FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The rest stop just off the interstate glows in the dead of night, surrounded by a thicket of trees long since rendered leafless by the wicked autumn wind. I stare at it from between a van trailer and a tanker truck, both idling, their drivers snoozing the night away. My little Mazda, dwarfed by these behemoths, is bathed in their shadow, hopefully dark enough so that he won't see it if he looks. At a quarter to three in the morning no one stops at these things, preferring someplace more populated.

I should know. I know this squat concrete building well. I know this time of night just as well.

Checking my watch, I realize I've started shivering since I turned the car off. 2:49. I told him to pull up at three o'clock exactly, and not to be a minute early. Knowing him, he'll sit down at the next exit and pull out with two minutes to go. That is, if he doesn't chicken out. I hope he doesn't chicken out. I'll spend the rest of my life wondering "What If," and I really don't feel like it.

Is that my heart beating so hard? I can hear it in my ears, a waterfall of blood so loud it almost drowns out the drone of diesel motors. Some small thing, probably a Prius, whines along the highway, followed by a big rig thundering its way east. None of these people have any idea what goes on behind those cinderblock walls, except for the few who're in the know and take advantage.

There are similar places where I live now, a few states over, but this place is special. This place ushered me into my sexuality. It woke me up, broke me in.

And now, I hope, I can just check this one box, press my luck without breaking it.

2:53. I crawl out, stand up, shove my paws in my pockets and pad toward the door.

*

I knew I had to do it. I knew, as soon as I saw that description in the ad, and knew it was him...I had to make it happen.

Sitting, propped up on the same mattress that I grew up on (had those nightmares, played long after lights out, humped myself into pillows, stained with my first load), I was surfing Craigslist for some action in my nondescript Midwestern hometown on my parents' wifi. The wifi they had asked me to set up last time I was here.

It felt weird, looking up at mauve walls that used to be sky blue, with a Thomas Kinkade where my Blink-182 poster used to be and a Norman Rockwell where my gigantic GTA: San Andreas fold-out poster used to stretch from floor to ceiling. I'd taken the things I'd wanted when I'd moved out, and just a scant year later I'd come back to find my childhood paved over by a beige steamroller.

But the mattress, at least, felt the same, despite being clad in some high-thread-count silver sheets and a paisley duvet. For once I wasn't the gayest thing in the room.

About five minutes after Mom offered me a slice of marionberry pie and I politely declined, I locked the door and commenced surfing. Whether or not I would take advantage depended on if anything tasty showed up on the screen.

Oh, and it did. Nothing dated that night, though. Or even the day before. I clicked through six pages of duds with sexy taglines until I found it.

"m4m Married Daddy Looking for a Warm Place to Put It," the ad said. I laughed, clicked, and quickly quieted down as I read about his great-marriage-with-a-lackluster-sex-life, how his kid was just about done with graduate school, and he hadn't bred anything but his own paw in weeks. To anyone else it would've sounded just plain sad, but when I went from age to species and back again--several times--I stared at the wall opposite the bed, shaking my head. And squeezing my sheath.

So I responded, asking for a dick pic. He just wanted a hole, after all. And he replied within five minutes. The TV downstairs was on, and I didn't hear if he got up to move somewhere private. I opened it.

"You're the first person even remotely interested. This is the best I can do at the moment; watching a movie with the wife," he had written.

I knew that dick. I knew that dark-auburn paw with its simple gold wedding band. And, I'd seen that pair of blue briefs with white seams in the laundry basket dozens, if not hundreds, of times.

A minute later I was wiping spooge off the back of my laptop with a discarded sock, the edge chiseled but nowhere near taken off. "Jesus Christ," I said, out of breath. "Holy fucking shit, my dad's looking for tail on the down-low." Sounded just as silly coming out of my muzzle as it did in my head. But there it was.

A lot happened in the next ten minutes. After getting over the shock, and my climax, I felt kind of sad. Nobody should have a sexless marriage, especially when he and Mom seemed so happy together. But the reason for it was none of my business. And then I started thinking: I could make this happen. I wouldn't allow myself to touch the places my mind would go, not yet, but I had the resources to give him what he wanted.

"It's a lot better than some random guy who might not be clean," I told myself. But I was just bullshitting some moral excuse over a nice raw truth.

So I replied, wanting to know if he was for real and not just getting off on the excitement. I complimented his dick, said I couldn't wait to have that down my throat and up my ass.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate this," he said back. "I'm a man of my word, and I don't flake on obligations. Can't wait to, uh, feed you my daddy cock." His attempt at pornographic enticement was amusing at most, but he was right about one thing: I couldn't wait to be fed his daddy cock. My daddy's cock.

I pawed off again. This time it took just over a minute.

*

Peering around the rear of the tanker, I scan the parking lot, which is empty, and the ramp beyond, which is also empty. I don't see his Volvo convertible or Mom's Subaru, so I'm hoping the coast is clear. After a few faltering steps, I trot the rest of the way to the curb, watching for approaching headlights.

A map of the state hangs on the wall next to the men's-room door with a faded star that used to be red pinpointing this location. I pull open the door and peer in. As empty as the parking lot; this stop is too far from the city for the homeless, and hitchhikers know not to loiter for too long. Like I said, I know this place.

Oh, the smell. The memories. Beyond individual scents a restroom always has that combined odor of the thousands of people who come in and go out, year after year. The same way every Dumpster smells the same, every highway rest area has that combination of piss, urinal cake and disinfectant that makes you think they all get their supplies from the same company. Maybe they do.

Even with the fluorescents in here, the parking lot is lit so brightly that it casts its own shadows through the high windows placed more for ventilation than anything else. Beyond the sink is the long trough urinal and behind it, three stalls plus the deluxe handicap stall against the far wall. The middle door is the one I want.

Bending over, I check for shoes or paws or talons to make sure we're not disturbed: no one in here. As I pass the mirror I give myself a little grooming in the cheek area even though he's never going to see me. Maybe I'm a little vain. My ruffs smoothed, I head to the stall and palm the door open, closing it after squeezing myself through. They should really make these doors so they open outward.

And then I sit, and wait. And now my heart starts to thump as I realize what I'm doing here, what this means. I start to feel guilty, not because it's "wrong," but because I'm contributing to the delinquency of my parents' marriage. But then I remember Dad was the one who put out the ad in the first place, and it occurs to me once more that I might actually be doing him a favor. If not me, it could be some trucker out here, somebody with fleas or even worse. So, it's in his best interest. I am the best possible option, the safest and most healthy.

Also, it's mega fucking hot, but that's beside the point. No, not really, it is the point, it's the whole FUCKING point, and I'm fooling myself if I think any other way.

I'm so hard already, and as I go to grope myself I realize I'm wearing the same jeans as when I lied to him and Mom about going out to the bar with some buds from high school and might not make it back because I'm responsible and don't drive drunk. I should've worn shorts underneath. Hell, I should've worn underwear, but I guess I wasn't thinking straight when I headed out.

"Text us if you're going to stay the night," Dad said, to my face, and for the life of me I almost thought I'd gotten the wrong guy. But no, he was wearing the same khakis and white shirt and his favorite purple fucking tie in his dick pic. He was cool as a cucumber. I left the house with a tenter.

I nearly jump out of my skin when the door opens, the sound loud-bounced around the tiles on one wall. I glance over to the glory hole, realize he'll be able see right in if he bends a little, and stand stock still in the middle of the stall.

I didn't think this through very well at all.

"Hello?" Oh Jesus Christ holy fucking shit it's his voice. It's my dad's fucking voice. Clutching my chest I try to slow down my panicked breathing so he won't get suspicious, but I take too long. "Hello?" he asks again, weaker this time.

Without giving myself away, I clear my throat loudly in a tone I hope sounds nothing like me. Hearing the lock click on the door sends my heart into my throat. We're doing this thing.

His toeclaws click dully, closer and closer, and I pray he can't recognize my feet under the divider. Dark auburn could be several things, but not enough. I hear him give a great heaving sigh, then the divider shakes as he works his way into the stall next to mine. So far he's done exactly as I lined out in my last message to him. I half-expected him to message me on the way, canceling or apologizing for being late because he had trouble sneaking out.

I wonder how he managed to do it without waking Mom.

Under the divider I see him sway from foot to foot, more nervous than I've ever seen him, more nervous than the time he got a speeding ticket when I was nine and he swore me to secrecy with Baskin-Robbins and tickets to Cats Don't Dance. He clears his throat, softly, and says, "So, how do we do this?" in a reticent whisper. He's so preciously nervous; I almost feel sorry for him.

"Shh." And, taking in a deep breath of my own--which I keep to myself--I lean across my stall and put two fingers through the three-inch hole. Crook them twice. He's panting as if he's flushed and needs to let off the steam. He rustles around, and I can almost picture his fingers working each button on his shirt, then the big one on his pants, two clasps, the zipper, and the clink of his belt buckle on the floor. Beyond my fingers I see one bare knee and the top of those briefs.

And then my fingers are full of hot, hard sheath.

I still can't believe it. I can't make the leap between the fuzz-covered shaft on my pads and the junk I've seen--soft--at home, rarely, and changing at the swimming pool way back when. I know it's the same, but I just can't grasp it. Yet I'm grasping it, now, rubbing each side with a finger, working his musk onto my pads, coaxing him to the hole.

"Phhhww," he sighs as his paws grab the top of the divider just above my head, and he presses his sheath through while I pull my fingers away. He's not even out, just about as full as he can be without crowning. The tip of it, the black flesh under a grey treasure trail I don't remember, glistens with sweat, pre, or both. The top of his scrotum sits up against the bottom curve of the hole, and for a moment I just watch the whole package wiggle a bit. Seeing the tip open just enough to reveal some pink, I circle with my thumb and forefinger and pull, my paw trembling.

Dad moans like a man who truly hasn't had sexual contact in while. His thick head pops out, spreading the skin as it goes, all pink and angry and hard. It makes my muzzle water watching my paw slowly move halfway down, then up again, using the sheath to jerk him. Trembling at the hips, he presses in so his crotch fur bunches up at the edges of the hole. Once about half the shaft is out, it angles down until it's just north of perpendicular to his body.

"Just like that, oh God..." As his sheath retracts fully I run my fingers up a respectable seven inches from base to leaking tip, my grip light, much gentler than with other men I've serviced in this same stall. From the tone of his ad I suspected he hadn't strayed like this before, and I still have that same suspicion. I don't know what his sexuality actually is, whether he's bi or just one more desperate straight man in the world. What I do know is he needs this, and so do I.

My pads are slick with his moisture, from the shaft as well as his piss-hole, not slick enough to be worth much but enough that it eases my travel. The skin bunches in each direction I stroke before sliding taut, and once again I can't possibly comprehend that this cock belongs to my father. But I keep the auburn sheath in my sight as a reminder. Eventually it'll sink in.

I can't get over the scent: there's nothing unfamiliar about it. The same cologne he's always worn, Davidoff Cool Water, that he gets from the local flea market at wholesale. That, and his own musk, much stronger now that I've got him out in the open. It takes on a whole new level of flavor, as if someone had worked him out real well and wrung his towel over a bucket. My own cock strains behind my jeans, but I don't dare uncover just yet. I have to kneel.

The denim pads my knees just enough to make it tolerable for the present. As my eyes come level with his erection I notice a lack of graffiti on the stall wall. They've always kept this place pretty clean. But why don't they ever cover up the glory hole? Perhaps the janitor's in on it. Wouldn't surprise me.

He sighs when he feels my breath on his cockhead, and he tenses, pushing out another clear drop, which I swipe onto a finger pad and press to my lips. Heavenly, Eau de Red Panda, Essence of Male. If he looks down he'll see jeans-clad knees and nothing more; the hole's not quite big enough to stick my muzzle through. Good. Gripping it with my left paw, squeezing, stroking, I prepare to change my life--both our lives--forever, whether or not he ever finds out.

I try to just lick it, but instead I end up sliding down my father's dick until my snout's buried deep in grey pubic fur.

He makes this sound, this halting open-mouthed gasp that hitches when he bottoms out at the back of my throat as if he belonged there. There I stay for a protracted moment, breathing him in through my nose, letting it get me high like a hit of amyl would. I smell much the same thing every time I hug him, except this time his dick's pressing my tongue against my teeth and I almost can't breathe. I've taken bigger, but nothing compares to this.

His claws click on the tile, trying to curl. I come up for air, leaving a thick slime of mucus behind for me to jerk him a little, up against the rim, just so. But I can't wait, so I curl my tongue over and around to clean him off before going back down, this time nursing just the first half. Would he let me, if he knew it was me? Probably not. Not yet, at least. I haven't come out to them or anything yet, so maybe one shock at a time.

Starting a rhythm of down-up-down-up, I press my paws to the divider and crane my neck for the motion. Slick skin slides across my lip-covered teeth and past my uvula, my gag reflex long since tamed. Sometimes I twist my head for a different feeling, sometimes I slide all the way down and swallow a few times, milking the bundle of nerves under his head, making it swell and jump. Other times I plant a flurry of licks all over, making him utter sounds I've never heard him make in my life.

I edge him like this for a good five minutes, an eternity at a glory hole, and after the third time he almost comes I pull off nice and slow and stand up, my paw never leaving his shaft. It's slick but not slick enough for what comes next. A reach into my rear pocket produces my travel-sized bottle of silicone lube and the one condom I brought, hoping not to have to use it anyway. Sticking the bottle in my teeth I undo the tail flap of my jeans and nudge down until they just fall off my slender frame. No way to hide that sound.

For some reason it feels like I don't have much time. True, someone could stop by and find the door locked, knock and scare the shit out of both of us, but that's the chance you take. The cleaning service wouldn't dare come out at night, and those truckers will probably sleep through. I unscrew the cap and flick it onto my pooled pants, turning around to spit on Dad's cock to keep it slick. Turning the bottle upside-down in one paw is a clumsy affair but I get a dollop on and stick the bottle back in my mouth while I rub generously under my tail, sliding in a few times, panting, my head swimming.

I have some left, enough to lube Dad up to make it comfortable. He lets out a low moan when he feels the new slippery stuff, withdrawing a little but pressing in again all the same. I can hear him uttering "Ohgodohgodohgod" repeatedly under his breath and I know what he's going through. I usually do the same thing while being pounded silly by a big-knotted top. The image of Dad taking it up the ass crosses my mind and my paw goes to my own dick, still slick enough to coat it with its own layer of lube.

Holding him with my right paw and pulling my cheeks apart with my left, I take a big breath and dismiss the enormity of what I'm about to do because if I think about it I might chicken out. No one else in this stall would chicken out. Besides, Dad needs this. I hope.

Squatting slightly, I guide him up to my hole and press back. He withdraws so quickly I fall against the divider, my paw empty. He pants as if I've burned him or something.

"I dunno," he says breathily, and I back off, putting my fingers back through the hole to crook them. He slides hotly back into my grip and I stroke him a few more times before lining up. He actually spreads my hole a little before backing away again, struggling with himself. "This was a bad idea," he whispers, but I hear him anyway because of the hard surfaces.

How I wish I could tell him to let go and just fuck me, take out his frustration on my ass, shove that thing home, breed me. I can practically see his face, contorting in conflict, and just a couple words might convince him but I can't talk and I have nothing to write with or on. So I do the only thing I can do: tuck my tail in one armpit, spread wide with both paws, and press myself flush with the glory hole. And wink, at even intervals, so he can see it if he wants to.

His whine confirms it. A licking of lips. Dry pads on lubed flesh. Two steps forward and the divider vibrates as he uses it to steady himself. A point of heat prods at my hole for a moment before insistent pressure spreads me open and slides inexorably toward my prostate. It's all I can do not to groan at the immensity of this moment, my one regret being the inability to truly share this experience. I reach out to the other end of the stall to push back and hold there, and if the damn wall weren't in the way our balls would be touching. How I would love to feel them slapping against mine, to reach back and pull him deeper into me.

He begins. Slowly withdrawing at first, almost all the way, a deep guttural growl coming from someplace in his throat, a growl I would love to feel with his teeth clenched around the nape of my neck. Then he's back in again, with a bit more confidence this time, a surer motion now that he's gotten used to the feeling of a tailhole around his cock instead of a vagina. I wonder if this is his first time, if he ever fooled around during puberty or got drunk at a frat party or something like that. Maybe I'll get to ask him one day, but for now I'll imagine I'm the first and get off to it.

Suddenly he turns rough, bottoming out and immediately pulling back, several times in rapid succession, sometimes hitching in the middle as if he can't keep his hips steady. It takes me by surprise, but I'm used to rough treatment and it actually feels pretty fucking good. He's worth sticking it out for. I'm not holding my breath anymore, panting loudly, tongue out, hoping he can't recognize it as me. I don't think he's ever heard me getting fucked before, so it's a safe bet.

Oh man, my dad's gonna unload in me. Holy shit, do you realize this, my brain says. Yes, I do realize this, and I open my eyes to stare unfocused at the stall wall, both paws again spreading my tailhole as wide as they can, the divider protesting against its bolts and screws. He's a man possessed. Either that, or I've edged him near to insanity.

I lift my right leg to the toilet seat for even more access.

"Rrrrrfff! Awwwwwwwwwsorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" This he rasps through clenched teeth before just hammering the shit out of me, and I'm no longer just helping him out. I'm a receptacle for his need and his seed, a means to his end of satisfying whatever itch Mom can't scratch. Maybe it's just sex, maybe it really is a craving for some strange tail, some anonymous (or not) male to breed and get on with his life as a middle manager for the Department of Water.

Whatever it is, it comes to a shuddering crescendo, one more "I'm sorry" melting into an airy rattle while he holds so still that I can feel the heat spread within me as he twitches a good nine times, all while I say to myself That's it, Dad, let it all out, take it out on me, that's what I'm here for, that's why I replied. Heat flushes my cheeks, my ears, and in the midst of this delirium I grasp my cock only to find it wilting, and a splatter of cum on the opposite stall wall.

Damn, Dad.

He pulls out after a couple minutes, which is all too soon, leaving me with a river of seed dripping down my balls and onto my jeans. My ass feels like he's the only married father who doesn't paw off every day. It's the best kind of sting.

"Shit, no towel," I hear him mutter. "She's gonna kill me." It's so him. I pull a wad of toilet paper off the roll and swipe myself, throwing it into the bowl without flushing; the sound will deafen us both. I hear him do the same, ostensibly to his deflating dick, and find myself hoping I was clean enough. He doesn't mention it, so good. Keeping out of his potential view, I pull my jeans back on and lean against the divider while he gets himself together. Buttons, zipper, rustling, and a final silky swipe as he tightens his tie. That's Dad, all formalities.

A pregnant silence ensues, during which the feeling of vulnerability presses in on me from all sides. All he'd have to do would be to peek through the gap in the door. I can't move.

He clears his throat. "Uh..." Don't make it any harder than it has to be. "Uh, thanks. For responding, and, um, for this. Maybe another time." A slight uptick at the very end makes it unsure rather than solicitous.

"Mmm-hmm," I hum as low as I can muster since my speaking voice is kind of a high tenor.

"See you around."

"Mhm." And he lets himself out of the stall. There's one horrible moment when I think he's going to look through the gap, but he doesn't, and I listen to his clawclicks on the tile, the creak of the big metal door, and then silence when it closes. I can't believe what just happened.

I try to steady myself but end up sitting, clothed, on the commode, staring at the floor, trying to absorb the past ten minutes. And I can't, not quite. Maybe it'll hit me as I'm driving home, maybe once I've tucked myself into my cubhood bed. I feel a twinge and clench to keep Dad's load in, at least until I get back to the house. Already I seem kind of empty.

Taking dick is like getting a tattoo: you're always craving the next one.

After a good five minutes, I text him. "Had a couple, but they wore off and I'm heading back to crash." I watch the little icon go from Sent to Delivered to Read.

"Okay," he replies. Then, realizing his mistake, follows up with, "Got caught up in a documentary. It's over, won't wait up. Night." I leave it at that; he knows I can make my way home just fine.

Another five minutes later I emerge into the cold early morning and immediately start to shiver again. By the time I settle into my car the only warm part of me is where Dad had been, holding me from the inside, making me warm, making me his.

Not until I'm pulling into their driveway do I think What about the next time? I haven't thought about that. If I were Dad I wouldn't want it to end. Shit.

I hadn't thought about that at all.

10/22-10/26/14