ignore it) and continues with his slow, deep movements. Strangely, Daryll feels himself push up into the mouth pleasuring him with each bob of the head, and then places both paws behind the wolf's ears to regulate his movement and to goad him to go deeper, to fill the lusting emptiness in the back of his throat.

Michael moves one paw down to stroke himself while he works; he hates this, hates every second of it, hates how he's letting himself do this, yet loves each and every part of it. Maybe being gay isn't as bad as he thought - because this sure as hell isn't bad at all. The taste warming his tongue and rich, wonderful scent in his nose are two of a kind, two things indescribable and beautiful picked straight from Tantalus's bounty. It's like they hold a kind of magical magnetism, always pulling him closer and heightening his lust and his thirst, things that seemingly can never be sated or quenched, that he'll forever attempt to fulfill. Oh, never before has zealous want felt so good.

He squeezes beneath Daryll's knot and balances the tip between his lips while he laps at the tangy pre that drips down onto his tongue. This is, indeed, better than he ever thought or hoped it would. All those nights alone in his dorm, each thrust upwards into his tightly-clenched paw, every spurt of hot, thick seed out over the fur of his belly and chest - all the images and fantasies that had ever run through his head in anticipation of this moment could never amount to the real, actual thing. Pleasure is something never felt in full force unless it's shared with someone else.

Daryll runs his claws through the fur on the back of the wolf's head as the warm, wet tongue dances on the tip of his cock and laps up his tangy, sticky pre. Such a skilled tongue - and it belongs to a virgin of the craft, too! He was nowhere near this good when he gave his first blowjob - his partner told him to stop and had to instruct him on just what not to do, which happened to be about everything he had been doing. He has learned and improved a lot since then, though, and is sure that Michael will do the same: after all, he is enjoying this far, far too much to never do it again.

Michael's head bobs up and down, up and down, up and down in fast and smooth motions; he swirls his tongue all up and around the shepherd's pulsing cock; he moans and murrs while his tightened paw slides smoothly over his own length. The darkness of the fast-developing night, the distant worry of failed classes and the thought of the baseball team missing a player - it all doesn't matter to either of them. Right here and right now are the only things in the entire world that matter, with no thought of anything or anyone else polluting the pleasured concentration of their minds. This late-night calculus lesson has turned into a lesson with a much, much different nature.

Daryll feels his impending release brought on by this skilled yet inexperienced wolf, and braces for it by lifting his hips and pulling the head in his lap down - Michael senses it too, and squeezes his eyes shut while trying not to gag on the hot, hard flesh occupying the whole of his muzzle and pressing up against the back of his throat. Time stretches on, and on, and on - a sweet eternity passes in two and a half seconds, and Daryll bucks upward with a sharp growl of a moan on his tongue. Michael gags and splutters, caught off-guard by the rush of thick, hot fluid into his throat and onto his tongue - he wipes his mouth as the dog finishes his orgasm, spurting out one more lazy rope of cum over the dark fur of his muzzle.

Michael leans back on his knees and licks his lips, still stroking himself - with each descent of his paw he runs two fingers and a thumb over his knot, and with each ascent, he uses those to pull on it. Daryll watches, his chest rising and falling in gentle panting, as the wolf pleasures himself with the tangy yet bittersweet taste of his seed on his tongue. By now, everything else has long since fallen away: all that matters and all that exists is the wolf and the German shepherd, isolated from everything else by this little circle of light from the lamp on the desk.

Daryll smiles to himself when the run of music he's heard so, so often reaches and caresses his ears: Michael bucks upward into his paw and sucks in a gasp, eyes shut, muscles tensed and clenched, ears flattened against his head and lips pulled back to reveal sharp white fangs. Another buck of fiery passion, and he empties his own cum out into the now-marred black of his chest and belly fur.

The German shepherd keeps the smile on his face and licks his lips once more, then reaches a paw down to his friend panting on the floor. Slowly, slowly, the rest of the world comes to return - he pulls Michael up and sits him in his lap, ignoring the touching of certain parts, and leans in.

Time slows down once more. Michael knows what's coming, can see it in the reflective gems of the shepherd's almost-closed eyes, can tell in the way he keeps one arm around him and intertwines his fingers with his own. A small part of his brain tells him not to do this, tells him this is wrong - but his still-throbbing cock, his heart, his entire body, and the rest of his brain all tell him otherwise. He can't think; time has only seemed to slow down instead of actually doing it. There is no time, no opening to think about his choices and their consequences and results, no time t-

Warm, warm lips brush, press against, lock with his own, and he's caught by surprise. All that nervous energy still thriving and boiling in his body still distorts the flicking of his tail, still makes him exhale shivering breaths through his nose - but, then, like the world did before, it all melts away. He closes his eyes and leans in to the kiss, in turn tilting his head and slipping his tongue in past through the pair of lips that pulled him in to this relaxing warmth called Bliss. The shepherd's tongue laps at and wrestles against his own, and he finds himself pressing in further, further, wraps his arms around the dog and curls his tail around his leg...

Daryll pulls back out of the kiss and licks his lips, the same pair that had just been locked with Michael's. "Still going to charge me in full?"

The wolf shakes his head and wipes his mouth on the back of his paw. "No," he replies, a dreamy glint in his eyes, "tonight's free of charge."