FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Wake up Monday morning feeling like wake up Monday morning feeling like wake up Monday morning feeling like wake up Monday morning feeling like exactly that. Honorable mentions to Tuesday and the rest of the gang, but they're just not the same as remembering she hasn't even reached those.

Lilou, dried but bloated, a little empty, sodden, tugs the blanket up over the splayed tufts of her cheeks as she's forced awake by herself. No matter how much she'd like to keep sleeping forever, the routine beckons her. Her closed eyes lie to her, and lying under the sheets does nothing.

And Vivienne keeps bumping the bed anyway hopping into her jeans, getting ready for work.

Lilou soon eats her breakfast a wasted minute at a time at the dining table, scooping her paw half full from the bowl Vivienne used to squeal at when Lilou ate directly from it. The fat of her butt is numb already because Vivienne's chairs are those tiny woven kinds without any cushioning to them, scratchy when her fingers brush over them. They're just meant to look pretty. Vivienne's mattress is the only furniture in the whole apartment comfortable enough to stay long on it, and not even it works right.

“That makes… okay, yeah," Vivienne says as she dainties her wrist and fastens her watch. “I'm all set to go, Lilou, so I'll see you tonight, okay? I trust you not to gorge yourself on lunch. It's in the cabinet again. Are you going to be good today?"

Lilou chews the next small bite of many and wanders her gaze in Vivienne's general direction. She hasn't faked a smile at this step for a long time.

“Oh, I know you will," Vivienne says anyway. She flips her ponytail off her shoulder, slides up the strap of her purse, and checks her phone again before she might put it up for another five minutes. Scrolling with her thumb and reading at the same time, she says, “Okay… all right, I'm going, okay? Be good, sweetheart."

Then it's with a kissy noise and twirl in her ankles that she opens the door, slams, jingles, clicks. Lilou sits alone with a streak of sun shining clear on her face even as half the rest of the lights in the apartment still glare useless around her.

She turns off the light in the bathroom when she goes to shower. Her day really begins sitting at the bottom of the stall in darkness and solitude, knees wrapped in front of her face.

Vivienne's spare key lies at the bottom of the drawer in her bedside table buried beneath old receipts and printouts from her work. With a towel still laid damp over her ears, Lilou shuffles for the key without disturbing the papers, or else slides those back into place from where they slip to. Towel goes in the hamper, Lilou goes out the door. She stretches her legs taut to reach the knob from the apartment stairwell, but she locks it and stuffs the key back in the yellow fluff of her tail. She ignores any other door. He's not home anyway.

Rush hour has passed. Most of the cars parked parallel on the street are gone as Lilou steps onto the sidewalk, tucking her paws under her elbows. There's still a cooler kink to the wind this early when it breezes by, but it can only disguise how bright the sun already burns over the city.

No one else is in sight down the road. Even without crossing the street, Lilou looks both ways to know for sure. She smooths down the heavier fur of her skirt, still damp on the inner fibers, and wipes her paws off against it as if they need the same drying. She bundles her paws into fists independent of each other and walks.

Curtains are already shunted open across windows all down the street. Shops, second-story homes, and smaller apartment blocks all bundle against each other in old colors painted fresh every other building. It's just around her own block Lilou walks, but all the colors and welcome signs her gaze hangs upon decorate the other side of the street.

The rest of the neighborhood's active folks finished their strolls earlier. The baby buggy walkers, the joggers, the hands-behind-their-backs-sauntering old couples. None of these types include other pokemon. Maybe a Petilil or a Pichu bouncing along the occasional buggy under strict parental supervision, maybe a Lopunny or squat little Pikachu jogging along with their trainer, maybe a Natu perched on some retired shoulder—but those aren't the walkers or the joggers. They're the accessories.

Lilou's watched all of them before from the window.

She turns the corner by herself and avoids eyes with a couple on the other side of the street, two young black and white ladies holding hands like they're touring someplace made for their leisure alone. Lilou darts her gaze farther away as she sees one of them look her up and down, then look to her partner, whispering.

Vivienne used to make Lilou wear a collar and tag with all her information, but that lasted about two days before she got sick of Lilou unbuckling it every other glance back. Now it's times like these that make Lilou walk a little faster, run back home around the next corner.

Wasn't that exciting? The first sudden reminder of the one good walk she can never recreate. Makes slumping in front of the door back inside the apartment a real heart-racer.

Makes for a good need to think somewhere else.

So Lilou lays the key in the bottom of the drawer and settles it hidden again. She pauses a few steps away by the desk in Vivienne's bedroom, smooths her fingers slow and heavy down her skirt, then pulls herself up into the swivel chair. She lifts her fingers to the mouse and keyboard at the edge of the desk, then scrolls her way past the pdfs and work folder icons littering the computer's desktop, clicking her way into the world wide web.

WARNING - ARE YOU 18 OR OVER AND WILLING TO VIEW ADULT CONTENT?

Lilou's eyes are slim and her fingers slack as she clicks through to an amateur video hub starring whoever's willing to share their struts with the rest of the community. A community built on blurred identifiers, cheap filming, private browsers, and pokemon partners. Most of them willing. Never mind that.

never mind: exactly how much it matters to everyone else

Never mind that. Today, Lilou pushes herself lower down her swivel chair and brushes apart just a tuft or two of her skirt. She's already a little wet, but she's not enjoying herself.

favorite searches not in order, don't tell anyone: 'cock' - 'big' - 'hard' - 'dick' - 'braixen' - 'gentle' - 'suck' - 'piv' - 'lick' - 'love' - 'gentle' - 'love' - 'gentle' - 'gentle' - 'gentle' - 'rough' - 'hazel eyes' - not that last one

“The bigger The Better for Cotton puff," reads the title of what Lilou clicks to. She pulls her wrist down from its perch at the edge of the desk.

Smartphone recording. Shaky view of a table and a chair and a Whimsicott sitting there, her and the chair facing away from the table, cotton plush squeezed around the slats of the back. Low breathing. Not the puff's. A tiny smile on the Whimsicott's face turning wider as the Cock comes into view over her.

Long, smooth, wet, lovely shade of near brown dripping little stretchy beads over the Whimsicott's tongue—she licks it. Tongue sliding out her lips and wiping up and down a shaft too big to fit all the way—she loves it. The Cock, dipping into the balls of squishy cotton naturally collaring the puff, and the Whimsicott, wrapping her little arms around the glans and slurping quietly up the base.

Lilou's fingers react already.

The Cock, batting around her face, dripping it wetter everywhere it delights her in its touch. Nuzzling against the green horns and the cotton bangs and stopping its journey only for a kiss. The Cock, smooth, smooth, stretching her lips painlessly when she takes an inch inside. The Whimsicott, taking as much as she likes but not too much, looking up at the camera and slurping for it, sssuckkking slurping sliding, proving this one's hers. Taking care of it fully. The Cock, breathing higher and lower in her mouth, pulsing smooth and slippery—

'The Cock,' because it's better than 'slight amount of pubic hair creeping into the bottom of the shot.'

Lilou notices. She peers over every inch. Her one finger inside tells her how good it looks, and her thumb just outside agrees wholeheartedly.

The table. The Whimsicott climbing onto it, spreading herself, beaming up at the camera as it rattles two steps closer. The Cock clinging over her, tugged glans pushing up against her tiny pussy. A hand leaning in and joining around it, jacking the shaft back and forth as the puff holds herself breathless and stretched against the tip. Low breathing now heavy breathing.

A shaky rush in the hand—a moist weight over the Cock—a bewildered smile across the whole Whimsicott, taking a whole burst inside her, shivering, watching her prize shoot its wad tight in her belly before pulling up and lobbing an extra string or two up outside it, spilling the last seed over her face, around her lips, under her tongue lapping up that last bead, in her mouth at last with a smile for the viewer.

PLAY AGAIN?

Lilou frowns. She withdraws her finger. Should she have expected penetration? No, but it still leaves a hole in her imagination empty, too.

And a condom, like the face, was apparently never an option to begin with. (She knows how good condoms are so she appreciates them. What? Of course she does.) This community finds them a rare application. No risk of pregnancy? That's about all it takes to junk the plastic and go raw dogging. Diseases still get a stickier position. There are no STDs that affect both humans and any pokemon together, but a few linger that humans and pokemon can act as carriers for between multiple partners. Not many studies got funded to figure out that one for sure. It's trivia to most.

And it's a continued swelling under Lilou's deepest black fur that prompts her scrolling past the thumbnails of a Walrein, a Granbull, a whole display of different sizes and colors and positions in the latest videos—and nothing she clicks.

Lilou moves her dry paw from the mouse to the keyboard, shoving herself up and pecking out one letter at a time, spelling the name she knows the best in the search bar.

'Braixen' results: four hundred and seventy-six. Most of them by the same partners. None of them new. Lilou's watched or avoided all of them.

She slumps again. She drifts her paw back to the mouse and scrapes it toward another website, a human smut center with calmer digital caution tape greeting her on the splash page. Here, it's whole crews filming people get naked. It's high definition, bright, accessible for nearly any fetish or style or just some little preference between the tens of thousands of videos sprawling across the lists of lists of lists of kinks.

And so it's a woman on a man, not the Cock, but a man with a square jaw and a perfect shave and sweet lips but smiling plastic up at the prototypical Naked Woman Men Want. And her—she's caressing her own silky black hair, bouncing under her own power with legs curved long, natural, even smoother than that dick she's moaning at somewhat.

Lilou's legs slump tighter. Her joints tense. She slips her finger back inside, straddles her thumb on top, tries to press her digit farther for every inch that fits inside that real woman.

And then his hands, real hands with skin and bone stretching soft over her hips, guiding her up and down and rubbing over her thighs, taking up all her skin around his. There's only a glance of his cock with every quiet slapdown, but it's all there, it's inside, it's thick and it's fresh and it's hot in her oven—Lilou can feel it.

'I don't—'

A tattoo of rolling waves flexes over the man's rich dark forearm as he moves, drawing his hands up to the woman's breasts, and they are a plump perfect bright olive and framed luscious all at once. A forward arch echoes down her spine, dipping lower and descending fully a moment later until the man's licking at the firmament of her breasts and her hair's cascading down the other side of him.

Lilou twists her paw lower and nudges a second finger beside her first, squeezes herself tighter. She glides her thumb hard over her clitoris, she has one, too—but she wants the feeling inside. She has that silky black hair, too, just like the real woman's, just as deserving, right? But hers is fur, and it runs in all different directions down her legs.

'—I didn't know'

Lilou shakes the chair with every other thrust, gritting her teeth and gripping the seat. He needs time to think. She overreacted. It's right there in his words that he hasn't rejected her yet.

“Ah, unh, auwnh—!"

And as the video rings it out for her Lilou's spine bucks rigid, her knees press taut, her eyes squeeze closed so she can see him at least as electricity trembles through the vision in her mind—and it's all over.

'Yeah, no, (please god) don't mention it'

Nicolas shot her down. Hard.

The breaths pant loose out Lilou's throat in this horrid dawning afterglow, but they don't feel like hers. Her legs hang loose all of the sudden off Vivienne's chair. She opens her eyes, and not only is the video still playing but the sun is still rising bright through the bedroom window. The clock on the computer reads No, Not Even Noon Yet.

She hurries a paw in stretching up and clicking the perfect couple away, but it's a pitiful motion just as suddenly. Lilou pulls down slower to her skirt, smooths it flat, and that feeling matches. It's the kind of feeling of eight more hours of this whether she can take it or not.

Wednesday now, right? Lilou questions what she already knows just so her blurry mind has something to mull over while she stays in bed, awake despite the warm comforter she tugs higher over her muzzle, snuggles deeper under. She fakes the feeling that she can still drift back off, pretends a little longer.

And Vivienne dumps her own butt on the bed to put on her shoes, shaking both the mattress and Lilou and not apologizing but just humming like she's ready for a good day.

It's gotten cloudy out the window as Lilou scoops a crumby paw into her bowl from the table. Her eyes linger toward the glass and glaze over between store rooftops and that tall, puffy kind of cloud rising deep and rolling slow over them. It's a series of thick puffs pressing together across all the sky she can see. Might be a wet day ahead.

“All right… and I guess that should be it," Vivienne says, closing her purse up and scooping it over her shoulder. “I'm all ready to go, Lilou! You've got your lunch in the cabinet, television to keep you busy… are you going to be good while I'm gone?"

Lilou chews. Swallows. Takes another pawful of her breakfast. Then glances.

Vivienne's already poked her phone out from her purse, tapping through her messages before she, too, glances up for just a second, smiling, saying, “I know you will. See you tonight, okay? Bye, sweetie!"

She slams the door behind her and clicks it locked. Lilou takes another bite from the half a bowl she has left to eat.

The light stays off in the bathroom while she's in the middle of her shower. Back pressed against the wall under the spout, water not pouring down her fur but in front of it, muffling the sounds within it—arm reached firm over her stomach, bucking softly, two fingers held tight around each other. The darkness offers her imagination full control of the scene. The inconsistent splashing against tile and porcelain accompanies a moaning in just her head, a gasping she want to echo louder for the man pumping inside her, a full-throated kind of god yes, please, as she's lifted by the hips into his arms, into his chest, wraps her paws around his shoulders and clings onto him for those rising shocks deep beneath her stomach.

Two more fingers mount her clit, moving a little erratic over the scene timed in her head but almost right, just close enough for the sounds she imagines as he nibbles down her ear, rutting her hard and fast but caressing her anyway as she leans in for him, begs his tongue closer around her skin—she keeps her eyes shut, lets it play out. Lets him hold tight, finish inside her, right there, yes—!

Then Lilou opens her eyes. Even in the dark, she sees the real world again. Her ears feel heavy over her soggy cheeks.

Maybe next time.

So the rain begins. Lilou takes one glance from the television to out the window, watching the glass slip wetter as the drops patter a regular ambiance under the big clattering wheel and cheering contestants on screen. A warmer lamp glows overhead to help fill the apartment, but of all these lights it's still the glowing screen that pulls back Lilou's littlest attention.

She lies on her side, head propped up by her elbow and ankles crossed at the other end of the sofa, a sharp-angled toffee addition to Vivienne's aesthetic more than any good piece of furniture. It's not just skinny. It's thin. Lilou knows, but she hardly notices it anymore. She flexes one leg high over the other, stretching it straight and up and down again with a sigh through her nostrils, and lets what she notices fade to a dull thrum in the front of her mind.

It's the cheering. A man tromps up the stage from his podium pumping his fists in the air, waving to the studio audience and shaking the hand of a woman with a long skinny microphone smiling at him and everyone else at the same time. It's the chance of a lifetime for big money, big money, and even when they don't get the chance everyone loves seeing someone else get it.

The man this time has familiar wrinkles by his eyes when he smiles, that young kind from being really happy. The audience really roots for this guy, but his young wrinkles don't make up for anything when he flunks two games of luck in a row. Boo. Loses. Then more cheering when someone else runs up the stage for their chance.

Lilou pulls her leg back down and scoots her fist a little higher up her cheek. Her other paw she lays ahead of herself, scrunching her fingers close and tapping them in rhythm over the sofa, muttering, “Nyew nyew, nyew nyew."

This other lady wins, then loses. She's out. Boo. Someone else gets their chance.

Lilou dumps her face over the cushion beneath her and pushes both her paws out ahead, pressing imaginary buttons and wiggling an invisible stick at the television.

“Nyew nyew nyew nyew—nyew nyew nyew nyew. Byaw, byaw."

She only whispers the fireballs like she's trying not to disturb whatever's in the back of her mind. She knocks all her buttons fast but quiet and waggles her stick hard forward, sucks her lips together just a moment, then releases her fingers and raises her paws high.

“Kuuu, bwah! Shaaah—shaaah."

Crushed it.

The window in the bedroom soon patters louder, the little skyline that Lilou gets through it fully smeared. Doesn't matter. She sits at Vivienne's desk with her toes in the air and her paws at her sides, staring up at the computer without touching anything. Her eyes have glazed over. Her fingers have no instruction what to do with themselves.

She's not really in the mood. She usually isn't. But not being in the mood isn't going to get her off for that second or two it works, so eventually, she raises her paw to the mouse.

WARNING - ARE YOU 18 OR OVER AND WILLING TO—

Yes, yes, yes already. Lilou's eyes are already tired clicking through it. But without having really decided what to browse, she pulls her paw over the keyboard and taps out her automatic first search.

'Braixen' results: four hundred and seventy-seven. One new.

But Lilou peers an inch closer at the top result and frowns. The thumbnail for this latest video showcases the pokemon partner, as always, and by the familiar breaks and curls in the tufts of her ears she's a Braixen who Lilou recognizes from previous searches. She's dolled up again in surely hand-measured clothing, the intricate kind that takes a lot of money to keep getting made. The kind for human consumption. It's the sort of video someone keeps putting out no matter how much the Braixen in it—

never watch again, please forget, can't help her, please never mind

Lilou just clicks away. She pulls her paws back to her lap, smooths her skirt, then sits still. Stares at the screen. Then: what about that Walrein video she noticed, like, maybe a day ago? His thumbnail looked happy.

“taking this big boys whole thing in 1 go"—there it is. Lilou clicks it open and settles her wrist down again.

Tripod shot. Dim. Steady view angled low near the floor, a Walrein sprawling fully on his back over a squished shag rug, skin wrapped tight around all his blubber and bulk. Breath blowing easy through his tusks and fur, but hard to tell if through a smile. Bumpy footlong cock standing at attention for a lady in mosaic who's crawling on hands and knees to give it a licking. Thicker than the woman's arm, fat in every sense, the same story as for that Whimsicott but in reverse—too big to fit in any human.

The woman, holding his base steady, wetting the tip with a loud suck, puckering for it again and again. Faceless, but tongue in full view. Only her vaguely light hair, possibly dark skin distinguishable in the low lights. The Walrein, sighing his fat neck backward and pressing his flippers lower down his sides, bulging in her mouth. Maybe not smiling, but already satisfied. Watching her go, and her, going at it.

Lilou hangs back. She's found nothing to get herself started, but at this point, she wants to see how it actually ends.

The woman's licking—she's practiced it. Brushing her wet open mouth up and down the whole shaft, hand on the other side, drawing her lips closer and kissing intermittently until it's gobs of her own saliva she keeps making out with. The Walrein, dribbling a bubbly kind of clear liquid that the woman's quickly rubbing together with her spit. Lubing him up while he's still reaching peak height and piqued quivers.

This can't end well.

Now the Walrein is looking up at her, the fur flowing off his cheeks kind of bouncing with his jaw like twitching whiskers. Dick already shining like a freshly waxed monument, and still the woman is reaching back off camera and bringing in a bottle, stretching out gobs of petroleum jelly and wrestling both her hands around his whole shaft, rubbing hard but sliding easy, holding his dick as if admiring a gifted man's forearm. Standing up, lifting her face off camera, stretching apart her cheeks as the Walrein watches through baited breath for most of the audience waiting with him.

It happens. Cock meeting asshole, cheeks squelching far further apart, kind of genuine moaning from above as asshole meets base. Up and down again, but tighter and louder and longer now than anything Lilou feels comfortable even watching through a screen. She paws only up to the mouse and hovers over the video's timer bar. There are still minutes of this left.

Lilou slides higher up her chair and tucks her legs closer together. She frowns. Should she really have expected penetration? No. No, she really shouldn't have.

She clicks out. Now she's really not in the mood.

There is no end to the week. Not this one, not any. The calendar says Saturday closes it out, but that's a lie. Some people think Sunday's an end. It isn't. When every week of Lilou's life blends into the next, there's never an end to any one week.

It's Friday. The trickiest of weekdays. Friday isn't really a day, but the beginning of that seamless phase between what are still technically weeks. It's the most deceptive day of these faux weeks because sometimes, just occasionally, it feels like it might be a good day. There's a warm cozy feeling in Lilou's chest that tells her she won't be completely alone tomorrow, and even again the day after. It feels like she has strength in her limbs again.

And then Vivienne shakes her awake anyway, shoving her back and forth under the blanket, saying, “Come on, Lilou, time for breakfast!"

What Lilou is fed may not technically be food. The bag says it is, sure, but Lilou often wonders if that's true by any strict scientific measure. (It's fucking not.)

She eats without consciously realizing it. Her eyes glazed over as soon as she sat down, and her paw scoops further bites with mechanical practice. She chews with the minimal effort required. Her butt is numb again on Vivienne's scratchy woven dining chair, but really, isn't that for the best? More of her body should follow suit.

“Okay… and that's that," Vivienne says, tapping straight her sheet of printouts and slipping them under the same arm as her purse. “Lilou—are you going to be good today while I'm gone?"

Lilou hears the words, but nothing compels her to respond at all. Without even turning to acknowledge Vivienne, Lilou reaches her paw into her bowl again and munches from the next bite.

But Vivienne doesn't say anything more. The strange silence is enough to distract Lilou from her routine, and she turns after all to see Vivienne standing still at the other end of the table. She did her hair up in a bun today, Lilou notices, brushed tight. She put a lot of effort into keeping it professional. But now, she looks back to Lilou with a frown.

“Right," Vivienne says a little slower. “Okay. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

They actually see each other eye to eye a moment before Lilou looks to her food again. She munches some more, then—flits a paw goodbye, at least.

Vivienne steps back, shores up her purse. It takes her another second to make for the door, and she pauses at the threshold on her way out. A little lower still: “Bye, Lilou."

And even after that, with a click of the lock, Lilou is all alone again.

Her time in the shower today is spent cleaning herself. She scrubs a bar of the good soap between her fingers, washes her face, spins in slow circles under the water until right before she's dizzy to rinse off the lather and soak her whole coat. She massages shampoo deep into the thinner fibers down her legs and rubs more delicate in the more delicate spots, but keeps it clean. She still doesn't hum.

Then the rain is all gone. The sky is bright and the city is warm, maybe, but Lilou leaves that experience to others as she hangs her paws over the seat of Vivienne's swivel chair and hoists herself into it.

WARNING—

Lilou clicks through, pushes the mouse to the search bar, lifts a finger over the keyboard. Four hundred and seventy-eight results meet her query. One new again. The thumbnail is unfamiliar. Brand new strangers await her voyeurism, but it's Friday. Lilou hesitates this time.

The kind of strangers hidden away in these videos—Vivienne warned her about them. Not in general. Lilou got caught the very first time she browsed. The one time Vivienne didn't announce coming back home, the one time Lilou didn't hear the lock click, and all the precious seconds wasted trying to close the tab before she already saw everything—

'Lilou, oh, sweetie, the kind of people who want to do those things to you are very bad. They're not good people. You can't look at things like that, okay? Oh, my poor girl.'

Not even a scolding. Just a life lesson. One of Vivienne's few that Lilou remembers.

'The only kind of people who'd want to fuck you are already fucked in the head.'

Not what she said, but Lilou got the message. No decent someone will ever want her. There's a sign nailed over her heart that reads 'Weirdos only,' apparently. She didn't always think it was true, but now—it's Friday, and it's supposed to be the day she feels better, and she doesn't want to be let down again.

Now, it turns out Vivienne knows some things.

So Lilou smooths down her skirt despite the tufts she's already parted. She scoots higher in the chair and pulls her feet closer up, then clicks the mouse.

Smartphone recording. Steady. Hind end of a bed, a human on his back, a Braixen lying between his legs and kicking her ankles in the air, grinning just behind his erection. The Cock. Meaty, flexed, healthy pink glow. Actually shaved. Smooth.

“Hey, guys, this is Celsi," someone grunts from behind the camera—the Cock has a voice. It's deep, pushed to a lower register than sounds natural, but it's clear. A little douchey, like angling for a macho sound, but human. “Just got her new tags in the mail and she wants to show 'em off for you. Give 'em a look, Celsi."

Now the Braixen is leaning onto one elbow, lifting up her chin an inch for a collar around her neck. Still giving eyes to the camera—flickering orange and yellow, warm, never safe to touch—but catching two gold heart-shaped tags over her paw and jingling them forward, slipping a finger across each tag, dangling the inscriptions clear to see. On top, 'Daddy's Little Girl'; beneath it, 'Bad Bitch.'

The computer screen seems to grow wider out from Lilou's center of vision, but she keeps still.

“You like those, girl?" the Cock says. “She earned 'em. You want to show these guys how you earned 'em, Celsi?"

The tags keep jingling as the Braixen drops them—pulling herself closer to the Cock, hanging her lips wide open and dangling her tongue all the way down, sticking her wet mouth against the base with a hot breath around it. She's lapping slow and heavy, gasping for the camera, drawing her lips closer and sliding a kiss all around the bottom of the shaft. Licking, dragging her upper lip back down with her when she goes for a taste of the sac.

When she looks to the camera—the way she looks to her audience—she's not here for them. They're here for her. Her eyes demand testimony, witness to her work and her skill and the Cock she drapes herself around.

And the Cock, swaying only against the wet weight laid upon it, keeps still for the Braixen but for groaning deep behind the camera, “That's good, girl… aw, right there. I like that."

Panting. The Braixen controls it. Giving every hot breath in her lungs for the show, wrapping her fingers around the shaft and slurping it, pushing against it, lifting herself to the thick wet tip once she has a firm grip beneath it. Pulling away her head and shaking back the lush fur in her ears, Daddy's Little Girl jingling loud and clear—then rubbing the Cock's sheath, rubbing it low, pulling it down with a quick little stretch of the skin until she has her glistening prize just an inch away. She kisses it.

Lilou's fingers have since figured out what they're doing. She's already spread her skirt. Slouched worse than she realizes. Her knees dangle over the edge of her chair, but her toes clutch around each other like morning dew clung upon the leaves.

“Aw, yeah… keep going, girl."

Lilou grits the breath in her throat and restrains the depth of her paw, holds back her wrist. Paces herself. Makes this last at least.

So she kisses it. Kissing, lapping, lavishing her lips everywhere over the single square inch where she has the Cock at its most sensitive. Her fingers curl around the other side and she moves slower, leans in, tilts her cheeks and opens her tongue to the embrace—she draws him in and shares something not sexy but intimate, sucks soft, swaps juices, lets him wet her just the same as she gifts over him. It's the perfect size around her mouth. It's the perfect partner to her gentle touch and deep needs.

“Aw, girl… show 'em how good you do it."

Her eyes flutter from the wet session below back to the camera. Her lips keep sucking head, but now she grins above her work like she's in on a secret. She pops away with all the moist strings she's nurtured hanging from her tongue, her work shining like a proud beacon top to bottom, her paw wrapping it tight at the base. Two fingers hold it in place while the rest curl away like holding a teacup. She stares down the camera, brushes her other paw over her cheek, then slides her face all the way down her man.

God it fits. It's a perfect fit the whole way down, smooth, thick, just big enough to stuff herself with while she sucks to the bone, sucks the feeling out of his legs. Shivers for everyone. Her man tells her, “Ffffuck yeah, that's the spot… how'd you get this good…."

She bobs over and holds him firm, cheeks fluffing up and down with her and tags jingling beneath her and no distractions from the bubbling heat pitching in them both. She gives that mmh-mmh-glk-mngh-mngh for his ears only. “Oh, shit, girl…." She peels off—

Spunk shoots over her grin, her tongue, sticks and smears all along her snout, and she just keeps rubbing her man out until his wet spasms run dry and his hips quit shaking. Her smile rests in the style of just having won a bet. All the cum seeps or else rolls down over her mouth, but she just dabs at his shivering tip, laps at the last string.

“And that's [her] for you," her man gasps behind the camera. “[Girl], you want to show 'em how much more you like taking?"

Can her man really still go? She pats his hard cock against her cheek just to prove it, savoring that next little groan from him. Then she pushes onto her knees. She balances her paws over his thighs and edges up his crotch, Bad Bitch jingling with each inch. She settles upright and spreads her skirt, puffy black lips squared bright and wet behind the tip of her previous labor. Swelled. Dripping. Receptive. She's already close. She lifts one paw from her skirt, beckons a finger toward the camera, draws it closer. Then she slips forward, peels on—without a hitch, without pause, ecstasy—

The video stutters. The screen stops at a frame right before the Braixen gets her own release. A loading bar spins over her vagina.

Lilou pulls out her fingers and shoves up in her chair. She collects her gasps and lifts her drier paw to the mouse, exiting full screen and looking in a daze to the corner of the monitor's desktop. The wireless signal is dead.

There are no tissues on the desk. Her fingers, goddammit—without anything else to clean them with, she grimaces and wipes them over her skirt. Lilou pushes out from the chair and tromps puffy and fuming across the bedroom to Vivienne's closet, reaching high for the handle before she scoots open the door. There's a shelf inside at the very top, and beside other little boxes and broken knickknacks, there sits the router.

She's seen Vivienne fix this before. It's just a normal problem. Not a big deal. She just needs to unplug a cord, plug it back in, and the Internet will work again. Lilou just needs to reach the router.

But there it sits at twice her height.

She takes in the whole bedroom in a glance, but nothing is in here that will get her up to that shelf. Chair? It's a swivel. She'll break her neck. Bedside table? She can't move that.

literally anything just find something anything

Her chest beats hard and it won't calm. Her paws reach toward smoothing down her skirt, but she stops them—not now.

From the living room, Lilou scrunches her feet against the carpet and drags a dining chair toward the closet, gasping harder now than ever. Groomed every night but never offered any exercise, goddammit, goddamn it! She strains her wrists against the woven scratchy bullshit again, drags it some more, breaks for doubling over on her knees, panting. Drags, drags, fucking moves it.

And when she finally gets the chair right in front of the closet, right under that shelf, and she drags herself up and stretches her paw for the cord—

It doesn't happen. Her fingers barely scrape the edge of the wood, even that out of reach.

She still can't reach. She can't reach.

Lilou claws at the shirts hanging in front of her, grips what hangers are there, tugs herself another inch so she can just get a finger up there—just to nudge that black box closer, just to tip it off—

Her foot slips. There's a sudden drop of air around her as her paw slips next from the cotton blouse she's balanced with and her face smacks through a dozen shirts at once, then a crack against her knee as she tumbles off the chair and crashes shoulder-first into a pile of sneakers and boots and pain, a bundle of hot needles jabbing all at once inside her knee.

The world takes its sweet time righting itself, but Lilou shoves herself onto her back despite the spinning. She—her lips quiver, but they're the wrong set. Her paws are fists wrapped around her leg, not nursing her knee but despising it.

This much—even over this littlest thing, she has no power.

Lilou grapples herself back up, ignores the pain, shoves aside the boots, and stumbles over to the bed. She has to hop most of the way. Rather than climbing up any further, she grips her fists over the sheets she can reach and punches them. She kicks them. She slams her foot again and again over the polyester no matter how much more it stings, no matter how much this hurts, because this she has power over.

Her legs buckle. She slides down over the floor and a fresh jolt of pain surges from her knee, but it's masked by the tears spilling down her—oh. And now she's crying again.

She huddles her face into the crook of her arms, leaving just these new sobs exposed. Tries to hide from herself like a child and fails at it all.

Television. Who knows which channel. The news. Lilou rests her leg over the sofa by way of lying motionless on her stomach, face tilted toward whatever news things the screen keeps telling her. She doesn't need to go to the bathroom. She's not hungry. Her skirt's fine whichever direction it's pointed. She can see that it's getting darker out from the corner of her eye, but the window feels too far for even her gaze to travel.

But that means it's now Friday night. It's the weekend. She made it. Doesn't feel like much of an achievement anymore, but she made it.

Rattles from the front door echo behind Lilou over a couple of news anchors chuckling at a joke she missed. The knob clicks open. Footfalls poof easy over the carpet as Vivienne calls, “I'm home, Lilou! God, the client was shit today. Horrible. It's so good to be—kicking—off—"

Little swipes of leather lead up to a couple of small thuds beneath her voice.

“—my shoes, and just to be home again, right? I needed this."

Lilou pushes herself upright onto just one of the cushions. Vivienne shuffles closer, clicks on the overhead light, says, “All the lights off again? You're so silly. Come on, we need to brighten this place up."

She turns on a lamp, too, on her way over to the sofa, but her smile is dimmer tonight in the bright lights. She sighs, tugs out the bobby pins from her bun, collapses it into a dirty blonde pile down her shoulders before dumping herself at the other end of the sofa from Lilou. Vivienne only offers her a glance before she takes the remote and turns down the volume. Then she squares up.

“Lilou?"

Lilou looks over through a slouch. Vivienne clasps her hands quiet in her own lap, trying to look her girl in the eye but constantly darting to any other feature.

“I have some good news and some bad news."

Lilou looks back to the nothing on television. Vivienne breathes in, then says, “I know I've been really busy with work lately, and been spending a lot of extra time on these design projects, but—I've been doing really well on these projects, too, and actually, that's the good news. People at the company are really noticing me. They're depending on me, right?"

Vivienne claps her hands next. She sucks in her lips, still pretending to smile.

“So, the bad news is that I do have to work again tomorrow."

Lilou holds steady at first, but her body tilts limp toward the armrest until her spine is bent over it like a wet noodle. There's no other energy in her limbs to complain.

“I know, I know," Vivienne says, reaching over and rubbing Lilou on the paw. “But it's not that bad, really, because I already called Nicolas—"

Wait what?

“—and I convinced him to spend the day with you again!"

Lilou shoves back up. Vivienne smiles like normal, big and broad, pulling back and folding her arms like she's proven some point. “Right? You'll still get to have fun. I'm not ruining your weekend this time, right?"

'Convinced'? He didn't want to agree to it. He was pressured. He felt obligated. He just wants to be a good neighbor. He shouldn't have to do this. He doesn't want to.

The paw holding Lilou upright grows heavier. She feels like she's floating somewhere deep and cold.

This isn't a confrontation anyone deserves. Not even her.

Vivienne's grin stutters after a moment more of watching Lilou, and she lowers her arms again. She actually frowns. She lifts a hand to Lilou's shoulder and says, “I'll turn my phone off for all of Sunday, okay? That one's just for us. We'll go somewhere you like. You just be thinking where to go, okay?"

Lilou's gaze turns naturally back to the television, eyes wide and shoulders heavy. Heavier all the more as Vivienne shuffles closer and snuggles up, pulling her head down over Lilou's, hair falling over fur—taking the remote back up, grinning some more, sighing, “Now let's find something else to watch, if you don't mind."

YES I FUCKING MIND

It's engraved over every thought spinning in Lilou's head, but as the cage around her body completes itself—Vivienne drawing her legs up the other side of the sofa—her limbs feel even emptier. She resigns to her fate, maybe—except she can't. There's no way. She can't do this.

No, now she just panics silently over it.