FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Kefl

Kieran sat back and spread his legs, pushing through the embarrassment that already began to well up from inside. It helped if he averted his eyes from his audience here, a friend from one of the were-hyena's classes: this otter sat with his chin on his paw and his gaze focused, clearly enthralled with the demonstration, turquoise eyes running back and forth across the other male's revealed sheath and sack as though memorizing each and every detail.

As usual, just the attention was more than enough to get Kieran going. His blush deepened as his sheath stirred, the overlapping, leathery folds of equine skin stretching, rolling, pushing apart to let the thicker, denser flesh inside push its way out. When he had first invited this otter for this session he hadn't really expected him to accept, thinking that surely he already knows his way around a horse dick, but here he was.

The otter flicked an ear and pointed. “And what'd you do right there? I see you're…"

“That just – ah – happens sometimes…" Thankful for the encouragement, Kieran brought a paw forward and down, curling his fingers around the front of his sheath. From there it was easy to run his fingerpads along the rim and gently tug, pulling the supple skin down further, unfolding it from his shaft as it grew. “There's a lot of – real sensitive nerves right there, and sometimes what… when I wanna get there fast, I just… put my fingers here, and rub back and forth, and…"

And the pleasure began to wash over him. He leaned back in his chair and carried out the example, other paw soon going to join the first as well: one worked at the rim of his sheath, the heavy, humid heat of his growing shaft slipping out against his belly, while the other squeezed and massaged at his equally hefty balls stirring at the edge of the seat.

“When we get, uh, hard," Kieran went on, letting his eyes flutter open. He glanced at the otter, saw that his audience was still staring at the center of his display, and glanced away again. “Sometimes it's called dropping. You know why?"

The otter straightened up. “Since y'all's dicks so big, when you stand up it-"

Kieran demonstrated that, too. Shaft pushing its way towards the halfway point, he straightened up, leaned forward, slid his paws away – and couldn't help but smile at the way the otter's eyes visibly followed the slump and bounce of heavy meat between his legs, sagging down and then coming back up. He caught it on the way up and pushed his paw towards the head.

“Right behind here is another good spot," he went on, more squeezing than anything. “Almost like I'm – trying to open a bottle of water. And while I'm doing that I like to…" He returned his other paw to the base, where he physically pushed the remaining folds of his sheath back, slick supple skin sliding easily up across his knuckles. “A little, uh, messy, and the… the scent often hangs around for a while, but it just…" He swallowed, shivered, straightened again, and then sighed as the throb worked its way through him. “Feels good."

“Oh, yeah. I know the technique." The otter shifted his weight and tilted his head, wrapped up in the show. “Do you also do the – using the pre as lube? Since sometimes I like t- oh."

The deeper he sank into the pleasure of the display, the easier it was to go on further. At first Kieran was uncertain about such a thing as this, a kind of show-and-tell for his friend about “how best to get a horse cock off – or at least, uh, mine specifically, or I mean the way that I like to do it," but now it was hard to resist. Again the were-hyena sat back, now stroking at himself more fully: every time his paw pushed up towards the rim of his as of yet unflared head, a thick glob of clear pre pressed out from the end and spread out across the blunted surface, for him to then run his fingers over and smear down across his himself. Velvety soft skin soon glistened with the gathered wetness, hot and slick and slimy.

He swallowed, licked his lips, opened his eyes again. “You've – done this before?"

“Oh, yeah. But I wanted to see how you do it. Your balls?"

“Huh?" Kieran blinked. “Oh. Yeah. Holding, squeezing, uh… I guess tugging right there – not too hard – it's… something about the pressure, or the tension, I guess. Pulls back at the – at my sheath, keeps everything… tight."

At this point he had difficulty keeping himself focused. The familiar sensation and pleasure of indulging in himself pushed back across him again and again, every time his paw slid up towards his head, bunched the sensitive, supple skin of his shaft there, caught more of his pre, and then pressed back again. Kieran simply worked at himself for a while, fully aware that he was sitting here pawing off in front of someone who he had met in one of his classes barely three months ago, and somehow just loving it even more.

“Seems pretty similar to, y'know… playing with an uncut dick." The otter shifted his chin to his other paw and peered closer. “Does it also work for y'all, with the… on the underside, down in front? We've got the frenulum, but you…"

“K-kinda. For us, it's…" Kieran leaned forward again, now moving both paws towards the end of his shaft. One remained just behind the rim of his head while the other pressed down against it, palm to the blunted surface, fingers wrapping around, squeezing, pulsing – and immediately his body reacted, every muscle tensing, every nerve firing. “A-ah, yeah, it's – oh, man – something about… like we're… in, uh, in a mare, and-" Still he worked his fingers there, rubbing his palm down against himself, feeling the dribbling ooze of pre from his approaching peak, smearing it back and forth. Gradually the rim of his head began to pulse and grow, flaring out, pushing closer and closer: “It's called – bottoming out, and we – we – ah-"

And he couldn't hold back. His back arched, his teeth gritted, his hips bucked, and he didn't quite move his paw away in time. The first thick, sharp spurt blasted up against his palm and squirted out across himself, and only then did Kieran smear that paw down to his base to hold himself up and away from himself: a second and third pounded through him, ropes arcing up into the air and then coming back down; a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, painting the floor and the otter's chair; a seventh slopping out, an eighth, a ninth… and by the tenth each and every fold and wrinkle of the were-hyena's equine sheath dripped with thick, sticky white, rolling down his leathery balls and staining his fur.

Exhausted, he sat back and let his still-hard cock flop forward, bouncing between his legs and flinging off the remaining squirts and dribbles of his load. The otter had sat up and scooted back to avoid his inclusion in the splash zone, though still he had borne some of the evidence across his knees and paws.

“So that's…" Kieran swallowed, trying to catch his breath. “How to get me off. Basically. Any… any questions?"

Blue eyes flashed. “When can I try?"

SoraCasus

Viytal grinned down at his captured prey and thrust forward with his hips again, and again, and again, each time pressing himself deeper inside of her, feeling the way her body and her muscles naturally slid and clenched and squeezed around the demon's girth. Underneath him the bluebird's eyes flashed and fluttered in a mix of humiliation, pleasure, and deep, stirring annoyance, though with each press of his hips to her rump all of this fizzled away again like a snuffed candle, only to come back when he began to pull himself back out.

Never all the way, though. He found no difficulty in keeping her winged arms pinned above her head, his fingers pushing down at the roots of some of her feathers, his strength far superior to hers; where's all your confidence now? he thought, the notion of his triumph further serving to fuel his fire. Every time he pushed into her she chirped out, and he liked to imagine it was the power of his thrusts bouncing up through her body and forcing the air out of her lungs: he loved the sizzle of her struggle just before, the heat of her embarrassment, the roiling bite of her frustration with herself.

She had come here, to his home, to his sanctuary, and demanded that he serve her, with hardly a thought for her own safety or position. As if she deserved it; as if she were entitled to him; as if she owned him. It hadn't been hard at all to turn things around on her, to grab the frail bird as she approached and throw her down, to tear her clothes off and make a thorough, hungry exploration of her body – which she obviously, deeply enjoyed, though she tried her best not to show it. Perhaps she also tried not to enjoy it in the first place, but the wet warmth simmering between her thighs when Viytal tugged her pants off, the expression on her face, the glitter in her eyes, when he thumped his own arousal down against her and showed her just how far into her belly he would plunge.

Naturally he did it all at once, one paw keeping her little wrists above her head, the other angling his tapered canine tip up against her, then rubbing down to smear himself in her arousal, and then – one good, swift thrust in, the wet heat of her resistance spreading around him, squeezing tight, cushioning him in the delicious warmth of her body. She had arched her back and gasped out in something halfway between pleasure and discomfort, and Viytal had hungrily sucked down her sensations to mix them with his own.

“How dare you," she had said, voice breaking again and again beneath his rhythm, “I deserve better than this, you really ought to-" but he never found out what, for he had clamped his paw around her beak and forced her head sideways to stifle her complaining. Still the hot puffs of pleasured sighs seeped out around his fingers, and before long he could release her again so that she resumed her initial tirade of breathy moans and half-choked gasps.

Once again the demon buried himself inside of the bluebird, this time pushing a little bit further, a little bit harder, since he knew that that made her body reflexively clench around him. Just a little bit more… and Azzy here grimaced and clacked her beak, squeezing down around him, making his tail swish and his lips curl back in a predatory grin.

So he held himself there, clenching, squeezing, letting himself throb inside of her, claiming her from the inside; still buried he churned his hips, dragging his sack across the underside of her tailfeathers, working his sharp scent against her wherever he could.

“Know your place, Azzy," he rumbled, in his best growl. “Right here, underneath me. It's you who is to serve me. Can you repeat that for me?"

She grimaced again, swallowed, worked her beak – then took a moment to well up a mouthful of saliva and spat it up at him. Viytal dodged to the side, grinned even wider, and this time gripped her face in his paw so that he could work his thumb into the corner of her mouth and force it open.

“Close," he said, voice even lower. At the back of his throat he worked his tongue, mimicking her offense. “I see you need a little encouragement. Open wide, little birdy…"

Yellow eyes widened and she struggled around him upon realizing what he planned. Just like before, the resistance just goaded Viytal further: he couldn't help but tug himself back and then once more bury himself inside of her as he pursed his lips and let that glob loose, thick and sticky, frothy. Azzy tried to jerk her head aside at the last minute, resulting in only half of it spattering across her beak: the other plopped right into the back of her throat among her own gathered drool, with Viytal once more closing his paw around her mouth to keep it closed.

The foolish adventurer's blush deepened, pale white feathers of her face tinting to a richer rose. She squirmed and wriggled around him, sticklike legs trying to kick at his body but only succeeding in working herself around his hard shaft, her chest straining as she tried to avoid taking another breath – and then all at once she gasped, swallowed, lurched, coughed, and spluttered, her enjoyment palpable throughout her body. Azzy shivered around him and pressed herself down into the demon's lap, stretching herself against his half-swollen knot, smearing him further in the evidence of her arousal.

“Good girl," he purred, tilting his head. “Come on. Let me hear you say it."

The bluebird's golden eyes slitted. “Go fuck yourself," she replied – and opened her mouth wider for him.

For a moment Viytal couldn't believe it. This one will take a while to break, he realized then, and it was this thought that drove him to pick up his pace further, until Azzy's body bounced and shuddered underneath him, her pleasure perfectly mirroring her disdain for him.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

Thewonderingcanine

Mocha hummed a tune to himself as he walked, careful not to swing his bucket too much. A little was fine, though: he enjoyed the swish and rattle of his spoils for the night so far, and it was the best way other than looking to know just how much he had expanded his haul over this last half hour or so. Normally he would like to take another look, to fish around and see if he could find a snack on this Halloween night that would tide him over until he made it to the next house, but there were no streetlights illuminating the way like in the previous neighborhoods.

Or, there were, but they were far, far too small to be of any use to the wolf-husky. Attention focused on his bucket he accidentally kicked another of them over, the orange light briefly flashing up across him and then blinking out with a small sound closer to shearing plastic than shattering glass: he grimaced, glanced down, and stepped back into the road barely wide enough for him to walk, the following streetlights barely making it past his ankles. So many of these houses had their porch lights on, but he thought it might be rude to try to get each and every one of them, so the wolf-husky continued on his way into what he thought would count as the next neighborhood before he made his next move.

The houses were small, too, as were their inhabitants: picking another nice target Mocha squatted down, rested his bucket beside himself near one of those small lights, and took the chance to peer into it. Resting inside and atop the bed of candy that he had retrieved from his actual trick-or-treating excursion earlier in the night was not one, not two, but three of the small structures nestled back against the inner walls of the plastic pumpkin, their lights off after being unceremoniously torn from their foundations, the inhabitants either hidden inside or sitting out among the rest of Mocha's candy. Upon noticing him looking down at them they shifted and turned to face him, tiny eyes bright and ears up; he could tell that some of them were trying to say something to him, but they were so small the words had no chance of reaching his ears.

That was fine. His plans for these folks would wait until he had gotten back to his own place, with this visit being the last house on his list before he figured he had his share. The wolf-husky carefully slid his paw back out of his bucket's handle, watched to make sure it didn't tip over, then rummaged around through the folds of his costume – he had gone as a banana this year, something that made his friends nearly pass out from laughter when they first saw it – to find his pocket underneath. Mocha pinched his tongue between his lips in concentration, dug around a little further, tilted his head… then jumped and yelped as his very target poked into the pad of his finger, and stuck gently into place there.

Upon taking the toothpick out of his pocket he looked over the small wound, stuck his finger into his mouth, and then bent down closer to the ground in front of this next tiny house, way out here in the micro neighborhood. Many of the folks living here knew and recognized him, as he had always been a fairly regular visitor: while he knew that, technically, he was regular-sized and they were small, it was just as fun to think of things as the other way around, too. Amazing what a simple change in perspective can do for your understanding, he had thought to himself time and time again.

Tonight, though, was a night of fun and enjoyment, and delicious, tasty treats. Already his mouth was watering thinking about it. Toothpick clutched between his other, unwounded forefinger and thumb, Mocha lowered himself down close enough to the ground so he could see the house's front porch and door, and with a slow, practiced paw reached forward, found the miniscule doorbell set into the threshold there… and after only three tries this time, managed to poke the tip of the toothpick right up onto the button. This close, this low, this focused, he could actually make out the musical tones ringing out inside, soft and tinny to his larger – or rather, regular-sized – ears.

A few seconds passed, then a few more, and he was just about to reach forward to try again when the little door clicked and swung open. Through experience across the past several years he had learned to properly manage his volume when coming through this neighborhood, and as such instead of shouting it out like he would when with his friends Mocha instead said in a voice just a little bit over his normal speaking volume, “trick or treat" – and the tiny yellow-furred foxwolf jumped at the unexpected sound.

Surprise and shock quickly turned to delight, though, as the tiny Smack recognized his friend here in front of him. Mocha couldn't help but grin at the smaller male's response and reached his paw down like some giant in a cartoon movie, for the little foxwolf to clamber up and stand in his palm; Mocha chuckled, reached for his bucked beside him, and rose to his full height, trying his best not to jostle his new passenger all that much.

“Look," Mocha said, now starting to turn around to begin his route back home, “I've got some of your pals here." He hoisted his bucket closer so that Smack could see. The little foxwolf peered in, tilted his head, and then perked his ears and waved at some of the others in there. “But you'll have a special seat on the way back. Here-" And Mocha gently pinched his friend by the scruff, brought him easily into the air – briefly thought about tossing him into his mouth, as Smack certainly thought too – and slid him into a pocket at the front of his costume. Just why a banana needed a front pocket in its peel, he hadn't yet figured out. “Is that cozy? Are you all set?"

Paws gripping the rim of the pocket, Smack craned his head back and nodded, little tail wagging in his compartment. Mocha returned his grin and continued on his way, looking down at the miniscule streets at his footpaws, smirking at each conspicuously empty spot where the resident had opted for the trick instead of the treat, to find themselves moments later riding along in his bucket.

A trick now would be a treat later. Mocha began humming again as he walked.

LomiDePuzlo

Marcy stepped carefully over a branch that had fallen across the path, making sure to stick to the patches of short, soft moss that had grown over the rest of the gravel. Luckily the process of time as well as the original preservation efforts meant that the gravel used was rounded enough to not necessarily hurt against her bare feet, but neither was it comfortable. So instead she just opted to avoid it entirely, instead indulging in the sensation of nature against her bare skin alongside the soft, cool wind through the forest, the tickle of falling leaves on her neck or long grass along her ankles, or – occasionally – the knowledge of early afternoon sunlight reaching across places it almost never saw.

A shirt that reached only most of the way down her belly, a cozy bottom from one of her swimsuits that dug gently yet nicely into the soft curves of her body… and nothing else, above or underneath. She had deliberately come to walk this trail at the tail end of the season to reduce the chance of meeting anyone else along the way, and so far her ploy had worked out: she had been able to flip her shirt up and feel the wind on her bare breasts at multiple points throughout the walk so far, had slid her underwear down just far enough and reached back to spread herself while walking to feel the trickling sun and outdoor air, had squatted down at that curve back there just to experience everything. It was a combination of her constant near-nudity paired with the knowledge that anyone could come from either direction at any point, and then the extra kick from knowing that this was somewhere she really should be better dressed.

Already she was some two miles away from where she had parked, though, having driven here in more proper attire and then sat there for some seven minutes while making sure nobody else would show up. Then Marcy had stripped down, waited naked in her car for another few moments, and got dressed again, as much as what she currently wore could be called clothed. And off she went, never daring to expect that things could go so well.

Until a few moments ago, at least, when she had risen from her little pause and squat at the curve in the pathway. Down within her belly she felt a familiar stirring, the growing pressure and urgency; the weather had said it would be on the sunny side today, so she had made sure to double down on her hydration before heading out, knowing that she wouldn't be bringing any kind of water bottle with her. Now that result of that effort made itself known, tickling at the inside of her belly and swishing and sloshing down against her with each step.

Before she knew what she was doing she had quickened her pace, paying more attention to the simmering warmth within her bladder than the pathway itself, and missed a few of the patches of moss so that little bits of gravel and sticks poked up into the undersides of her feet, making her gasp and pause to pick them out. She leaned to the side against an unfinished wooden fence set up some unknown number of years ago, leg halfway bent while she leaned down over it. A quick few brushes of the back of her hand knocked all the loose offenders free, and when she lowered that foot back down to the ground she made sure to place it along a stretch of grass, shifted her weight to get back into step, and then hesitated. She peered forward to see around the next bend, bit her lip, glanced back over her shoulder…

…and then reached down to tug her underwear to the side, just far enough to prevent most of the spillage. The fabric tucked nicely into a fold of soft, sweat-humid skin against her inner thigh, and in another moment she crouched down, hands holding balance on the fence, spread her legs, arched her back… and then sighed with relief as finally she gave into that urgent need, her mark spraying haphazardly out across the ground in front of her and the wooden post of the fence, then strengthening into a fuller, stronger stream once she settled into the sensation.

Naturally, though, loose drips and sprays splashed out across her inner thighs and feet held underneath her, one hand keeping her lips spread to minimize the splash zone. Marcy looked back and forth over her shoulders again, the tension of knowing she could be caught at any moment leading her to tighten down further, to put more force behind the action so that it crested up between the slats of the fence and arced down across this side of the path, trickling over fallen leaves like fresh, warm rain. More relaxed now, the relief washing over her and raising goosebumps across her bared skin, she leaned back a little bit further, let her jaw drop open, and ran her other hand up along her belly, imagining for a moment that she could feel some of the soft roundness there dribble away as she drained out into the openness of nature.

Her eyes fluttered shut, then opened again so that she could continue taking in everything around her, and the fact that she was here, doing this. Relief began to bubble up into a distant, stirring arousal: Marcy swallowed, licked her lips, and once more lifted her shirt up, pulling between her breasts and then letting the loose fabric drape over from above. She spread her fingers around one of her nipples, feeling the sensitive, soft skin underneath, the little bumps as they brushed across and between, the distinct heft and jiggle; a squeeze there sent another shiver through her body, and then she had brought her other hand up to do the same, pressing her breasts together in front of her chest, lifting them up towards her chin, letting them drop back down while she finally pressed out the last of her piss, the stream cutting to the side and following along overlapping folds before dripping down underneath her.

Another swallow, and shudder, and she dropped a hand to run a pair of fingers along warm, piss-slickened flesh, spreading the wetness up across herself. Two miles back the way she came, or one and a half if she continued on the loop; maybe, she thought, once more looking down the trail, I can take a bit of a break…