FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Call me Assmale, because I love fucking booty. Yes, I am bisexual because both sexes possess the glorious common denominator that is booty, and the bootyhole is the Promised Land where I can milk the honeypot until Jesus Christ comes again. And again, if he is watching me. Forgive me, Lord. I'll wander the desert for forty years if I can part some sandy cheeks, turn my snake into a staff, and dig for water until my bush is burning. Mea culpa, mama. I love drilling tailhole.

My name is Francis Bacon. And you can hush your mouth. You're here for a buttfucking story so you can sit your sweet ass on the carpet and be quiet. But ... speaking of, pretty cheeks ... what are you doing later? Anyway, paraphrasing the great English Philosopher of whom I am his sexual scion, "The best part of booty is that which no picture can express." And so, children, please leave the room because this is a story that requires adult consent, and I am going to express the best part of booty through about seven thousand words. Faggots and fag hags, anal queens, and repressed gentlemen, here is the story of my most recent sexual conquest and also of how I almost was sundered julienne-style by broke-brained robots shoving me into a suit already occupied with wires and crossbeams.

My name is Francis Bacon, and I am a wolf who works part-time at Wal-Mart and works out the rest of the time. I listen to audio books and play old console games on my phone and I test Bad Dragon fleshlights every other weekend. You can thank me for their present resilience; here is my product placement. This last weekend, as I received my prototype "Garrus Vakarian's Turbo-Calibrated Asshole DLX," my Auntie calls me on the phone and tells me that I to take my ten year-old cousin Twilight Rarity Henderson for the afternoon while Auntie gets her "V" waxed and by the way, she's coming over in ten minutes. I don't know why some furries like bald strips on the inside of their thighs. And I'm not gonna, because that's my mama's sister. Lord no. Maybe it's for reduced friction.

So I'm hurriedly spending the next ten minutes jamming my Bad Dragon rubber-booty-slobberknockers in a bedroom closet, and just as prescribed, there's Twilight Rarity nine minutes later cutely knocking at my front door while her mom out front peels out to get fur ripped out at a salon. What a crazy woman.

Twilight Rarity is in love with this one Saturday morning cartoon show, so every piece of her clothing and accessories is themed after it. This little folf hybrid with the fluffiest orange fur and eyes the size of mine (I'm 6'4" and 250 pounds, a big mufucka) is wearing a bedazzled t-shirt, backpack, a floofy beaded skirt, purple shiny galoshes, and barrettes, ribbons, and hairpins with the show's branding, and it's a great show. I watch it all the time, too; I'm obsessed with it. I'd go to a convention themed after it, I'd dress as the characters or make my own! Fuckin' love Rocko's Modern Life. The reboot season is sick.

...what'd you think I was going to say? Adventure Time? Pfft no. That show's for geeks. And I'm not familiar with their internet memes because I got a limited data plan on my phone. So no offense. I'm sure it's a great show. Just I don't get it.

So here's Twilight Rarity at my door, looking all cute and drinking a juice box, and she asks me if I have the new game Star Wars Assassin's Creed: Jedi Inquisition and I'm like "No, girl, I don't even have the Playbox Seven or whichever that game comes on."

She, of course, scoffs at me royally, rolling those huge slitted green folf eyes (I love how foxes get those; it's adorable) and says in the most sarcastic tone known to furries, "It's Playstation 4 and Xbox One, Frankie. And it's got Move and Kinect control options; you can stab Boba Fett for real."

"All right, for one, my name is Francis. Fran-cis. Not Frank. Not Frankie. _Frahn-sis._And two, can you buy me one? Because I don't have the money for it."

Twilight pouts. "Then what are we going to do? There's no new Rocko's."

"They cancelled it already, I know," I admit. Killed in the age of its newfound youth. Like Futanari or whatever that space show is. "So what are we going to do?"

"I'm hungry," she complains, unfiltered. She's probably only had dry cereal this morning; Auntie's a lot better at keeping her bar stocked than her pantry. "We had Freddy Fazbear's Pizza last night but it was carry out! And it was cold when we got home. Can we go?"

"Go where?"

"Freddy's!"

Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. Wow. I remember that place when I was in diapers. And I needed them, too: those animatronics were scary as fuck, even back then. I promise that was the reason I'd shit my pants back then. That was in eighty-seven. They had to close the place down soon after; apparently the Foxy rig malfunctioned and bit some dumbass girl's forehead when she climbed up on it. A tragedy, but still. Shitty parenting.

"Freddy Fazbear's Pizza, wow..." I said as the nostalgia rushed over me. Apparently the place was closing down this year due to health and safety complaints, and no one was going to step up to fix the place. Or they were too cheap to. It was owned by some greasy immigrant, and not that I'm racist, but some people fit the bill, and I thought I'd address the elephant in the room.

Hi elephant. That guy a cheap bastard.

So I agreed. We got in my old Chevrolet Cavalier and we got on. The place was on the outskirts of town: part of a strip mall where all the other shops moved out, shortly after '87. Scooby-Do, we got a mystery here. Anyway, the parking lot was a crumble of asphalt and the grass growing between it. The paint on Freddy Fazbear's Pizza was worn out, and the neon marquee was missing a few letters. Still, there were a good number of cars out front, and so we walked into the place confident that it would be a nice, kitschy time. Play some old video games, roll some skee-balls, eat limp pizza while the herky-jerky Freddy, Chica, and Bonnie dolls play us their pre-recorded pop songs from 1990, where they changed all the lyrics to incorporate fun and pizza. Ever heard "Smells Like Teen Pizza?" Makes no goddamn sense.

Walking paw-in-paw with my cousin, I accidentally bumped into the side mirror of a Subaru parked near the entrance. It bent it back some and scratched the door paint, so it wasn't too bad, but I thought I may as well tell the owner as I popped the mirror back into place. I noticed a sticker slapped on the door panel: it was some cartoon pony with the words "Twilight is Best Pony" under it.

"Hey, this horse's got your name!" I told Twilight Rarity as I shook her paw.

"Nuuh, that's Twilight Sparkle," she objected.

"A'ight, inside. Let's get some pizza."

The place smelled like mildew and old balls, and the door guy just waved us in, mumbling the old greeting as he stared at his new iPhone. He was supposed to check for pedophiles: those old guys sneaking in with no children in tow. My cock started to itch. Not 'cuz I'm a pedophile. I have one of those sex drives that requires regular servicing--it's a high-maintenance relationship--but I knew me and Twi' were on our date for at least a couple hours, and that's if Auntie didn't stop for seven other bullshit errands. So I reached into my pocket with my free paw and tucked my cock down a trouser leg: it's a bit of a beast but it can't hold your car up while you change the tire. Not record-breaking, but bronco-busting for sure.

And I started thinking of the last bronco I'd busted, lazily letting my cousin lead me to the pizza counter as I remembered that college footballer's fat, dark ring stuck around my cock, pulsing in and out with his tail raised, him whinnying before spraying the locker room bench fucking _everywhere_with thick, sticky seed that made the room smell like warm oatmeal. I nutted in him twice--once to fill his ass up with hot wolf cum, and again when I popped my knot out and it leaked all over me, soaking my thighs in paste, prompting me to dive back in.

I don't remember his name. I called him "Seabiscuit" and now that's what he goes by. Rumor is he's a leather puppy now, which ain't my thing. Spankings are for naughty boys and girls, not filthy cumsluts. Again, I'm sure it's a great hobby. Just I don't get it.

Fuck, my cock was filling up my pantleg. I stealthily flicked my balls as Twilight dragged me in front of the counter, and I had to talk to this skinny, greasy puma with tears coming out of my eyes.

"You guys still only got pepperoni or cheese?" I asked. I felt a darkspot of pre on my jeans. A doctor could have taken my pulse by blowing me.

Shit. Even greaseball here was starting to look good, that was until he talked.

"And sausage too, or you can mix and match," he recited.

This guy was a limp noodle. I'd have been better off sneaking a fleshlight in and cranking myself in the bathroom.

No, no: do it for Twilight Rarity. You're her big bro.

That bought me some time. Actually, a lot of time: Twilight perked right up at the sausage option and I was reminded once more that kids sometimes love the simplest shit.

"Gimme double sausage; a big-ass pizza and a frosty pitcher of Pepsi!"

"Is Royal Crown okay?"

"I..." Man, my fridge at home is stocked with RC. That's because I'm poor.

"Ah! I love RC! It's the bessssst best best!" Twilight went off.

Some tight, lubed up tailhole would be the best, best, best. Get my muzzle all wet as I slobber up on some bitch fur's bootyhole. Dive in and tongue-punch their smooth ring so hard they queef. But no; do it for Twi.

I paid and Twilight ran to her seat, kicking her purple galoshes in midair as the stage lit up, and Freddy Fazbear and the rest of the crew booted up like some old IBM machine. Man, they were looking worse than before, but the kids were all screaming and clapping. "Let's Celebrate!" was scrawled across a banner in the back, and there they were--bear, bird, and bunny--all clanking about as their servo motors argued with gravity and rust, their big mouths flapping in hack synchronicity with their pre-recorded dialogue. I leaned in closer, but couldn't quite see from this distance. Under those dark circles, between their eye sockets and actual eyes, seemed to be some staining. It was a little brown, like old blood, but had clear spikes in it like mucus or something.

There's the safety violations. The gear oil goes in the gears, dumbasses. It's not Visine. The characters still had their trademark accessories from way back in the day: Freddy with his bowtie and top-hat, Bonnie with his guitar and another bowtie, and Chica with her bib on that said "Let's Eat!"

Yeah, once the food gets here. I glanced back and greaseball was dragging his feet.

"Hi boys and girls!" Freddy crackled out of his mostly-there sound system. He sounded like Yogi Bear after ten cartons of cigarettes. It made the fur on my arm ripple. "Welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza! I hope you're ready to paaaarty! Hurr-hurr-hurrrrr."

I forgot that fucking laugh. It was deep and sloppy, as if Freddy'd had a stroke--his mouth certainly moved like it--and it trailed off like there was something else. It made my cock shrivel, and I had to shift in my seat because it was now uncomfortably hanging from my sheath, not quite ready to go back in. I'd wear boxer-briefs but I am hell on the elastic. It's not a brag if I'm spending twenty dollars on underwear every month.

I started looking around the restaurant, a little sweat mounting on my forehead: it just as I expected. Freddy's was full of a bunch of well to-do families who were happily married with children, and they were so gobsmacked by Fazbear nostalgia that I'm pretty sure wifey or hubby would have their childhood ruined if I wiggled them loose with a finger.

Greaseball slapped the pitcher of RC on the picnic table and dropped a couple of plastic mugs. The cola started to foam up and I pushed it to the side, intent on watching the show.

"Oh, I loooooove pizza!" Chica shrilled. The upper registers of her high voice made the speaker crackle. Just like my car's shitty sound system. "I can't wait to have cheese, and pepperoni, _aaaaand_sausage! Leeeeeet's eat!" she giggled, which lasted for a lot longer than it should have. It ended on a few laughs that sounded strangely realistic, something that should've come from Harman Kardon, Sennheiser, or a real little girl.

Maybe it was just one of the kids in the audience. I was really starting to sweat: there was something off about this place, all starting with those dead animatronic eyes that had a little lightbulb behind each pupil, making you catch some feral beast's retinal eyeshine if they looked directly at you. And their robot endoskeletons: they showed around the joints and had their own set of teeth, visible whenever the animatronics opened their mouth a little too wide. Which was often.

Their teeth were off, too: big white squares with gaps between each. Even the bird had teeth. Two sets of them, and real birds had none. My cock pulsed again against my pants, filling out the wrinkles of my fly. I was scared and aroused, the hormones of which just sent more mental spiders skittering across my brain. I crossed my legs to hide it from my cousin, who was eating this shit up.

"Chica, is pizza all you love about Freddy Fazbear's Pizza?" Bonnie asked, his strumming arm jerking away from his guitar. His ears were jointed by robotic hinges, and moved free of his static head like protest signs in a mob. "There's so much more! There's video games, and a ball pit, and skee-ball, and music!" he said, strumming his guitar way before his jerky robot hand made it back to the pickups. It finished the programmed motion half into his next sentence. "I think you should take your mind off pizza for a minute and see all we have to offer! Let's celebrE#*@$!" he screeched.

Everyone screamed; the stage show froze in place. That shriek sounded like nails on a chalkboard, an angry cat, a terrified girl's scream. Children started crying: my own cousin was clutched to me with her big slitted eyes wide as Chica's dead lightbulb eyes. She was panting, startled. Parents were comforting their kids as a video game rattled off in the background: someone else was here ignoring the show. I stroked Twilight's headfur, calming her and myself down as the lights started to flicker, and a low, obnoxious buzzing sound filled the front of the room as the ancient light fixtures guttered out of life.

"Easy there, Twi'; these old-timers got rust in their gears and corrosion in their computer brains."

"It's the Bite of '87!" Twilight cried, her folf claws digging into my arm. That made me jump, but I clamped down on the table with my free paw to steady myself. All that was really visible up on the stage was their glowing eyes and hints of their Chiclet teeth. Suddenly Freddy's eyes and mouth lit up like a neon sign and were blinking in time with a song coming from his crummy speaker, a classical opera tune played on a music box. It was normally a majestic song but in its current state incredibly childish, which I found deeply unsettling. Everyone was feeling it, too. The parents started talking louder and louder, and some were already standing up, looking around, thinking of leaving.

Greaseball let out a sharp gasp behind us and dropped our pizza. It clattered the floor and sprayed soggy sausage balls everywhere as the puma ran down one of the halls, then another, and then the room was silent as Freddy continued playing that strange song. In the flickering darkness of the room, despite the light streaming in from the frosted glass windows past the arcade machines, it made my skin crawl. My fur was up on its ends, and Twilight was sobbing into my arm, squeezing it at the bicep as she kept moaning my name:

"Frankie, Frankie, make it stop; Frankie!"

I got up from my seat, picked her up in my arms, and ran for the door. The families and children at the other tables picked up on my cue, and also quickly made their way to the front. The video gamer, a tiger wearing a collared shirt with flames on the bottom hem and a fedora on his head, was the last to leave, peeling himself away from his arcade machine and joining the pack with a stuffed horse doll under his arm. We were all edging on a frantic mania. Panic was just a step away from these harried parents and their whimpering children.

The lights came on as we reached the front door. Freddy's music box stopped.

The puma caught up to us, pizza sauce--I think--streaked up his front. He brought up his iPhone and thumbed through a few folders and, finding the one he wanted, cleared his throat and read verbatim:

"Freddy Fazbear's Pizza would like to apologize for the occasional glitch and malfunction of its well-loved character mascots, arcade machines, and/or toilet facilities. As this glitch, incident, and/or catastrophe has inconvenienced your classic Freddy Fazbear experience, Freddy Fazbear's Pizza would love to give each and every one of you five arcade tokens, ten tickets, and a free slice of cheese pizza or twelve-ounce canned soda. We are currently closed to troubleshoot this glitch, incident, or and/or catastrophe, and so we will be reopening four hours from now and will stay open for the next four hours, up to and no later than, no exceptions made, eleven fifty-three p.m. Please return after four hours..."

Greaseball checked his phone; I checked my watch.

"starting at eight-fifteen to grab your free incentives, and please enjoy the next few hours with Freddy Fazbear and friends, courtesy of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza."

Well, we marched out to the parking lot and I had my paw in my pocket, wrapped around my rock-hard dick with Twilight in tow. Everyone was pissed, shaking themselves back to reality after Freddy had scared us all stupid. We'd eaten up almost an hour's time, between the drive and everything, so if Auntie would be really done after two hours, I'd be scot-free to find me some tailhole in good time. My cockbase hurt like it was fractured as I wrestled my pole down against my leg, its smooth, hot texture nestling in against my scratchy, furry thigh, and I figured if it was raining hard I could stealthily rub it out and the cumstain would blend right in. I cum a lot; my balls are huge. If I pull out of your tailhole when I nut, I could make a macaroni project on your asscheeks. I have to be careful my balls don't swing under me every time I sit down.

But it was a sun-shiny, Mr. Rogers-type day. Ain't no nuttin' but nothin' in no butts.

I saw that tiger as he walked past the crowd. I didn't think much of him as he passed by; he was grumbling about almost beating his high score again, this place is bullshit, so on, but then he walked to that Subaru that I'd damaged.

"Hey, man," I said, chasing after him. Twilight stayed put.

"Someone keyed my car," he growled as he fumbled for his keys. He was one of the modern nerd types, and I say one of because I've given skinny computer programmers, svelte architects, and even a muscular administrative admin this lycanthropic curse.

"Hey, that was me. I bumped into it; sorry," I said.

The tiger looked at me with that video game rage: I know it well; I play old console games on my phone. Seeing me, standing inoffensively but still built like a small fridge, he withered a bit, looked at the damage again, and scratched the back of his neck.

"Well, it's not that bad. A little paint will fix it. Thanks for telling me, I guess," he said. The tiger wasn't all that bad--this was my libido talking--he had a bit of weight on him and a little scraggle on the bottom edge of his muzzle, but his ass filled out the seat of his jeans and my cock jumped as my eyes followed the curve, almost skidding out. Guy had a booty on him.

And as he lowered his arm, I saw he was wearing a number of bracelets: some had beads and Japanese charms on them, there was one with a Christian Cross with a line through it--either he was a Bad Religion fan or an Atheist--and a rainbow silicone band.

Jackpot.

"Hey, uh, so what game were you playing in there?" I asked.

The tiger stopped as he was getting into his car. "Excuse me?"

"The arcade game."

The tiger shrugged as he pulled his seatbelt over his chubby stomach. "Lysander the Magnificent. The old top-down..."

"Top-down shooter combining historic Spartan fiction with homoerotic undertones that got it banned from mainstream arcades," I interjected. I had it on my phone. Those sixteen-bit buns used every pixel as the Spartans flew over sci-fi battlefields in leather miniskirts. My paw released my cock and it thumped soundly against the restraint of my pantleg, outlined up to the fat knot at the base of my crotch.

The tiger's eyes went wide, and his keys dropped from his paw onto the floorboards. This deal was sealed like a pair of magnetic security doors.

"What are you doing now?" I said, leaning on his open car door, standing on tip-toe to keep my fat bulge exaggerated. I could see he was trembling. I rubbed my cock against the door, unzipping my fly to let my boxers stretch through it like Mr. Creosote's swollen belly from Monty Python's Meaning of Life.

I watch the classics.

"Um, yeah," he laughed, disengaging himself. I felt myself already withering, even though my cock was straining my American stitching. "So I don't usually pick up strangers, as nice ... very nice ... as that monster is," he said, his gaze lingering, "I'm going to play some more Destiny Fortress of Ancient Leagues and then come back to beat my score in Lysander." And then he assumed this patronizingly polite face, looking right up at me. "But it's nice to see that some douchebags still play the classics."

Man, fuck this guy. Right in his fat, stripey, chunky ass. No, seriously.

I swore I'd cum my pants if I put my paw down there again.

"So I'll see you back here," I said, looking at that busted neon sign, watching the greasy teenage puma explain and re-explain Freddy's policies again and again to each and every parent couple. He was handing out vouchers for the incentives, should the guests come back to Freddy Fazbear's. Twilight was anxiously waiting in line. I said to the tiger, "and I'll beat your ass in Lysander. We could split a Mountain Dew?"

The tiger slammed his car door and started the car. I promptly zipped up with great difficulty, managing the zipper teeth so they would neither pop apart nor bite my precious wolf-flesh, then waddled back to Twilight with my paw in my pocket, feeling like I was wrestling a honey badger down there.

"Twi, I'm going to take a piss behind the dumpster," I said. She just shrugged and pulled her backpack up, cuddling a Rocko plushie she sometimes kept in it.

I ran behind that dumpster and pulled my pants to my ankles. Holy fuck, this was happening. My cock sprang from my boxers with a full nine and a half inches of throbbing wolf glory, the knot the size of two golfballs sitting side to side, and wrapped my paw around it, eyeing some weird children's graffiti on the wall as I pumped my drizzling, dripping shaft, grunting and panting with pent-up feral lust. Food grease was stinking from the dumpster. I closed my eyes, breathed through my mouth, and ignored it. My cock felt amazing in my paw, the hot smooth skin made slick by precum, running down my wrist as I jacked it, the knot full and hard, ready to lock into an anus and never come out ... my balls swung against my ass as they swayed, bumping over the stretched elastic waistband of my boxers, and the male musk was potent: pheromones were flying into my nostrils, covering up that dumpster smell, and like MegaMan's charge shot I was off with a blast, spraying so hard my slit hurt, slapping the wall with heavy ropes of wolf cum, streaking the graffiti, and drooling down the walls like wet glue.

"Oh fuck, oh ... fuck ... oh my God ... " I grunted, slowly gaining sobriety. That kid's graffiti was really strange: Bonnie was popping out of a present box, but its eyes were completely black. It made me a little sick to my stomach, even as my cum ran over it.

I had just jacked it behind the dumpster of a pizza restaurant that was going out of business for health and safety violations, and had a nasty association with a psycho who had possibly killed five children in a Freddy Fazbear suit, with the case fading into the nethers. Reported missing, never found.

I was a goddamn hobo.

I slowly stood up, shaking my cock of the last few ropes of cum, wiping the last one off with a finger and tasting it. It was pretty good. I folded my cock up against my stomach and pulled my jeans up, zipping them up carefully way above my waist, so I could trap that monster down while it deflated. My shirt was fairly loose, so I was pretty casual as I stepped out into the parking lot again, the last droplets of cum leaking onto my six-pack (damn right) as I returned to Twilight. She was frowning as she clutched her voucher.

"That place kinda sucked," she said, "I don't wanna go back. Can we pick up some McDonald's on the way home?"

I made the mistake of stooping down to look her in the eye, which made me stab myself in the sternum with my cock. I cringed, and she ignored it as some adult problem, like arthritis. Like a bad back.

"Hell yeah we'll get some McDonald's," I said, managing a smile at my cousin. She was snuggling her Rocko plushie and looked like a million bucks. I was reminded of my connection to her, as her big bro. Somehow I was able to compartmentalize this apart from my residual erection that was drawing streaks all over my chest. If anyone tried to hurt my little Twilight Rarity, I'd stuff them into a wood chipper head first.

Not feet first, though. I'm not a psycho.

But this is getting dark and we got a bootyhole expedition upon which we must endeavor, so let's cut it short and say we got some McDonald's, we went back to my place, we watched Monty Python just to see if she finally got wacked-out British humor--she kinda did--and then Auntie picked her up after Life of Brian, she giggling her butt off even though she was laughing at the wrong jokes.

"That's too many crosses" is not a joke. Maybe Golgotha had more than three. Maybe some of them felt like singing. Maybe they wanted to look on the bright side of life. Whatever.

But it was time for booty. I took a short nap and then it was eight, so I drove back down to Freddy's and the guy just let me in, same as last time, iPhone crammed so close to his face I could have hung my balls over the screen and only see him notice when the battery died. Then he'd take them in his mouth because hey, achievement unlocked, he ain't done that before; he looked _that_bored.

I brushed right past him and there were a couple soggy pizzas waiting right there, out on the tables. "Welcome back to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza!" a sign stapled on top said. I pulled a slice away and it fell limp as a piece of spaghetti. They'd made this pizza an hour ago, at least. I looked toward the animatronics; they were all in their default poses, shining under a piss-yellow light loudly buzzing. Their fur even more grody than before. Had they ever been reskinned? Ever since '87?

Almost nobody had come back. There was only this one raccoon family--disheveled dad, nervous mom, and a hyperactive pair of older daughter and younger son--that was sulking over their pizza and pop, glancing suspiciously at the frozen animatronics, and it looked like the little kittens were cramming their pizza down as fast as possible so they could get to the ball pit or maybe the show, which was still down since the incident four hours ago.

Then I heard Lysander the Magnificent playing its sixteen-bit chiptune music out the corner of my ear. I rolled up my slice of pizza and stuffed it in my maw--it was a turbo hot-pocket, were I to describe the taste--and found that pudgy tiger, he drilling away at that game with aggressive abandon. It brought me a smirk. I just hung out, letting my pants fill out with my hot-and-ready cock, until his character died time and the tiger struck the panel.

"God damn it!" he exclaimed, but just as suddenly, said, "Oh, hey..."

This guy was a real piece of work. He had a Twilight Sparkle plushie parked right next to him on the arcade machine next door, had a serious feather stuck in his fedora hat, and was reeking of aerosol cologne that I thought if he'd lit a cigarette, the whole place would go up in flames. Which, upon later recollection, may have been a mercy to us. If this place ever franchised out, or if the characters were rebooted and got a sequel, it could be the end of us all. These robots are fucked up, much moreso than I initially suspected. But that's all coming in good time. Booty comes first.

The tiger had pulled a brush through his beard and his fur in general was a lot cleaner: he'd taken this date seriously! Despite the location. I could see him trying not to look at my cock, which I let worm out and press hard against my pantleg, showing off the knot at the top and visible all the way to the tip, which was a good way down my thigh, and leaving a dark spot of precum as the slit rubbed against the fabric.

But I am a gentleman.

"Hey, so you want to play a few rounds of Lysander_?_ We can either trade off or play the co-op. I know 'official' high scores are only placed in the single-player."

The tiger was running his finger through the inside of his Japanese charm bracelet, sporting a chubby of his own I could see filling out one of the creases of his jeans. It wasn't the biggest thing, but I wasn't after that, anyway. It was really hard to visually evaluate that plump booty with him staring at my chest, licking his lips a little awkwardly, his eyes wide and hungry like I was some piece of meat.

Which, to be fair, I was doing right back at him: I was just much better at hiding it in my face. He was pretty new to this dating thing. Bless his heart.

"Um, yeah... co-op's okay. We can blow through the game a few times before we do single-player and I completely stomp you."

There's that chutzpah.

"Hi k-k-k-kids!" Freddy Fazbear stuttered, shuddering to life beyond the arcade cabinets. His eyes were flashing on and off, like the circuit kept shorting out, and then finally went out with only a tiny glow of light in each dark socket. His voice suddenly became a lot deeper, like a record played at low speed. A shiver ran through my body. The raccoon girl screamed in surprise, then started clapping her paws together.

"Yay Freddy!"

"I hope you're ready to paaaaarty! Hurr-hurr-hurr..."

I reached over and grabbed the tiger's ass. He gasped at first, but then let out a low murr as I squeezed his chubby cheek, massaging it. "That doesn't change the game," he said. "My name's Simon, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Simon."

So we played co-op for hours on a pawful of quarters. Every time we got to the end, we'd cycle right back to the beginning and do it again, each time getting faster, each time losing less and less lives. The precum went cold on my leg, the sixteen-bit leather miniskirt buttcheeks in the game no longer did it for me. I was just waiting to get Simon alone here and go down to bootytown and tongue-punch my ticket right in his tailhole. As it stood, I would sometimes reach over and slap his fat ass, then he'd tell me to get back to the game.

The animatronics were jerky as ever, and their ten-minute schlock fest came on the hour, every hour, then went away. The raccoon family stayed for an hour and a half, playing different games around us, romping in the ball pit, which I could only imagine was a sanitary nightmare, and then they left and the fun began. I looked up over the machines, to the pizza counter and around. Greaseball was moping back and forth, grabbing slices of limp pizza, eating half of them, then tossing it away. The greater was over against the wall now, tethered to it by his iPhone's charger, scrolling away as per usual.

I lifted up the back of Simon's shirt and slid my paw down his back, slipping right under the band of his underwear and his jeans, which were maybe a size too big. Perfect for easy access. The muscles in his tail reacted right away as I slid under it, and right there, as we were at the Lysander high score screen, I pushed my middle finger against his tailhole. Simon braced himself on the cabinet and pushed back. My finger slid right in, and he let out a moan as I pushed into his ring inch by inch, hooking my finger up to rub against the walls. My other paw unzipped my jeans and my cock fell right out. I'd gone commando and lay that log of meat right on the cabinet panel, putting the joystick to shame. Simon reached over and started stroking my cock as I worked his hole loose, stirring around the ring until I could easily piston it in and out.

I looked over the wall again. Greaseball and greeter didn't see us, or didn't give a fuck. The Fazbear animatronics booted up again so I knew I had to move. I wasn't about to let some janky robots douse my flame. I knelt down behind Simon and put my face right up in his fat, jean-covered ass. It was big, and as I pushed my muzzle up between them my eyes were covered by the cheeks. I had to pull my own pants to my knees; I had to be free down there! And so did that big, fat booty.

I undid Simon's button and fly, then pulled the whole ordeal over his modest cock and down to his ankles. He said some words of protest but I couldn't hear him over that ass, which now exposed, I shoved my cold nose right into and pushed my tongue right up against his tenderized hole. It tasted like bodywash; bless his heart, he wanted to make sure he was nice and clean for me.

So I swallowed the bit of lather I scraped off his cheeks, then jabbed my generous wolf tongue right against his tailhole, my paws clasping the mass of butt around me and massaging, kneading, anchoring me there as I ravenously licked at his slit, pushing my tongue in at times and hearing these low growls or guttural moans coming from him. I was in heaven and it sounded like he was, too.

It was time for phase three. My muzzle wet with my own saliva, and his ring properly loosened for a gentleman's agreement, I stood up and settled my paws gently on his hips, looking around his shoulder as he looked back at me. My cock drew up between his big, striped cheeks, and I could feel the warmth and the wetness radiating near it.

"You ready for this?" I asked.

"You're so good," he grunted, and I patted him on his bare hip. He was grasping the arcade cabinet with both hands, and Lysander had returned to the teaser screens. "Insert coin" it blinked.

I pushed my cock into his ass, and from the first few inches on we were seeing stars. Our pants were around our ankles and our shirts we rolled up our stomachs to keep them out of the way, and there we were, fucking in public, me feeding his hungry butt with inch after inch of my lupine shaft. Even with my handiwork, he was tight, so I had to go slow, but soon enough my hips were flush with his plump rump, and I hissed hot breath into his ear as his walls wrapped around me, groping me. My heavy balls swung forward and tapped his own.

"Fuck, Simon, this is hot..." I grunted. The arcade machines played their chiptunes. The greeter walked past us and jumped a little bit, almost showing emotion. He shrugged and walked on, lost in his phone.

"That was close..." the tiger grunted, reaching back to grope my hip, panting as he struggled with the nine inches I'd given him. He was trembling in the legs. I was greasing him with pre, and every time he moved and my balls rubbed against his fur, I shivered.

With the wolf's full hunger, I grasped him by his stripy hips and started pounding him, drawing myself out in massive strokes and bringing it back home, in and out, groaning, grunting, and growling as I rutted that tiger's fat ass, sparklers and fireworks going off in my eyes as pre ran out of his hole, down my balls and thighs, and he just took it over and over. We were making that arcade cabinet rock forward and backward, and neither of us were working on his cock; we were focused on all the action back here. His fedora flew off as we fucked, and soon enough I was close.

Very close.

"Fuck, dude, gimme that," I murred, reaching around him as a common courtesy, grabbing up his hand-sized member as I pushed my own deep inside him, rubbing up and down his walls until he jolted, he roared, and sprayed down Lysander's coin return with kitty cum. Those tight tiger walls at the center of that grand booty clamped down on me, and so I bit down on his shoulder--gently...ish--as my balls churned, rumbled, and fired up into him, filling him quickly and then spraying right back onto me, the backlash splattering his buttcheeks and my groin as I filled his bowels with a shampoo bottle's worth of semen.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck!" I groaned, returning to sobriety once more, the feeling of cum running down my legs more acute, feeling my cock slowly deflate in his sticky, warm bowels, feeling that big old butt pressed against my hips, loving the warmth. I leaned in and turned Simon's head toward mine. I kissed that tiger right on the lips while I was deep inside him, instinctually grinding my hips again as our tongues touched.

"Yeah, get it!" the puma quietly snarled.

Greaseball and greeter were both watching. Greeter had taken a video with his phone, and greaseball, with his pizza grease hand, was jacking it right there in the restaurant. It took him a full thirty seconds after we'd broke our kiss and just watched him, dumbfounded, before he put his other pizza grease paw on his co-worker's shoulder and came right there on the carpet in Freddy Fazbear's.

"Dude, what the hell?" the greeter balked.

The puma just stood there, slumped over, shaking his cock out. I heard the front door open and close again and then the rattle of chains, and initially I thought to pull out and try to get my pants up, but it was no use. We were caught--all of us--with whoever this new guy was.

"Mike, hi..." greaseball said, cock still in hand. iPhone guy was still ridiculously tented.

This Mike was an older fox, maybe Auntie's age, and had on a polo shirt and ball cap that both said "Security" on them, though he didn't have anything on his belt: no flashlight, no walkie-talkie, no pepper spray. I expected this much from Freddy's. Mike had this dead look in his slitted vulpine eyes that didn't change as he looked at the three indecently exposed furs around him: one of which was balls-deep in the other, and both of whom were bent over one of the restaurant's arcade machines.

"It's eleven fifty-four," Mike said with a long sigh, blinking as he pulled his hat off and ran his paw through his headfur. He looked first at his coworkers, who were wrestling their cocks into the waistbands of their stained, worn-out khakis. "So you two need to leave right now so I can chain up the door again, and you two... gentlemen..." he said, dragging out the last word as he beheld us in flagrante delicto, "You'll need to stay with me in the security office tonight. I'm calling the cops in the morning; this is a kid's establishment. How dare you."

Well, that was a buzz kill. I pulled out of Simon and my sticky cock slapped against my thigh. Mike scowled at me, his slitted eyes becoming daggers.

"Time's of the essence," he said as the two dayworkers hurried out, slamming the door behind them and locking it. Mike went over and immediately threw chains around the handles, padlocking them tight. "These robots are malfunctioning monstrosities and only get worse after midnight. If you value your lives, you need to come with me."

"Why not just let us out?" Simon asked, pulling his pants up and trying to wipe his ass clean.

"Not a choice. I'm not sacrificing my job for a couple hoodlums, and this is the last place that'll take me. I've had a bad past," he said with a twitch, scratching behind his neck. "So it's a six-hour shift. You can either stay with me, or take your chances out in the restaurant. But those things..." he said, pointing at the stage as the animatronics rattled and stood up straight. "Will kill you if they find you."

Funny thing is, I believed him. So I grabbed Simon's paw, and he scooped up his plushy and fedora--trilby, as I'd later find out--and we scooted off with Mike to the security office.

So we'd be sandwiched between psycho robots and a tweaking security guard.

The things I do for the booty.