FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

He watched as one great beast pounded away at the other, listened close to the deep snorts and the hot, wet sounds of feral mating. The camera, while grainy, zoomed in close on the action just as the enormous stallion's member began to throb, doubtlessly flooding its mare's womb with an impossibly carnal amount of thick, hot seed. As if there were any doubt to the stud's virility, a pontifical gush of cum came streaming out of the mare's glistening nethers as soon as the stallion withdrew from her warmth. He drank deep of the stallion's heavy breathing and grunting, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he, too, let loose his pent-up sexual energy across his bare stomach.

Once his breathing returned to normal, he released his softening member from his grip, reaching feebly for a paper towel off the roll perched at the corner of his homemade desk. The pale blue glow of the computer' screen lit his body enough to clean the majority of the mess by, and whatever hadn't been drawn in by the paper towel would just have to wait until morning. He closed the browser window before shutting the computer, the sound of the air conditioner in the window growing louder and louder as the afterglow of a particularly powerful orgasm slowly faded from his body to be replaced with a soreness in his joints and an aching in his heart. It was, after all, Sunday night. Tomorrow morning Lance would have to return to work.

His wrist still burned from where he'd taken his utility knife to his tanned skin, the shining blade sitting out on his desk in front of him. “We can't afford to have you sitting on your ass all summer!" his dad roared in his ears, mind replaying his father's ill-considered outburst over and over and over again, as it likely would all day tomorrow. One week was all he'd wanted, a week to recoup between the transition from school back to heavy construction. But one week was too much to ask for.

Lance sighed, leaned back in the chair, and drew in a breath. Just three months, that's all he'd have to do before he could disappear back into college, trying to find a better way to never return to the middle of fucking nowhere, to work under the boot of a cruel supervisor in dangerous conditions. The more he thought about it, the hotter his blood became, and the deeper the feeling of existential sadness became within his sore body. He'd made it through the hardest week already, the first week. He just had to find the resolve to keep going.

***

Sleep came to him quickly, such was the life of an early-riser and hard-worker. In the morning, the shakes returned. His stomach refused all food he dared to try, and his hands trembled as if the house were a freezer. Lance whipped together a couple peanut butter sandwiches, careful not to wake his father with his 4:00AM ministrations. It was not, as one might expect, for his father's sake. No, it was such that Lance wouldn't have to gaze upon his face, the embodiment of his ever-growing rage. When there was such an easy source to blame for the deepest bounds of human suffering, it served well to avoid confronting said source, lest the two come to odds. Lance, in his ever-increasing physical fitness and ruggedness, could've easily whipped his father given the opportunity. He could not, however, whip the cost of college tuition, and he knew it. And so life continued: rising at 4:00 and getting home at 5:00, dirty, rusty, greasy, and angry.

In a vain attempt at convincing himself he had any freedom accessible to him, Lance bought himself a motorbike. A Yamaha Super Tenere, to be exact. It was his ride of choice, his means of transportation to and from the miserable jobsite nestled deep in the countryside of rural Maine. When he'd handed the dealership the check, he saw himself riding off by night to be free, to meet up with others and to live a life he'd always wanted. After his father's rage at the 'wasted' money subsided, he found even that relatively small slice of his life to be relentlessly controlled and curated. There were no late-night meetings, no minty kisses in the dark and no cool wind in the hair. There was savage heat, bugs, and simple commuting to and from a job that he was tied to. 60 hours a week he was on the clock, but it felt as if every waking moment was either in preparation for or in recovery from what he wished was just a simple summer job. He hadn't spoken to anyone under the age of 36 in weeks.

Lance gently placed his lunch into the metal pannier strapped onto the tail of his bike, filling up the jerry can rigged to the other side with the garden hose that lay dormant on the cracking driveway. He hunched his shoulders in a sigh, rubbed his neck, and finally pulled his motocross helmet over his head and swept a leg over the saddle of his bike. He glanced at his watch, confirmed he would be 45 minutes early, and fired up the engine. It ran wonderfully, the throaty grumble bouncing off the neighbor's house. Off he went, clicking through the gears as he whipped up onto the highway on-ramp, leaning as far over as he dared. He listened to the grunt of his bike's engine as the noise of air filled his helmet, knobby tires thundering down the tired old asphalt of highway 95. He pulled off at the first exit, swiveling his head a couple times before exiting the highway, pulling into the Pilot gas station, and commencing the weekly ritual of refilling his gas tank.

As he stood next to his bike, a sinking feeling again filled his stomach. Was this really his life? Getting home, drinking, watching bestiality porn on the internet, waking up at 4:00AM to shiver his way to work on a motorcycle he couldn't enjoy? His throat tightened and he clenched his jaw. The worst part of it was the loneliness. It was one thing to come home to friends or a girl, it was another to come home to a father he hated in a house he hated to be in.

The gasoline gushed out of his tank, running down the plastic fairings before he noticed and let loose the nozzle's handle. He wiped at it quickly with a paper towel, the rapidly evaporating gasoline chilling his fingers through the sodden paper. Again he pressed the starter button, and again the engine came to life. He pulled out of the gas station, turning not onto the highway, but onto the back roads he'd become friends with for the next hour on his way to work.

The Maine landscape was famous for its beauty, and even in his depressed mood Lance couldn't help but agree with the hype. Trees swept past in a beautiful sea of green which seemed to know to change color at the border of every town. There would be sweeping hills one moment, and great open fields the next. The further away from home he got, the more he felt like he could accept his life, the freer he felt. His heart soared, he felt as if he could disappear into the mountains that spread open before him, dotting the horizon as if they were grainy images, so thick was the fog wreathing their snowy caps. The roads grew curvier, and he reveled in his motorcycle for the first time since he'd rolled it off the dealership's lot. He flicked it into and out of the turns, leaning low over the handlebars as he screamed through the speed limit signs at nearly double their text, followed only by the deep, angry note of the 1200cc engine.

Eventually, though, he had to slow to a stop at a road he dreaded. There were only a handful of turns left between him and that accursed jobsite, and every time he made it to this point of his morning drive his mood again took a dive, as the next 8 hours' reality sank in. No more could he disappear into the hills; he would instead have to disappear behind mirrored safety glasses and beneath a hard hat, bearing the brunt of a cruel foreman and the day's trials and tribulations.

His driving speed slowed, and what before were exciting twists and turns became a dull mechanical ritual. He rounded one sweeping corner, and perked his head up as a smell filled his helmet. It was unmistakable: horse manure. Lance flipped up his visor, drawing in a deep, sweet breath of the grassy, earthy aroma. His speed dropped, and he rose to a standing point on his pegs. He noticed his pants felt tighter, but shook off the initial embarrassment thereof. He rode along, engine quietly thumping away between his legs as his eyes scanned the tree line for wherever the scent could possibly be coming from. It wasn't long until he caught a glimpse of the telltale flick of a horse's tail, and he again dropped his speed down, circling back on the road to crawl by the farm veiled in the trees.

Sure enough, there was a small paddock nestled into the forest, with two beautiful horses standing in the sunrise's pregnant glow, heads to the ground and tails swaying absentmindedly. Lance's mouth had long run dry, and his heart was hammering away at the inside of his chest like the rotary hammer he would doubtlessly be spending the workday behind. They were incredible. He hadn't been so close to a real-life horse, frankly, ever before. And here they were, two of them, just shining in the sunlight as if they were put there just for his own enjoyment. He came to a stop, balancing his putting bike as he sat and just stared at them through the opening of his helmet. He eventually flipped the kill switch on his handlebars, and felt the engine shudder to a halt beneath him, silence falling over the woods. Popping down the kickstand, he leaned the bike over and dismounted, leaning against the seat with his arms crossed.

Lance was filled with a sense of awe; he felt as if he were much larger than himself as he stood and looked at these magnificent beasts, watched as they noticed him, watched as they migrated over towards the side of the fence that was closest to his position on the road. As long as he could remember, he'd been attracted to horses. When he was a preteen, watching the horses at the apple orchard give rides to kids made him feel a certain kind of special he'd never ever felt in any other situation. He didn't dare to take off his riding helmet, lest someone pop out with a shotgun pointed in his direction and force him into a speedy retreat.

There he stood, breath rising from his mouth in white plumes against the early summer's chill, for what felt like a mere moment. His senses came to him, and he pulled up the sleeve of his motorbike jacket to confirm what the sinking feeling in his stomach told him. Yep, there was just 5 minutes until he had to be at work. He closed his fist so tight it hurt, feeling his knuckles pop and crack, gritting his teeth. Fucking job.

His engine barked alive again, and he violently kicked it into gear before giving the throttle a heavy dose. The horses looked up in surprise, no doubt terrified by the sudden explosion of sound. Lance felt the front wheel come off the ground as he roared down the road, felt it touch back down to kiss the pavement as he leaned way off the side, shifting through the gears as fast as he dared on the country road. Soon the asphalt turned to dirt, and he tore down the rutted track, slowing only to turn into the driveway that lead to the great open field that was his jobsite. He parked along with the other workers, throwing safety glasses on the instant his helmet came off. He'd made it without being late, as they were just opening the tool trailer.

***

“Happy Monday, Lance," Charley grunted, lips barely moving to avoid disturbing the smoldering cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Lance nodded as he pulled off his jacket, draping it on the seat of his Yamaha. The other guys stumbled around, working out the kinks in their abused joints as they sucked down coffee and cigarettes as if they would cease existing within the hour. Lance stomped up the steps of the trailer, pulling out the handrail and shoving it onto its pegs before grabbing his hard hat off the shelf. He scratched at the scruff he'd grown over the weekend, reaching deep into his brain to try and figure what tools they'd need to get going. Circular saw, generator, evacuation pump…

***

“O-ver-head power lines," began Pete, their foreman, reading slowly through the weekly safety briefing material. “Not a big fucking deal out here, there ain't no fucking power to speak of." A muted laugh rippled through the circle of laborers before he continued. Lance scuffed his work boots at rocks in the mud, waiting for it to end. His hands shook as if he'd pounded several Red Bulls, just for fear of what he'd be forced to do today. He didn't really hate construction all that much; the work itself was satisfying. It just made him into such a nervous wreck, between the fear of being unable to keep up and from the near constant abuse courtesy of his cruel foreman. The loneliness combined into a wonderful mix that drew him to near suicidal depths of depression and anxiety.

“Right. Got a big pour coming today around one, so we'd best be ready for it," Pete said, handing the clipboard round to be signed by everyone in attendance. “Lance, you and Charley're going to get started on the rest of the forms. Get past that first batterboard by noon, and we can all lay the rebar before the truck gets here no problem. The rest of you get to stripping those old forms," Pete turned his gaze to the jobsite. “Let's try not to break many of those boards, we need to re-use everything we can." And so the day began.

By the time lunch rolled around, Lance had calmed considerably from the morning's nerves. He popped open his pannier, grabbed his lunch, and set down on the rough metal steps of the tool trailer to bask in the shade. It'd become a relentlessly hot day. Although that meant the mosquito and black fly situation was well under control, which was a welcome change. The men ate in relative quiet, happy that the thrum of the generator was no longer rattling their eardrums. Lance liked working with Charley; it made for a much more interesting day. While it was difficult to keep up with the hulking man, it was better than trying to keep up with Pete while he flung insults. He and Charley were fortunate in that Pete was nowhere to be found during the morning; he'd left them all entirely to their own devices as he ran through the blueprints.

***

The day came to its conclusion, and Lance found himself, as always, the last one to leave the jobsite. Charley had patted him on the back, proud of the work the two of them had accomplished that day. As Lance meandered through the ruts of the dirt driveway, he looked over the field. When he'd first gotten there, it was nothing more than a big muddy square nestled in the woods. Now there was a trench running the length of the site, and half of it had been poured with concrete. He couldn't help but smile behind the visor of his helmet, elated at what they'd accomplished in such a small amount of time, with a measly 5-man crew.

Tires met pavement, speedometer rose, and engine happily roared as Lance tore through the same backroads he'd been wont to avoid that very morning, and the little memory that'd been nagging at the back of his mind all day blossomed outward until his whole brain was filled with one simple desire: horse. He'd been drooling over them all day, every moment he got to pause his vision was filled with their swinging tails. As he came upon the little paddock in the woods, he pulled across the road to set his bike on its stand. He flipped up his visor, eyes closing as he steadily breathed in their sweet scent. He wished he'd gone down this particular road earlier on, wished he could've known there was something worth seeing this far into the hills.

The horses took notice of him, raising their giant heads and flicking their tails wide to either side of their bodies. There were two of them, and they stood close by one another, slowly calming to the presence of the intruder. Again their heads swept down to the ground, mouthing at the long grass that'd grown in their paddock. Lance was content to stand and watch them forever, until he heard the squeak of a door hinge followed by the slam of a door. His head popped up on his neck, the horses mirroring his movements, heads aimed at the house that stood a little deeper into the woods. Lance caught sight of a tall woman, caught the flash of the sun off her sunglasses and a glimpse of tan skin. His heart leapt in his chest, and he whipped his leg over the saddle of his bike, keyed the starter, and floored it. Again he wheelied, but this time he stayed pegged on the throttle, snapping off gear change after gear change as his speedometer rapidly exceeded triple digits. He slowed only marginally at the stop sign at the end of the road, tearing after a quick triple-check that it was clear. He sped all the way home, only slowing in places he expected to see a cop lurking, ticket-writing hand itching. Luckily there were none, and he managed to get far enough away that he felt safe.

He passed his own house, slowing to the speed limit after getting off the highway. Down to the dam he went, parking his bike and laying in the shade while he snacked on the beef jerky he'd packed for the day. He felt so foolish for getting seen looking at those horses. It wasn't illegal, was it? The owners probably didn't care whether it was legal or not, they'd call the cops on him. The next morning, he'd probably see a cop there, lying in wait for him to stop. Then he'd get locked up for being a freak, his face and name plastered all over the news. It was surely an over exaggeration, but that was simply the name of the game with Lance's mind.

He lay there in the shade, barefoot, listening to the lake lapping at the rocks, until sleep overtook him. A couple hours passed before he regained consciousness, after the sun had set. He made his way home, parking his bike and quietly unpacking his things before showering in the basement and tossing himself onto his bed upstairs. He didn't have the energy to resume his porn watching, and instead relented to his heavy eyelids.

Again his alarm sounded, and again he ran through the routing of getting ready for work, and again he flew through the Maine back country. When he reached the horses, he found himself too scared to stop. He looked over his shoulder as he drove by, caught sight of the woman standing at the end of her driveway. The shock caused him to miss a patch of gravel in the road, his front tire skittering away from him and causing him to drop the bike.

He wound up in the ditch, his bike a little further down the road. His body ached, and he could feel a warmth on his wrist courtesy of the deep scrape the asphalt had given him. He sat up as soon as he'd gained his senses, trying to stand on legs that had turned to jelly from the adrenaline shock. The woman was upon him then, kneeling beside him and holding either side of his helmet.

“Holy shit, are you ok?!" She asked, blue eyes piercing through his open visor. She was not a woman, she was a teenager. And she was beautiful.