FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I sit on the edge of my bed with my head in my paws and listen to the furor of my pulse inside my heaving chest. Between my fingers I see slices of boring beige carpet, given a bluish tint by my paused video game. The reality of what I'm about to do just hit me full-force, and now all I want to do is throw up the cheese dogs he grilled for dinner. But I can't bring myself to do it. He put in far too much work for me to waste them.

Above my beating heart I try to listen for sounds across the hall, my ears canted to the left. Another pang hits me square in the stomach and I moan low in my throat. I hate this feeling. I wish it would end. But there's only one way to get it over with, and that's to get it over with.

I have a bag packed, just in case. I still don't know if it's worth it. But I don't have a choice anymore. If I don't at least try I'll explode. For weeks I've been planning this, ever since Mom announced she was taking my recalcitrant little sister to spend Easter with my ailing aunt in Florida. With four different schedules overlapping all the time it's been nearly impossible to figure something out. The time is now, and I've never been more scared in my life.

My fingers wipe away tears when I take them from my face, my black pads shiny with the wetness. Holding the mattress I rock slightly, looking down the horizon of my dark brown belly down to my sheath and its protruding, red, angry inch. Just the thought has me worked up, and it's a wonder he can't smell me through two doors and across a hall. He's a drug dog, after all, the only fox who passed the exam and the only cross fox on the force. If precum were heroin I'd be doomed.

Before I drip on Mom's clean carpet, I grab the closest pair of dirty briefs and swipe them over my snout, mixing my snot with its crust of dried cum. The cum I'd shot last night dreaming about him, or at least a facsimile of him. Some big hulking male with his markings but no face, slamming my head against the wall with the force of his knot, over and over again, until I woke up in the middle of shooting. It's a weird feeling, going off like that without rubbing it out, but easy to ride while it lasts. Longer, too.

If something bad happens I'm still going to think about him.

I should probably have myself looked at, but I don't care. They can't make me go, they can only kick me out. And I'm prepared for that.

Why he would want anything to do with me, I don't know. He's the cop with the body, the cross fox who can outrun most anybody. Even cheetahs, as long as it's not in a straight line. I'm closing in on three hundred pounds with a pack of Oreos next to my controller on the bed. I bought them this afternoon and they're already half-gone. I'll probably polish them off by the end of the night. Maybe the rest of the kielbasa in the fridge too.

I hug my belly and rock, letting the tears come but I won't let him hear me. And I need to get myself together before I do what I'm going to do.

Why couldn't I just be good at track or football instead of chemistry and video games?

I keep my head in my paws until I hear the pipes groan behind my walls. When you grow up in a house, especially one this old, there's no hiding where you are. The first step pops, every time. The sixth creaks a little and upswings as you leave it, like an unanswered question. And the fourteenth step is the landing; you can barely hear it and I'm probably the only one who notices. Because I listen for him.

The clock is ticking if I want to catch him before he turns in. He has a routine...and I just hope he doesn't decide to stray from it tonight, of all nights.

Once my eyes and my nose quit drooling I wipe up the mess with the same pair of underwear and push off from the bed, swaying a bit before waddling into the en suite bathroom Dad built from scratch. I grab my trusty inhaler and squeeze off a dose, holding it in as long as I can before my lungs scream for oxygen.

After splashing my face and toweling off, I have enough of a grip on myself that I won't cry at the drop of a hat anymore. I don't have time to cry anymore. If I'm going to show him how much of a man I am, I don't need to be crying.

I grab my supersized bathrobe, the soft white one I got for my birthday a few years ago when I outgrew my last one. It's easier than trying to wrap a towel around my waist, and no one can accuse me of indecent exposure. It was Mom's idea.

In the bathroom mirror I straighten my fur so only my bloodshot eyes give anything away, and a couple drops of Visine fix that right up. I fight back a crazy-sounding chuckle: me, trying to primp my fat face as if I were preparing for a date. The college sophomore who's never been on a date, unless you count that time my homeroom teacher asked me, jokingly, to the Spinster Dance out of sheer pity. I didn't accept. Do you know how mortifying that would have been?

Not much more mortifying than the rest of my life, but still.

One more look in the mirror (it's about as good as it's going to get) and I shrug with this sad, pitiful look on my face. No one ever gets to see this face. They would ask questions if they did. And Dad doesn't even pay attention, so I could stick my tongue out at him and he wouldn't even notice.

I almost wish he would get mad, just so I don't have to stick around forever not knowing "what if."

Six little squeaks tell me he's moved from the bathroom to the bed, or at least as far as the TV. I don't make a sound crossing to my door, sidestepping all the noisy spots because I know better and he can hear a pin drop two counties over if he tries. The hall is dark and quiet without the girls interrupting every five minutes.

Oh, my god. He could beat me up and no one would know. Fuck it all. Well, he's not a violent man, so I have to have faith in something.

Leaving my door open, I tiptoe three feet over and four feet down and crouch at his door. My tail arches up over my back, bringing part of the robe with it, opening my hole to the cool air. I always feel vulnerable in this position, vulnerable and wonderfully sexy. If only he could see, he just might...no, no hoping. No hoping for anything yet.

By squeezing the side of my head against the carpet I can just barely see under the door. If he decides to step out for a snack or something I won't have an excuse, but I know him and I know his routine. Once he's brushed his teeth he's done for the day, except for the odd glass of bedtime water. Two minutes without seeing feet and I'm relatively sure he's turned in for the night. Another minute later and the overhead light dims to a dull glow.

For the next five minutes I crouch on my knees counting heartbeats, knowing full well I can just go back to my room and paw off and cry myself to sleep with no one the wiser. But I can't. I just can't. So I stumble to a standing position, take a deep breath and knock on the door.

A pause and a shuffle of bedclothes. A couple of clicks. He's on his laptop.

"Yeah?" It's now or never.

"Can I come in?" I sound a lot more confident than I am.

"Sure."

Deep breath. Long, deep breaths.

I don't bother to close the door behind me since we're the only ones here. His bed is directly across from the door so he's the first thing I see, laid out under the sheet with the comforter up to his waist and some fantasy novel on top of his lap. He always says he gets enough legal drama on the job. He's got that neutral cop-look on his face, the look he gives nearly everyone he pulls over, betraying nothing. His trusty laptop sits off to the side, glowing.

Only now does it occur to me that I have absolutely no reason for coming into his room like this. A cold shiver runs down my spine into my tail.

"What can I do for you, son?" I fight to keep the shiver invisible. Just barging in like this is abnormal for me, and I'm not surprised to see his hackles just a little raised. Mine feel like they're standing straight up. Even so, I force my heavy feet across the room to the side of his bed, trying to hide my roving eyes.

I wonder how many people check him out every day. He wears his head fur in the short no-nonsense style cops wear these days to keep suspects from grabbing and pulling, but keeps his muzzle scruffy. Still fresh from the shower, he radiates soap and humidity my way, the same soap he's used since before I was born, the scent a comfortable memory. What the sheet doesn't cover is perfect, as far as I'm concerned. It's the kind of body you see in pornos, the kind of muscles and musclegut you only read about in stories. After graduating from the academy, he slipped and put on thirty pounds or so, and when a long foot pursuit winded him so much he lost the suspect he swore never to let it happen again. Between the police gym, his sport club membership and the weights in our basement, he's pretty much perfect. Some people think the belly keeps him from the top tier of fitness, but he can outsprint just about anybody on his shift.

Like I said, the kind you read about in stories. He's one foot-long cock away from checking all the boxes.

"Oh, nothing," I lie. "Just...wondering if you had any plans for the weekend, is all." Glancing at his computer screen, I see a desktop full of folders. One thing we have in common is our affinity for messes. Mom keeps the rest of the house spic-and-span, but the computers she can't keep clean. That's one area they agree to leave alone. He was working on an email when I knocked, or at least it looks like he was. There are multiple tabs open, so who knows.

"Hmph," he grunts, crossing his arms over impeccable pecs. "Why the interest, Kurt? You can't possibly be asking me to actually do something. Unless you want to kill some hookers and steal some cars." Even though GTA_isn't my style--I'm more of a _Final Fantasy guy--I appreciate him trying. I'm surprised he knows about the game at all.

I sidle up just a little closer so I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. And I do, but I won't. My ears pick up the whirr of the laptop's cooling fan, and in the same instant my nose catches a whiff of musk. My sheath swells. His hot computer is blowing Eau de Dadballs right at me. "No reason, just wanted to know." The ensuing pause nearly drives me crazy. I can't tell if the robe is hiding anything because my belly pushes it out too far. "Whatcha doing?"

He gives me a dubious look for a few seconds but ends up buying it. His posture relaxes some but not completely. "Well...Captain Farrier wanted a supplemental report to this possession case I pulled over the other day. This Beauceron made a right turn against the light at Mercer and Fairfield, and when I approached him I could smell benzos all over him." He taps a claw against that nose he's so proud of. "Well, when I ask him to get out of the car he looks at me like I just shot his mother or something..."

There's more to the story, but I'm more concerned about the other tabs on his browser. The mail client is obvious, same with his department's homepage, and even Amazon doesn't raise any red flags. But the fourth tab...the one that starts "HOT BUSTY ERMINE FU..." pretty much tells a different story. He might have been getting ready to jerk it when I interrupted. He might've been in the middle, too. If he'd finished the whole room would've smelled like cum. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead, in my armpits and under my moobs.

Cool air hits my slender cockhead as my sheath gives way to its growing length. Oh, shit, it's happening.

Panic seizes me and I freeze. Suddenly I want to get out of there, just bolt and make some excuse...no, not even bother, just run and close the door and go back to the safety of my room and wish it never happened and hope he shrugs it off instead of coming across the hall to interrogate me. For a cop he's pretty paws-off with me since I don't get in trouble and mostly keep to myself, but after this there's no telling what he'll do.

But I stay. I stay even as I feel my sheath skin tighten deliciously as it rolls down my shaft like I imagine a pair of lips would if I could ever get a date. The hours I've spent with my fingers delicately toying with myself, imagining the light touch of my pads as a lover (anyone, really, but especially him) gliding down to my knot, caressing with their tongue and rising up again to swallow what I offer from my leaky tip. And I'm a leaker, too. I know he knows I masturbate, if not because I'm twenty then because I leave crusty briefs in the hamper. Febreze can't hide everything.

"So there was some question about the chain of evidence, and of course the guy says I planted the baggies and followed him longer than I should've and I was just trying to make quota for the department." He rotates his wrist in an "on and on" fashion. "Typical bullshit. But I got tired of staring at that screen so I'm taking a break with my book."

"Ah." Balling my paws into fists and forcing myself not to check out my own groin (or his), I just kind of stare between his eyes, at the bridge of his nose where his glasses perch so precariously yet never fall off. He's got contacts for his job, but he prefers good old-fashioned specs at home. I think they make him incomparably sexy, along with his pipe, and part of me wonders if they would stay on through a vigorous fucking.

That doesn't help my boner at all.

"Pretty boring stuff, I know," he says, leaning back and taking the opportunity to stretch his arms high above his head. I could curl up in his armpits and sleep for days. There's no getting rid of musk like that. Why would you want to?

"I don't think it's boring," I lie, anything to keep me here, anything to keep me from chickening out.

He lowers his arms and folds them across his chest, absently gnawing on the stem of his pipe. I wish I were that pipe. All of that chewing and sucking and blowing and saliva...

I feel terry cloth on my dickhead. It's too late to turn back now. I need him to see what he does to me. Because if I'm ever going to be honest with him for the rest of my life, I have to start here. And if I end tonight heading for the nearest Greyhound station, well...I can't think about that unless I have to.

The mere possibility sends my stomach into my throat and nascent tears prickle at my eyes. I can't break down in front of him, not like this.

His eyes flick down...just for a split second but I see it anyway. Can he see me? Can he smell me? I can't let on.

"So, uh...you like ermines?" I hear myself speak from about a million miles away.

Several things happen at once: his neck floofs out to about twice its size, he nearly loses his grip on his pipe, and he almost raises his right paw to close the laptop. Instead he detours to his fantasy novel and picks it up, only to set it down again on his thigh. His face never changes. If he's blushing, I can't tell.

"Well, Kurt, you know, it's one of those things. The guys send messages back and forth all the time, and things come up. I was just giving it a once-over." Yeah, right, I think. I'm not a busty ermine, but I bet I could wrap my lips around--

"Yeah, I guess so." Dad breaks eye contact to glance at the glowing screen just a couple feet away from his leg. Holding the book in two fingers, he drags the pad of his pinky to the tab in question and taps it, opening the window to a still of a large canine shaft plunging into her pinkness amid a sea of white fur. He taps the space bar and the action leaps into motion. The volume is low, almost so low it's muted, but I can still hear the gasps and grunts and "fuck yeah"s like they all do for some reason.

Dad watches for a few seconds before speaking up. "See, nothing special. Started as a boss-slash-secretary kind of thing, but that lasted about ten seconds before...well, you know how this shit ends up." He's being awful candid. Usually he keeps to himself, especially here in his sanctuary.

"Yeah," I offer weakly.

He pauses, his eyes tracing a Bermuda triangle between my eyes, my crotch and the screen. "You know how it goes, don't you?" He's asking if I've ever watched porn. Only from the age of nine or ten, I can't exactly remember right now. Other things occupy my mind. Like the slight twitch under the sheets between his legs. He can't have possibly...

"Yeah, I know." Thereafter follows a silence both awkward and welcome. I can't tell if he wants me to leave because I'm making him uncomfortable, or if this could turn into some kind of father-son moment for the two of us. You know, guys watching some chick getting railed together, the kind of stuff you read about sometimes. But I don't think we have the same idea of bondage...er, bonding.

On the screen, the bulldog flips the ermine around and goes back in missionary style. She screams even louder, shrill enough to pin my ears down and back. But Dad doesn't seem to mind; in fact, he seems to be enjoying it. He watches with that damned cop-face on, and that's fine because it gives me ample opportunity to watch that tent in the sheets erect itself. My paws ache in their clenched state but I don't dare move lest I spoil the view or let him catch me staring. But he's on almost-full display anyway, so why would he care then?

It's now or never. I don't have to do much except stare at that bulge of material and let myself grow. The ermine and bulldog do nothing for me. Well, maybe the bulldog, but all I care about is between those strong drug-dog thighs.

The terry cloth moves from my tip down, bit by bit, caressing the sides of my shaft like butterflies. Sexy butterflies. I can tell there's no way I'm hidden anymore, and if he so much as turns his eyes my way he'll see my cock, twitching, for him. Because of him. It feels good, this exhibition, and I can't help but flex it up and down, humping at air. Every time I see him move, I move. And finally his attention falters and he notices my motion. And turns his head. And feasts his eyes on my lipsticking dick.

Some ancient instinct forces my eyes up and away, and I stare at the far wall with the odd urge to pee. Suddenly I'm massively uncomfortable being taller than him. What would he do if I fell onto my back, legs splayed, and pissed myself? Would he send me to my room, or would he commend me on knowing who's boss in this house?

I don't fucking know, because he's just staring at my three unsheathed inches with his pipe firmly clenched between his molars and doing nothing. Saying nothing.

On the laptop I hear guttural grunting and rapid squeaks of impending orgasm. Hollywood fakery. But the warm nose-breath on my cock isn't fake. Neither is the sudden raising of his finger and the single second of sensual electricity as he drags the pad of the index from the edge of my sheath to the twitching, pulsing taper. It shocks a shudder into me, accompanied by a faint whine from somewhere deep between my throat and lungs. Heat surges to my cheeks as I open my senses fully, hoping to remember as much as I can if this turns out to be the first and last time we do this.

God, please don't let it be the last time.

He studies his finger for the long moment it takes me to force my gaze downward. A dollop of fluid gleams in the bluish electronic light on his black skin, and just before it falls to the bed he presses his thumb against it, leaving a sticky strand spanning his palm. It's the most erotic thing I've ever experienced.

"You're leaking," he acknowledges in the understatement of the year.

Maybe he wants to pretend the porno made me all hot and bothered, but he's not watching it anymore. The ermine and bulldog have tied and gone quiet, and the progress bar is almost at its end. He's still looking at my junk, studying it, probably comparing it to his own in his head. His bulge stretches a good six inches from what I can see, and he's not even fully hard yet.

He knows what I'm looking at.

"You should probably take care of that." Yes, I should, and I will, one way or another. At this point it wouldn't take much. Just thirty seconds of solid stroking and blammo. But I'm frozen to this spot until I receive some kind of absolution, whether it be fulfillment of a dream or a swift kick in the ass. If he were one of those fathers who gets mad at his faggot son and takes out his frustration on his kid's tailhole like in some of those stories, I wouldn't mind. It would hurt but I would push back and moan as he cursed my very existence.

But I don't think he's going to do that.

Without a word from me, he taps his two fingers together, making a precum castanet. Studies it carefully, even puts it to his nose for a sniff. And, in a new most erotic moment of my life, his tongue darts out to lick it away raspily. His face remains maddeningly devoid of expression; I gave up trying to read him years ago. He is a man of action, not so much emotion. "Yeah, you need to take care of that."

"Yeah." It's all I can say. I don't dare do anything to upset this sexually-charged apple cart. I notice a growing wet spot at the apex of his sheet tent and don't realize I'm licking my lips until I've finished. Now he's looking right at me, and finally I look right back into his dark eyes.

And that's when he hooks two spit-slick fingers behind my captive knot and pulls just slightly.

I have never tied anything before in my life, but in this moment all the stuff I've read...all the canid sex-ed classes, all the tales from braggadocious buddies, all the raunchy jokes...it all makes complete sense. I literally feel something in my brain chemistry click on like some sort of mental Tesla coil, tendrils of electricity tickling my synapses and sending tingles the length of my spine.

Oh Jesus, he's trying to bring me off. No, he's going to bring me off. Those two fingers begin to pull gently, then release in one-second intervals. Pull and release. Pull and release. He studies me from behind his glasses, and rather than feel intimidated I sense a kind of relief...and disbelief that this is going more or less how I wanted it to. Though, if I had my druthers, my head would be wedged up against the headboard as he bred me forcefully. Baby steps, I guess.

Blinking allows me to break the gaze but all it does is force my eyes to his cloth-covered cock, now visibly throbbing. Holy shit, he's getting off on this...on me. Maybe it's the tension or something. Maybe he's legitimately horny for me. No way am I asking. I dart to the shelf of his belly, that perfect round-but-hard wall of muscle that fills out his uniform so well. Up and over to the outstretched arm that holds my swelling dick with no sign of faltering. And back to his age-scruffed face again, where I lock onto his tractor-beam eyes.

He puffs a few times to keep the pipe alive, sending the sweet smell of expensive tobacco into the air. Just like the soap, it's been his favorite since before I was born, and it is a memory seared into my conscious attached to a scent. It's comforting and arousing at the same time. I could bathe in that scent. I wonder if his cum tastes like it. I wonder if I'll get to find out someday.

Heat begins to blossom just behind my balls, the point of no return, and my jaw droops open. It's all happening so fast I can't wrap my brain around it. I want to make it last, or at least be totally present in the moment, but I'm losing the battle. Part of me wants to get fully into it, making some noise and maybe thrusting my hips a little for show. But the part of me that's actually controlling everything locks me into place, lost in those impossibly dark irises as he looks right back into mine. And when his two fingers start to speed up, it's over.

My tongue rolls out to one side, flinging saliva I don't know where. I try to make a sound, a bark, anything...but all that escapes is a strained gasp followed by the kind of quick panting you do when you're on the verge of a panic attack. The blossom of warmth explodes and before I even climax I hear several wet splats a million miles away on the bed. Then, finally, the rush of bliss overcomes me and it's all I can do to keep my eyes open and my legs supporting me while I batten down my hatches and ride out the storm.

At some point phosphenes blink on and off in front of me, fireflies from the stress of what is now the third new best moment of my twenty years on this planet.

My dad just got me off. He just...with only two fingers...and my sheath still up, albeit tight to the point of pain now. But...

Just like that, his paw is back on his thigh, just inches from his massive stained tent. He looks like he needs to take care of himself. He looks like he's going to soon. But he doesn't look like he's going to ask me to help him out.

Oh, but _fuck_I wanna help him out. If...if I just go down on him now he might not push me off. But do I really want to press my luck?

"You should probably be heading to bed," he says simply, knocking me partway out of my mental indulgence. The gossamer is gone and in its place is a clear picture of what we've done: Dad with a hardon, a laptop in sleep mode, and four long dark ropes of my semen rapidly soaking into the fine mocha cotton for which he stood in line four hours to get half off last year on Black Friday. His face betrays nothing.

Do I say anything? Do I thank him? I don't think so. I know him, and he's not that kind of guy. Anyway, my thanks is now a bunch of stains on his linens.

"Yes, sir." And, though it's one of the hardest things I've ever done, I turn around, dwindling erection leading the way, and walk stiff-legged through his door, closing it softly behind me. I make it halfway down the hall before my eyes brim over and I have to stuff my fist into my muzzle to stifle a strained sob.

After pulling my door to, I make it to the bed where I rip off the robe and collapse in a heaving fit. The emotions are incredible, none of them distinct. There is no sadness, no anger, but I do feel gratitude. Gratitude that I was able to share something incredibly special with the man I most admire and aspire to. I still don't know what he thinks about it, what he feels about it, and I may never know.

But when the tears slow and my ears stop ringing, there's no mistaking the sounds from the room down the hall. It can't have been more than two minutes since I started crying.

I guess he needed it as badly as I did. Hearing those masculine grunts, I can only hope that we need it just as badly again someday.

4/3-5/20/15