FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Even as quirky as their programming was, the Fazbear animatronics converted easily to sensual love machines. Their old bodysuits were discarded in favor of the latest in sex doll technology, and though they were still peculiar due to their coldness to the touch, they ultimately proved popular enough for their parent establishment to flourish and prosper.

Bartenders, bouncers and disc jockeys worked at the club, but the animatronics were the main draw. Despite its narrow name, Freddy Pimpbear's Pussy had flavors for any orientation and Freddy Pimpbear himself was among the choices. Though thick and beary by nature, he was still a potent stud with a fat lump in his g-string and a dirty gleam behind his garish sunglasses. He espoused advice to the patrons ("Freddy Pimpbear says if it smells like fish, eat carefully!") and it was in his programming to swat the posteriors of the ladybots if they were in range and unoccupied.

A development the on-site technician kept to himself was the fact that the animatronics became sentient within days of coming online. They always came to him under the guise of needing repairs, only to complain in catty ways with grievances concerning one another. He found it amusing, and it wasn't just the girls who complained. Freddy and the other boys had their scores to settle and so did they casually ask him for minute adjustments and fluid refills on their mechanical bodies.

For someone who had just graduated college with a degree in a broad robotics field, Desmond found his salary insulting and he had no hope of paying off his student loan before he was middle-aged. But as far as he was concerned, the benefits of having a platoon of literal fuckbots working in his favor and free boarding made up for the pitiful wages. He slept in the workshop on a hideaway bed, he bathed in the employee bathroom, and he ate the throw-out pizza. It played out like an extension of his college bachelor life, sexy animatronics notwithstanding.

As electronic life forms with nuanced personalities and emotions, the animatronics confided in Desmond as their only friend outside their circle. They were simply expensive assets to the management and whores to the clients - but they enjoyed their work beyond what they were programmed for, and they experienced mutual pleasure with the patrons. Within just a few months, they formed a peculiar bond to Desmond not unlike a family. The patriarch was naturally Freddy Pimpbear himself, though he was a sporadic point of contention.

After suffering as a take-apart punching bag in her original run, the white vixen Mangle received vindication and love at Pimpbear's Pussy. Her name was kept as a throwback to her days as an abominable mess of parts, but nothing about her was mangled anymore. A long-legged thing with a ballerina's figure, supple breasts, soft mannerisms and pink accents, she served as the foil to the voluptuous and boisterous Foxy.

Rosy-cheeked Mangle strutted up behind Desmond in the dusty, quiet workshop with a glint in her eyes. The thudding of the club's music masked her steps, but she made her presence known. "Desmo-o-ond," she cutely sing-songed, "we need to talk about someone."

It behooved Desmond's to look busy in case the management checked in. He often tinkered uselessly with worn-out parts under the pretense of having replacements. What he fiddled with at that moment was a plump reddish-orange thigh, part of a leg Foxy once stood on. The owners might have been fooled but the animatronics were not. Mangle padded up behind the foxcoon and pressed in close. As she wrapped her arms smoothly around his torso, her modest bust flattened out slightly against his back.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" Desmond forced himself to say. The tone he used had a pinch of lust in it.

Mangle played along Desmond's torso, over his gaudy pink uniform which was emblazoned with his name in a cursive filigree. She cupped his groin, opened his fly and squeezed down through his boxers with a pleasant fraction of her terrifying strength. "No I can't, because you're not." She clicked her teeth close to his ear. "We need to speak about mister Pimpbear."

"What's he doing now? You know management specifically asked for the ass-smacking, I can't make him stop. I think he'd do it anyway," Desmond muttered.

The vixen kneaded and tickled with great precision on the clothed tip of Desmond's penis. Her ever-present smile grew to cheshire proportions when he tensed up against her and crooned. "Oh, I don't mind that, it's rather cute. No, you see, he says that annoying fish joke only when I'm around," she snorted. "Never when that scurvy good-for-nothing Foxy is up next to him."

Desmond started to snicker. Mangle wrung his entire package right up to the threshold of pain and he hissed. "Need I come up with a new reason to be called The Mangle?"

"I'll talk to him, I'll get it straightened out," Desmond croaked. "Be gentle, you know I'm just playing around..."

"Aw, of course you are," Mangle sighed just before she smooched Desmond's cheek. She did so with an exaggerated lip smack. Relative to Desmond's tolerance for injury, she squeezed tightly around his middle for a sweet hug. "You're such a doll. I'll let Freddy know to come see you. Goodbye for now, love! So many clients are dying to see me!"

Desmond swiveled in his chair to watch Mangle's exit. He kept his eyes on her pretty behind until she rounded the corner to the club proper. He closed up his fly and turned back to his workbench and tried to push away the sense of dread washing over him. Dealing with Freddy never went well for his orifices.