FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Lights passed by hypnotically as they sped down the highway. The driver wasn't a talker this time around, and Stephen didn't know whether to be glad for it or not. At least the radio was on to provide some welcome white noise, though he wasn't a country guy. But maybe the fact that Marty Robbins' Big Iron made an appearance was a sign that the gods were smiling on him.

He'd done it. He'd invited himself at Franky's place, after sundown, after a… date? And she liked it. But did she pick up on his ulterior motives? But how else should he have phrased it? Oh, hey, Franky, I get your giant ass naked, do extremely dirty things to it, and then we do it again, and again, and possibly forever if we're really into it?

Stop overthinking it, a part of his mind whispered.

Wait, was that the lizard brain part? When did that get so rational?

Stop overthinking it, focus on getting her naked and horny.

OK, that was more familiar. It still made a worrying amount of sense.

Running on instinct he took out his phone for some distraction to find himself holding the inert, dark mirror. Right. He glanced over at the driver. The grey-muzzled coyote had her half-lidded eyes set on the road in a way that repelled any notion of bullshit small talk. Her jaw rhythmically worked on a piece of gum to further dispel any notion of talk. Beef jerky flavor, judging by the half empty pack in the center console cubby hole. He turned his eyes back on the world passing by outside. Anonymous suburbs bathing in the soft glow of urban light pollution, apartment buildings speckled in the light and dark of night owls and early risers. The squatting, enigmatic hulks of stark business architecture. Tall poles of fast food chains shining their messages, lighthouses for the ships of the road.

Errant ghosts of thought continued roaming through his mind as the journey continued, the gentle sway of the truck's suspension lulling him into a half sleep that prevented him from making any sense of them. Maybe his lizard brain was right. Things were, at least for this night, once again simple. He was just going to have a beer with the tigress, and then he'd have to find a moment somewhere to maybe reach out and ruffle her fluff a bit and ask her to keep meeting up even when they weren't being forced by circumstance. Maybe ruffle the fluff some more.

Or maybe he should only ruffle the fluff after asking. Let's just see how it goes.

Shit, he was tired. The beer had only been a pretext, but it was beginning to look like a goal.

Eventually the driver hit the brakes and worked the stick in a series of downshifts, calming the roar of the engine, and slotted into the exit. Stephen idly noted that they were, indeed, in the right place as their journey of only a short time ago repeated itself in reverse. It seemed strange to think that in between there was a milestone in his life, a bolt of lightning that forever separated before and after.

It wasn't that late, and the street life had barely calmed down. In parts it had swelled as weekend crowds roamed the sidewalks. The hipsters occupied their familiar spots outside their hip bars, smoking their endearingly working class roll-ups. Before long the truck hopped the curb outside the familiar brick facade of a decommissioned factory building with its larger than life doors, windows, and occupants.

Again the night air greeted him, though with no physical and mental heat left to shed its starkness revealed itself. Without a further word the driver gunned the engine of her vehicle and left them standing on the sidewalk. On any other night the steady trickle of bar-hunting foot traffic wouldn't have bothered him, but he could do without being recognized by some rando who couldn't handle their liquor just now.

At least they didn't seem to stare at Franky. It was a big folk neighborhood, so the squishies had probably learned one way or the other. A hippo in a tight grab-my-love-handles-and-fuck-me dress plowing down the opposite sidewalk threw up a hand in an excited greeting, though. Franky waved in return with the half-hearted expression of the somewhat familiar.

Stephen looked up to her with longing, and they locked eyes in a magic moment. They were of the same mind, two spirits intertwined as one.

Let's get the fuck inside before someone recognizes us for real.

Despite the fact that they hadn't been gone long, the sanctuary of Franky's apartment was a welcome sight. Franky swung the door closed, the thick slab of wood thunking into its massive lock with the monolithic finality of a vault. Except this vault contained beer and fat tigress ass, so it was a perfectly survivable situation.

The place was illuminated as Franky hit the lights, revealing everything as they had left it. The bank of tall windows were no more than dark mirrors backed by the night outside, and she moved to close the curtains, ensuring privacy with a few resolute tugs.

It really wasn't fair that her butt was at eye height, with that thick, fluffy tail hanging around in perfect grabbing range. The men's cut of her pants was never intended contain this much proverbial junk in its proverbial trunk.

Don't you just want to dive in? The primitive part of his brain asked.

Yes, he did.

She spun around with vigor, whipping her tail behind her and slapping it against the fabric of the curtains with a thwack.

“Whoa! Would ya look at the time!" she exclaimed.

“Eh?" Stephen could only manage a quizzical look.

“It's beer o'clock!"

Yes, of course.

With a few strides she thumped across the room, eliciting a rattle from anonymous corners in the same way a minor earthquake did, and liberated a keg-sized can from the Star Wars ice cave she called a fridge.

“I'ma just gonna give ya a new glass…" she spoke as she rummaged in the cupboard. “What else do I have them fer, anyway?"

She probably figured that he figured that she was the type who wouldn't let a few hours of disuse get between her and the concept of cleanliness. And they were both right in that regard, because there wasn't a shadow of doubt that Franky was exactly that type.

Meanwhile, he just dutifully waited by the couch. This was the routine they'd settled in, and he wasn't about to make an ass of himself by failing an attempt just now. It allowed him to shove his worrying mind into a time-hole, for the time being. Hanging out next to a couch, waiting for the seating and relaxing to commence, was the sort of limbo society had simply never deigned itself to find an answer to. Besides, he owed her the satisfaction after those fancy studio chairs had robbed it from her.

They were at the point where she didn't have to ask anymore. She just gave a half-lidded look, bit of a smirk, and gave him the ol' one handed butt scoop up to the couch.

That was his favorite, he had to admit. Aside from the obvious butt-touching, it made for a fairly comfortable ride. Certainly better than the traditional cat-grab, with two hands under the arms. Especially in his present, still lingering condition.

Again the couch provided some challenge in the sitting department. He could either let his legs dangle, but have nothing to support his back, or sit against the backrest and stretch his legs over the length of the seat and maybe let his feet dangle a bit.

While he was still deciding Franky wrestled off her lumberjack shirt. It seemed to be a mortal struggle as she got one sleeve halfway down her arm, gave up on that side and scrabbled to remove the sleeve on the other. The fabric didn't want to let go, either, clinging to her with worrying fervor. Eventually she managed to work the garment off herself under growly, half-spoken curses. She tossed it over the armrest of the couch with visible disdain.

“Fucking hot, that thing is," she grumbled.

In the fight she'd managed to get her shirt riding up, the beaver on its faded print flattened by a fold. The downy, white fur of her belly contrasted fiercely with the dark tones of her clothing as it hung out defiantly, pudging a bit over the hem of her jeans.

Reach out and grab it.

No, lizard brain. That'd be rude. Besides, my arms aren't long enough.

You want to squeeze all the plump parts of the tigress. Just do it.

Yes, that was true. He didn't know quite what it was, but Franky really brought out the grabby part of his mind. Maybe it was a luxury response, like a fox in a henhouse -there was a reason so many male strippers were foxes- there was just so much of her to grab that it was the first thing that came to mind. Or maybe it was the way she carried herself, shamelessly. Either way, he wouldn't just go and grab her. That'd be ridiculous.

“Franky, you've got a little something… hanging out." He motioned to his own stomach.

“Oh." She moved her hand down, then raised the shirt with a sharp tug and a menacing grin, eliciting a gentle jiggle. “Afraid of a bit of fat, are ya?"

OK, now he knew. It was both. The quantity of the goods and the way she put them on display. The primitive part of his brain rose up in a chorus of prehistoric howls. He had to spend a second tamping them down again.

“Uh… yeah," he stammered, then let slip a grin of his own, “it'd be just… horrible if you showed me any more. Whatever you do, don't get naked!"

Having said it, he realized that he'd actually done so. A hot flash traveled through his body, the sense of being perplexed at his own forwardness. Was it too much?

“Weirdo," Franky chuckled as she put her belly back where it belonged. She popped the can with a hiss, filled the shot glass, and handed it to him. “Here ya go."

Then she settled on the couch herself, taking care not to launch him through displacement, and kicked off her boots. She took a long pull from the can, letting out a satisfied soda commercial breath afterwards.

“Damn, that hits the spot."

That was the truth of it. The fizzy, golden stuff somehow tasted especially good after having done something, and Stephen surprised himself by draining half his glass in one go.

They sat in silence for a moment. Franky settled in what he assumed was her favored position, wedging herself in the corner of the couch with one arm swung over the backrest.

“So…" she said tentatively, “ya think that's it?"

It was obvious what she was talking about.

“I guess so. We can't go farther up than live TV. The investigation is still going and all, but I think people'll lose interest soon enough. They always do."

“Aye," she agreed.

“I suppose friends and family will never let us live it down, but I doubt we'll get to go on some sort of media tour."

The weight of his dead phone hung heavy in his pocket. He did not look forward to tomorrow.

“Yeah, guess so." Her rumble seemed a bit more muted than normal, if such a thing was possible. She turned the strength of her huntress' eyes on him. “Thanks, though. Ya really pulled through fer me."

“Hey, no problem." Her eyes had the shine of the studio spots that had nearly melted both of them. “I was pulling for myself, too."

Was this it? The closing window of opportunity? He'd seen it often enough in his life, and let it pass almost as much. He'd built up a long list of moments that could have turned into beginnings if he'd just said something, or at least turned into definitive points of closure instead of maybe's he'd carry with him forever. Whatever way it would go here, could he really deal with a giant, tiger-shaped maybe? What's the worst thing that could happen? She'd fold him into a pretzel? At least she wasn't the sort of person to turn bitchy. He'd always take pretzel over being bitched at. But he'd already invited himself here, so he was really just doing the same thing twice.

“Hey, Franky, you know…" ah shit, there was his usual eloquence, “…I'd like it if we could continue hanging out. Maybe do some fun stuff together that doesn't revolve around work shit?"

A smile formed on her black lips, tips of teeth poking out. “Yeh, I'm all for it. I still owe ya lunch, right?"

Yes! The giant bulldozer-woman wants to hang!

“I seem to recall breakfast, too," he smirked at her, success immediately converted to glib.

Her smile grew to bare fangs. “An' here I was thinkin' ya were more of a Netflix and chill kinda guy."

“Nah, I don't really feel like a movie tonight. Got too much going on upstairs…"

Wait a minute.

That's not what Netflix and chill meant. The fact that a somewhat bemused expression could be read in the stripes and fangs in front of him seemed to corroborate that.

“Oh… uh… I didn't mean to suggest… you know…"

His confidence crumbled as his grasp on grammar did.

Franky seemed to think it was all quite entertaining, the tips of her fangs poking out further from under a wicked smile, snorting through her nose in laughter held back only for the suggestion of manners.

“Jeez, no wonder ya don't wanna watch a movie. Yer tryin' real hard to be a bad comedy on yer own."

“You're winding me up."

She snorted again, letting more fang slip. “Yeh."

The hot rash of embarrassment subsided, his emotions focused through the lens of Franky's boorish flippancy.

“I was thinking more of cute breakfast… thing. You know, coffee, croissants, eggs, that whole thing. Nobody actually goes out for breakfast, right? Just seemed nice to me."

“It… does sound nice," she said after a few seconds, having lost the smirk. “Yer right, nobody ever took me out to breakfast."

“You'd be taking me out," he reminded her.

“I'd be paying. Idea's yours, so yer takin' me out."

He let out a single laugh. “And you're calling me the weirdo?"

“Those're just the facts."

He let the silence hang for a moment, regarding the striped enigma sitting besides him. Whenever they were outside, in what to her must be a dollhouse world, there was a certain tension about her. Here, in what seemed like an undercover cathedral to him, that tension was absent. She nestled into the corner of the couch as naturally as anyone of normal size would, exuding rough beauty like a scene of wild nature. If a normal woman was a flower, Franky was more akin to raging waterfall. Even her small movements carried weight, right down to twitches of her tail or ears.

For her part she choose to use the silence to bare those knife-sized teeth and pick between them with a sickle of a claw.

“Is it at least a romantic comedy?" he asked. He surprised himself with the question, and the lack of effort with which he threw it out there. It were the primitive parts of his brain at work, he was sure of it. He'd never have been able to keep them all in check forever, and maybe he was never meant to.

Franky briefly batted her long lashes at him, though the batting was more in the manner of someone going for a home run. He'd caught her while she was still probing her toothy maw, after she'd embarrassed him, so at least the element of surprise was on his side.

“Uh…"

Oh yeah, that's definitely the sound of someone caught off guard.

Realization flashed in her eyes, and her lips curled upward.

“Now yer the one's windin' me up."

At once, Stephen's heart sank. Or rather, it plummeted like a cartoon character, pumping its metaphorical legs and flapping its nonexistent arms. And like all good cartoon characters it found some purchase in the fucked up logic of its cartoon world. Franky had to be the single most obtuse, socially maladjusted person he'd ever met. Even if he'd cracked her stony facade before, by sheer force of habit she'd built it up again. Thinner and shoddier, maybe. He just needed to throw rocks instead of pebbles.

He could still scrabble back, go back to the regular, old plan of just hanging out with someone you like before finding some subtle avenue of making your feelings known. But the after image of the studio lights he thought he could still see when he blinked reminded him that regular and old had made a clean break with him, with them. It just wasn't going to be that way when they woke up the next morning.

Besides, subtle was never Franky's style. He fixed his eyes on the blazing gold of hers.

“No, I mean I think we've grown closer through a series of improbable events and that…"

“Jeesh, sure, we've had a meet-cute an' all," Franky cut in. Her voice wavered, one hand very obviously scratching an itch on the back of her head that very obviously wasn't there, and her normally so resolute gaze trying to find a target for itself somewhere around the room where Stephen wasn't. He'd bet his left arm that not many people ever got her to squirm under their gaze, so he couldn't help but derive some small enjoyment from it. Not in the least because she was very, very bad at it.

Not going to lie, it was amazing she even knew what a meet-cute was. Did she get that from her Russian literature?

“But… but 's not like we reeeaaally did any, like, real romantic stuff," she continued, switching from scratching an imaginary itch to plucking at her shirt, gaze resting on a spot near her bookcase. “Sure, we did some date-like stuff, an' we got called a couple in a tabloid, but…"

“Oh, come on." The orange trainwreck unfolding before his eyes got the better of his sensibilities. “That's classic romantic comedy, Franky! You even disrobed in front of me, and made me all embarrassed without intending it. Just now you shook your belly at me. I even had to awkwardly grope through your underwear drawer, and I found your damn dildo!"

Instantly Franky's eyes swiveled back onto him, just like a pair of studio lights, and he could feel himself melt in their heat. Or maybe that was just the internal desire to just kind of rewind time and leave that last bit out.

“You found Long Schlong Johnson?"

“I didn't mean to, honest." It took a second for the gears in his mind to whir into action and take notice. “Wait, you named it? Long Schlong Johnson?" He had to fight a sly smile off his face, and a cruel laugh out of his throat. To think he'd once felt threatened by that ridiculously named length of latex. “That's so damn trite, it's perfect. You can't deny it, we're well into romantic comedy territory."

“Shit. I told ya to not go pokin' around." She looked away again, the tip of her tail twitching. “Figures it'd be Long Schlong Johnson to do me in. I'ma let ya out on callin' me trite."

“That's because you know I'm right," Stephen said as he pushed himself upright, his side issuing some small and easily ignored protests, couch cushions dimpling under his feet in a manner that screamed 'swamp' to the primitive parts of his brain. All the better to distract them for a while. He really wanted to be on eye-level for this.

He made his wobbly way over to where Franky sat, the liquid gold of her eyes turning to him again as he did so. For a second her whiskers, thick and nylon-like, twitched forward. It was clear Franky didn't do lovey-dovey expressions. For all the cracks he'd busted in her facade, she still regarded him with a guarded look, as if he were a new face at the watering hole. An unknown, not a morsel of food. That was something.

He locked his gaze with hers, instantly feeling the heat of the blaze. Even with the most casual glance she could strip him to the core. For once, the baying chorus of internal voices telling him to do this or that was silenced, his mind a pristine desert of intent. His heart, he knew factually, wasn't pounding any more or less hard than normal, but with the rest of the world stripped away, receding against the possible futures he could see unfolding with the orange, striped menace before him, he felt it clearly as one of the only remaining tethers to the physical now. There were turning points in a man's life, and however mundane this one was, he had arrived there at last. All he had to do now, was step forward.

“So, how about we turn the next thing we do into a real date?"

Franky flicked one ear, then the other, then looked away.

“I ain't never been with a squishy before," she said in her typical rumble.

“And I've never been with a big girl before." Ah shit, what should he do? She was still wedged into the crook of the couch, one arm over the back. He could just put his hand on her shoulder. Should he?

Fuck, why not? It'd worked in the past.

He didn't even have to reach that much due to her weird posture, so that was nice. She turned back to him. Had it been there before, that expression? Did he just not see it due to being busy with himself? Or because he simply came to expect a certain stony resolve from that fiercely striped face? Because now the wet kitten look was back in full force, right down to the drooping whiskers. Maybe he was out of his depth, but she certainly was as well. This wasn't something she could growl at and punch.

“Look, it's simple. I've realized I've really come to like you, and I want to see where that can go." Not your best work, but keep going. “If you don't feel the same way, that's fine. I just didn't want to run the risk of never having asked."

Franky regarded him in a way that all but made him hear the sound of two mill-stones grinding together.

“Uh," she said.

Parts of him previously silent really wanted to grab her by her sideburns and shout into her fluffy ears about the ease with which a simple yes or no question could be answered. His rational self, however, maintained the most neutral face he could. Just let her work this out.

“I'm kinda shit at this," she continued, giving a twitch of a smile.

An accurate assessment. He barely dared move as his heart hung in the balance.

“But… yeah? Like, I ain't promisin' I'll stick it out or anything." Having asserted her lack of commitment, she perked up and tightened her face in a somewhat more confident smile, whiskers thrust forward. “But yer a nice guy. Let's just see where this goes, yeh?"

There was none of the feeling that the world's collection of romantic fiction recommended there be. No butterflies, and certainly no thumping heart, in his throat or otherwise. The more dramatic variants were lacking entirely, and Franky's admission didn't make him feel like firing any body part from any metaphorical cannon. No bursting, jumping, popping, whatever.

Instead, if he had to describe the feeling, it was as if he'd just stepped into a hot bath. Of jello. He didn't know what he'd expected to feel, but this wasn't it. It felt like he was stuck in the moment of just starting to piss one's pants, where it feels nice and warm, but you haven't yet realized what exactly you're doing. A feeling of dirty relief.

And that wasn't quite usual, was it? Then again, neither Franky nor their relationship were anywhere near usual.

“Yeah. Let's," was all he could say for now.

“So, what now?" Franky asked, leaning back as if she'd just smoked a cigarette.

“What do you mean?" It took some effort to arch an eyebrow at her. He was really still trying to get past the pissy-pants feeling of requited… love? Interest? He hadn't even taken his hand off her, having transitioned to leaning against her as if she were a post. Something she didn't seem to mind, or even notice.

“Like… do we… you know… kiss?"

Before he'd been able to form any coherent thought on the matter Stephen let out a bark of laughter, sending a stab of pain into his injured side. Leave it to Franky to somehow be this awkwardly flippant, sitting there looking about as funny as a vintage Soviet trench digger. Part of him was thankful for the exhausting day they'd had, because he had no idea how he'd have dealt with this if he'd had enough energy to overthink and misinterpret things.

“Ah… sorry 'bout that," Franky said, looking away. “Normally I'm kinda drunk fer this part…"

There was an icicle stab of guilt. Maybe laughing hadn't been the best response, but there was one voice in the back of his mind that was still providing council. It was saying the same thing it'd been saying, without fail, every time he set sight on the bounty of Franky's fluff, but finally the time had arrived that it was right.

One step forward, and there it was again. The thump of his heart in his chest, the world receding, time slowing down. She took notice, but he was already making his move. The long tufts of fur framing her face parted between his fingers as he sunk them in and took hold. Briefly, their eyes met, before Stephen pulled her closer.

OK, he pulled himself closer while Franky remained stationary and somewhat perplexed. Though he hadn't spent much thought on the action itself, his target had been determined a long time ago. The skin of her nose was smooth under his lips, and strangely lukewarm. He couldn't feel the cute spot, but it felt somehow better to hit it than not.

While normally so talented at inducing a never-ending fight or flight response, when he pulled back Franky's eyes had somewhat less of a baleful quality to them. She blinked, slowly.

“That… erm… that weren't my mouth," she said in a soft rumble. With the hint of a purr, he could swear, though tigers weren't capable of such a thing.

“Do I get a second chance?"

Something flashed in her eyes, she issued a low growl, and suddenly her hand fell on his neck, the back of his head, taking him into a vice-like grip. Belying her strength and crudeness their lips touched only gently in a kiss any God-fearing Christian could be proud of. His nose, though, jutting humanly and inelegantly forward, squashed sideways against Franky's. No lovers' turn could ever prevent that from happening. The soft, downy fur of her snout tickled his bare skin.

It was happening. The thought shot through his mind like a bullet. He had become so focused on the moment that he'd forgotten to be nervous. But it was really happening. He was nose-to-snout with Franky, and couldn't get away if he wanted to. Her grip was casual, without much pressure, but it was obvious that trying to break away from it would meet with as much success as trying to pull off a pair of concrete boots. One voice among the chorus said he ought to feel trapped. To get up and run when the first opportunity presented itself. He chose to ignore it.

Franky pulled back, regarding him with soft eyes. She relaxed her grip, leaving her hand resting on his shoulder. The weight of her arm, working muscle clearly defined beneath the fur, was keenly perceptible.

“Like that?"

“Yeah, sorta." He shot her a grin. “I was kind of expecting you to just slobber half my face."

“I can do that, too. If ya want."

She let her tongue roll out of her mouth for a moment, past those ice pick teeth. The damn thing was much longer than the same thing on any human, even one hypothetically her size. Along the center of it ran a row of minute hooks, evolved to clean fur and strip bone. Yeah, he remembered. For some reason cats just had sharp bits stuck everywhere, even their tongues and dicks. It was a stroke of luck they didn't have porcupine bristles to complete the picture, though there was probably some enterprising feline evolving just that as they sat there.

“Maybe it's not the best idea," he said, imagining half his face being scraped off for a midnight snack. Nevertheless, the sight of Franky being so callously lurid did stir something in him. “OK, maybe just the tip. If you watch it with the barbs."

“Weirdo," she said from behind a grin, but leaned forward all the same. Her grip tightened around his shoulder once more. Her hot breath issued from flaring nostrils, stirring his hair. Thick whiskers tickled his face, and again the peach fuzz of her snout caressed his skin.

Just as he'd suggested she drug a wet track over half his face with only a mild scrape. Really, it wasn't very erotic at all. In fact, it was kind of disgusting, having half his face covered in tiger drool.

So why the fuck did he like it so much?

“Ya taste pretty nice," Franky purred as she pulled back. Her expression said something different, though. Something a little more… crazy? Was she giving him the crazy eyes? The tip of her tail twitched furiously in the corner of his vision. Her whiskers were thrust as far forward as they could go.

Oh shit.

“Fact is, I's thinkin' I want more!"

With approximately zero to literally no effort she pulled him down. She was gentle enough about it, but there was no resisting the inexorable strength of that arm like a hydraulic piston. He might was well try to stand firm against a backhoe. So down he went on the cushions of the couch, lying on his back, looking up at the towering bulk of the tigress.

The last time he was in this position, he thought he might die. Her one hand pinned him down so completely, he might as well be stuck in rubble. Though, that time he hadn't been flush with excitement nor, to be completely honest, hard as a rock. From this position it was impossible not to admire the totality of her size and strength.

Franky let out a low growl, reaching deep into the infrasonic range, licked her lips like the hungry animal she was, and crouched low over him. With her free hand she tugged loose his shirt, and before he could object or question, brought her snout to his bare stomach.

Oh yes, he could definitely feel his heart pounding now. His soft underbelly was exposed before a dangerous predator, and all her God knows how many sharp teeth. The primitive part of his brain, always so eager to dive deep into her big ass, was now sounding all alarms bells it could get its metaphorical hands on.

Instead of biting and ripping, however, she chuffed loudly onto his exposed skin, billowing his shirt. Her tongue traced a path of slobber across his belly with its slight rasp. His entire lower half was trapped between the couch, her breasts, and belly. The sight of the larger than life beast's head, with its wild fur and aggressive stripes burying itself in him was almost surreal.

There was no way she couldn't feel his boner poke into her left tit.

With only one arm free, he did the only logical thing. He took hold of one velvet ear and gave it a scratch, eliciting another low growl from her. This one reverberated through his entire body, as if he were standing in front of a sub-woofer at a festival.

Those liquid gold eyes flashed up at him, fixing him in place. She released her grip and let her hand slide down. A singular claw flicked out from her index finger, which she slipped under his belt, teasing it free from the buckle.

Oh God. Was she really doing it? He'd imagined just taking her on a nice date and all before they got to this point.

“Franky…" he managed to get out.

She chuffed another blast of hot air.

“I mean…" she began, growling mischief clear in her voice, “…do you wanna?"

Did he want to? Do filthy things with her? Yes. But.

“I'm kinda sweaty," he said. The studio lights had done a number on him to be sure. All of his gentlemanly instincts told him he really ought to take a shower.

She chortled. “Why don'tcha let me worry 'bout that?"

With a flick of her claw she loosened his belt completely. The heat of the studio lights was nothing compared to what he felt now, a fire coursing through his veins, adrenaline and dopamine hitting him with a sledgehammer cocktail. He could only watch, as if through another man's eyes -no, a pornographer's lens- as she gave his jeans a single sharp tug.

Just like that, he was exposed, his erect cock springing upwards at rapt attention. A glow appeared in Franky's blazing gaze, teeth shining through a black-lipped smile as she regarded him.

“It's cute," she said.

The tension about him ought to have shattered like glass.

“You can't call a man's dick 'cute'," he protested meekly, though he could not hide his smile. He didn't really mean it. Franky could call his dick cute all she wanted, and he remained firmly at full mast.

Again she went down, enveloping him completely in that hot, cavernous maw, balls and all, nuzzling him down into the cushion with effortless force. The soft skin of her nose pressed against him, greedily snorting in his scent, blown back warm and humid in great huffs.

Then she used her tongue. Strong as the rest of her, she pinned his cock with its smooth underside to slowly drag it off. A crackling wave of pleasure passed through him. He felt his fingers dig into the fabric of the couch on pure instinct, beyond his control. She repeated the same motion from the other side, batting his dick around in her mouth, pinning it down, and letting her tongue play over it once more. Again and again she did it. Each time she went slightly faster, and each time he felt himself step closer to the precipice of climax.

“Franky…" he called through labored breath.

She didn't listen. He heard himself moan as she almost pushed him over the edge. And he'd always thought of himself as a silent lover.

“Franky!" With a free hand he found her snout and tapped as if she were twisting his arm.

Those ochre eyes flashed up at him with something of hunger in them. She let out a soft, vibrating growl that almost finished him completely, then let him slip out of her mouth, soaked from tip to stem in thick saliva. A strand of it stuck to her lip, snapping and dripping as she pulled back. He could already feel his balls stain the couch.

“Sumtin' wrong?" The grin on those recently cocksucking lips betrayed that she knew what she was doing.

Stephen took a moment to catch his breath. The giant, orange ball of bad manners, ill tempers, and industrial strength wouldn't have been the first person he'd point to as a likely candidate for having a talent at fellatio.

“You're going to make me come way too fast," he said, propping himself up.

“And that's bad?" Oh yes, she was acting coy. He knew where to look by now. The tip of her tail couldn't stay still.

Now it was his turn to fix her with a blazing stare, though he could scarcely hope to approach her luminescence. Nevertheless, he put in a good effort.

“Just get naked." As he said it he was already kicking off his jeans, unbuttoning his shirt, and not caring where he left them.

Light glinted off teeth as she issued the roiling, distant thunderstorm of a growl, snout scrunched, whiskers splayed, reaching deep into the lower sounds, rattling the bowels more than the eardrums. It would have made caveman Stephen run for his hollow. To modern Stephen, desk jockey of no great renown, it was another of the inimitable Franky-isms. There was no longer the feeling of the outsider, but rather the sharing in that power.

And fuck yes, it felt better when he was naked.

With a remainder of that good-natured growl on her face Franky hefted her bulk upright. The faded beaver shirt came off in a swift, cross-armed pull. For only a second it hugged her pudgy potbelly tight, outlining her navel, then letting it flop out in a way that made him really want to test how soft the fur was. She tossed the bundled shirt over the back of the couch, casually, off to some random place on the floor.

It would be obvious to anyone that there was something primal about her, with her being a giant tigress and everything. The raw power in her ponderous movement, always threatening to burst into lethal alacrity, the eyes of liquid gold not too distant removed from ancient forests, or even the hair and fur refusing to be molded to anything resembling order. Or now, more to the point, how her bra was obviously struggling against the laws of nature, back strap digging into her pelt in the effort. It was one of the practical boulder-flingers he'd seen littering the floor previously, decidedly practical and unsexy. Beige. Shit, he could even see a stain. Yet, it could barely hold her, even her nipples pushing dimples through the fabric.

Showing a bit more fang, she reached behind her back with one hand and undid the thing with a simple move, then pulled it off with the other, overhead. This wasn't a striptease, and the practicality of the thing didn't allow for it. Gravity's response was immediate. First one breast slipped out, a fraction of a second later the other, slapping against her chest with a twin clap louder and deeper than his mind told him it ought to be. With a flick, the bra went the same way as the shirt, though he barely registered the fact.

Goddamn, she had a giant pair of knockers. Full big girl's tits, hanging heavy and pendulous, the soft pink of nipples peeking through fur. A pronounced tuft sat in her cleavage. As she shifted her weight to face him they swayed ever so slightly. She regarded him with bedroom eyes, showing a rare lack of menace. It really brought out those paradoxically feminine lashes.

“Call me weird, but I love a guy with nuthin' but his socks on."

Noted.

There was too much of Franky on display now for him to just continue sitting there, besocked and bedrooled. Within a second he hoisted himself upright, a dull throb in his side hinting at him overtaxing himself. He didn't care.

Standing on the unstable surface of the couch, he was more or less at eye level with her again. The sight of Franky half naked, her larger than life breasts hanging free, stirred the primal parts of him into paradoxical excitement. There was only one truth, now. They wanted each other.

He did the only logical thing, and pressed himself against her, letting his greedy fingers disappear into the tuft between her breasts. Another low growl issued from her as he moved his hand in circular scratching motions. So close to her, now, the volcanic warmth of her giant body seeping into his through their skin-on-fur contact. There was that hint of musk to her, the natural smell of coarse fur unobscured by perfumes.

He loved that smell. It was forever linked in his mind to her enveloping his world.

The large hand she put on his back, pads rough to his skin, light of touch yet unyielding, electrified his senses. He'd never been with someone stronger than him, let alone someone as strong as Franky. The raw power apparent even in her lightest caress was something he never knew he could find so exciting.

He let his hand follow the curve of her breast down, fingers gliding through her pelt. It was so soft. Feeling across the considerable curve of her he found her nipple nestled in a generous tuft, as large and robust as the rest of her. Stiffening under his touch, he gave it a gentle squeeze.

With a soft growl she dropped her hand down, giving his butt a hard bar-room grope. It made him feel dirty and used in all the right ways.

“Ya got a nice ass," she whispered into his ear in a voice dripping with filth. As she did so she tightened her grip and pressed him closer to her. Velvety fur tickled his dick as it stabbed into her waiting breast.

Oh God, he nearly popped off into her fuzzy jug right there.

But he wasn't the only one with a nice ass.

“Franky," he whispered back, “you really need to lose the pants."

Wordlessly she gave his ass back, leaving a vague soreness. Would it bruise? Like he cared. The couch wobbled as she pushed herself upright, as did her breasts, swaying left to right in a hypnotic rhythm.

She made no attempt to actually be sexy, reaching under her gut to pull her belt loose and undoing the buttons with rapid, efficient motions. The pair of jeans needed a sharp tug to get past her ass, big as it was, boobs and belly jiggling as she did so. Maybe she wasn't trying to be sexy, but the workman efficiency with which she moved and uncovered that robust body with no hint of shame, coy or otherwise, went beyond anything anyone who tried too hard could do.

With a gruff sound she worked the jeans down, pulling her tail free at the last. Then she gave them a kick, sending the garment skidding across the floor to come to rest halfway towards the kitchenette. No wonder her bedroom looked like a bomb went off if this was her habit.

Franky struck a pose, arms planted in her side, fists digging into her love handles. Despite the couch giving him a boost, she still towered over him.

“Well? Like what yer seeing?"

Naked Franky wasn't entirely a different beast than clothed Franky, though now there was nothing to hide exactly how rough hewn she was. Broad shoulders and hips made her appear stocky despite her height. She stood planted firmly on massive tree-trunk legs, monstrous thighs with muscles like tension cables barely hidden by fat and fur. Thick breasts hanging free, beer belly proudly stuck forward, softened by the white fur covering her front, inner arms and thighs. Even her pussy looked like it had been built to last, with the pronounced, grabbable swell of fat, as if it were in competition with the overhang above, covered in an overgrown whorl of fur. Hints of pink in the white showed she was an outtie, because of course she was.

Bet she's got some impressive mudflaps down there, whispered the primal, perverted part of him. Before he could form any real, coherent train of thought, or any romantic response, he found himself negotiating his way down the couch as if he'd been doing it all his life.

Bit by bit he'd incorporated Franky's freakish size into his world view, and he thought he'd done a good job of it. Approaching her now, clad in nothing but his socks, humbled him all over. There was something of a statue about her, a Roman colossus mocking Greek example. Had he not already known how soft she was to the touch, he might have imagined her being cut from cold marble.

Ome whose broad paws remained clad in comfortable, white, fashion faux-pas socks, one halfway pulled off to be left with a pronounced flop. Clearly, she was no hypocrite when it came to sexy underwear.

“What'cha up to?" the statue spoke with a giggle of anticipation, breaking the spell.

As he approached, her scent came to him. That musky spice that had ridden his mind since they first met. With their size difference, his path was clear, driven by desire. Answering her question, he pressed his face into her thick pubic tufts. He sank into her, that slightly acrid smell of tigress sweat tickling his senses. Standing on tip-toes, securing himself by grabbing handfulls of pelt, he traveled upward, sniffing like an animal, into the crease of her belly, the weight of her pressing down on his head.

Something between a laugh and a growl came from Franky.

“That tickles," she said.

Pulled from his trance, he glanced up past the swell of her curves.

“You're ticklish?"

Maybe he looked a bit too triumphant in the knowledge, but Franky's expression made it clear she had given away the only physical edge he'd ever have over her.

“Don't ya have a pussy to lick?"

Straight to the point, as always. Not that he needed reminding.

Even with her customary wide-legged stance her thick thighs rubbed together, leaving not quite as much wiggle-room as he'd prefer. After all, he intended to do a lot of wiggling. His eye fell on the coffee table, still mostly covered by random stuff. At once, the clutter's presence offended him. With a sweep of his arm he sent two of her extra large, and thankfully empty, beer cans clattering. With a slap, a grease-stained cardboard box made itself scarce.

“Put your foot there." He pointed to the freshly created empty spot.

Franky raised an eyebrow. “Coulda just used the couch."

Sure, she was right, but…

“I'm trying to be romantic in a forceful way," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know, like sweeping all the stuff off the kitchen table, or the desk. But you don't have a kitchen table, and I can't reach up to the desk."

A deep chuckle issued forth from Franky, though she still did as he asked, slamming her socked paw down onto the varnished wood with force that rattled everything still on it, and reverberated through the thick beams that made up the floor. Slabs of muscle shifted under the fur as she took on a comfortable stance. She seemed to relish the porn star pose, exuding an aura of shameless lust.

“Consider me woo'd." With a meaty thwack she slapped her fat pussy in a way that would probably be painful if she wasn't so much of a tank. “Now get ta work, Casanova."

Part of him still couldn't really believe that he was about to dive head-first into her, but that wasn't the part that was driving him. No, that was the part that made his dick twitch at the scent that came to him. In what was quickly becoming his ritual for dealing with Franky he sank his fingers in her pubic fur and gave a good scratch. It was just so soft, how could he resist? Around the tell-tale spots of pink the white was already slick with wetness. Gently, he parted the fur to the sound of a soft chuff from above.

It wouldn't be like Franky at all to be daintily built down here. Inner labia, dark and dripping, dangled a good distance down. Big, meaty flaps he could grab, tug, suck, or slap around. Above them, swelling to his presence, the biggest clit he'd ever seen on a real person. No elegant, little button for her. This thing looked like a damn trailer hitch.

Without further thought he seized it between thumb and forefinger, the monolithic weight of Franky shifting above him with a low growl that traveled through her body down to him. The coffee table let out a tortured creak.

Again she shuddered with a low moan as he put his lips to her clit and let it slip in. There was a slightly acidic taste to her, with a tang he guessed was sweat. She wasn't large enough to fill his mouth, but rested comfortably on his tongue all the same. A stray thought decided that it was fitting he should be able to treat her the same way as she did him.

“Fuck! Yes!" Her words were barely audible in the growling. “Suck my clit, you filthy bastard!"

Goddamn, Franky, you really need to work on your dirty talk.

Nevertheless, he did exactly what she told him to do. He pulled her deeper into his mouth, her juices tingling on his tongue, let her go, then sucked her down again. With his tongue he manhandled her clit as well as he could, flicking the slippery trailer hitch around with nothing even approaching subtlety.

The moaning and growling from above was constant, pronounced shudders traveling through her body. A steady drip from between her legs slicked his chest and stiff cock on its way down to the floor. As he teased his fingers down her dangling labia and into her, a rivulet ran down his arm. Half his hand slipped in without resistance. With a gasp and a spasmodic squeeze, she drew in the rest.

Now his entire fist was surrounded by her heat, he no longer had any fear of being inadequate for her unkempt, cavernous cunt. He worked in a rhythm, pushing deeper into her as he let up on her clit, feeling her clamping down on his arm as he played at her with his tongue, pushing deeper still.

He was nearly up to his elbow inside her, halfway between marveling at her size and deciding his next move, when she clamped down again. Hard. There was little doubt that her pussy was as ridiculously strong as the rest of her, and for a moment Stephen could picture himself returning to the hospital with half an arm.

With a yelp he spat her out. As soon as he opened his mouth to protest Franky let out a long yowl, the sound a cross between a wet cat and an air-raid siren, loud enough to rattle the windows in their frames.

Her pussy twitched, and a splash hit him in the face. Before he could get his bearings, a longer stream squirted from her, hitting him with the force of a pressure hose. Instinctively he turned away, and uninstinctively shifted his balance to a degree soaked socks and floor couldn't keep up with. Feeling like an idiot, he fell, only to come to a stop halfway to the floor.

Yeah, she wasn't letting him go just yet.

“Oh God, that really did it," Franky moaned. Again she came, shuddering, spurting great streams that doused every last part of him that still remained dry.

Only then she relaxed, letting him slip out and continue his fall.

With a final spasm Franky squeezed herself dry, to the increased wettening of Stephen, and stood panting.

“I tell ya," she said between great huffs, “that thing ya did with yer hand." Huff. “Was real nice."

“Thanks." He licked his lips, still tasting her. Though, he could lick his little toe and still taste her.

Lying on the floor, soaked from head to socks, under the steady drip of a well-used tigress, smelling like all kinds of sex, he had a moment to take stock of the situation.

One of his wild ideas actually worked out, which got him into the good graces of the woman he liked. And that idea just so happened to get them both onto the single most successful talk show in the country. Of which he wasn't quite sure how to feel about it yet, but it was certainly an accomplishment. It was the sort of thing some people strove for as their #1 goal in life. And they just sort of did it on short notice, no problem. Also, he then went home with the woman he liked and was now staring up into her pussy after making her come hard enough to fill at least one bucket.

All in all, this was definitely one of his more productive days.

“What'cha doin' down there?" Franky peered past the curve of her own breasts to regard him, an uncharacteristic glow in her eyes. Post-orgasm Franky looked a bit more approachable than the regular thing.

“Just… uh… lying around." In a puddle of your juices. And he wasn't about to admit to residual throb in his side, either.

“Well, I ain't done with ya yet." As she said it, she reached down. Giant mitts closed around him and he was hoisted up, stomach lagging behind as the floor dwindled behind him.

She was carrying him like a doll, bringing him to face level only long enough to flash bedroom eyes at him, then brought him even higher. A mild sensation of vertigo took hold of him, to be eradicated when she nuzzled his cock and balls with force, downy fur of her snout and wire-like whiskers tickling him, drinking down his scent with great snorts and huffs. The attention of his mind's eye sprang back to his dick, swelling under her touch to a growl of satisfaction.

Then she took him into her mouth, nose pressing hard against his stomach. Fireworks popped in his brain, and he searched for some way to gain purchase on his high perch. One round ear twitched in the snarl of Franky's rebellious locks. It'd have to do. He seized both of them.

That giant, wet towel of a tongue slapped against his cock the way she'd done before, playing with him like a cat batting at a toy. Which wasn't too far from the truth. A shudder passed through him as she dragged the bottom of her tongue over his most sensitive part. Leaning forward, he practically rested on her head, pulling himself against her by her fuzzy ears. The tips of her claws came out, pricking his back and ass. Pressure mounted as she pressed him harder against her muzzle.

The force on his dick as she sucked him down with the force of a heavy duty vacuum, pinning him under that broad, muscular tongue, letting him up, slapping him around. She curled it around him, pulled it off, with increasingly rapid motions. There was precious little reasoning left to him, and all he could do was hold on as she worked on him.

Stephen was a man of his word. He didn't last long. With another flick of Franky's tongue a spasm roiled across his body, squeezing him in unrelenting waves more at place on Animal Planet than in the delicate art of lovemaking. He shot spurts against her tongue, down her cavernous maw, gripping her ears for dear life.

She didn't stop. With a huff of satisfaction she continued sucking, letting her tongue drift lazily over his twitching cock, so sensitive to the touch now. He shivered, panting, too content to protest.

After a while, she let him slip out, licking her lips in that windshield wiper way. Back on terra firma, load spent, the evening rapidly caught up with him. Goddamn, he was tired. He was wet, dirty, his socks were soaked, but at least he could steady himself against Franky's leg, idly playing with the fur as he did so.

“Yer dick tastes nice," Franky rumbled from above, brushing his hair with her fingers.

He could only smile at that. Yeah, that was Franky alright. He gave the implacable pillar of her leg a good scratch.

“Your pussy tastes nice, too."

They stood for a while. The lean turned to a hug, arms wrapped around her thigh, face pressed into the white fur, streaked in places with her wet musk. Her pussy, wet pubic hair and dangling labia, brushed against his shoulder in mundane intimacy.

“Wanna… uh… like, do some naked cuddling in bed?" she asked.

Out of instinct he glanced up, but couldn't see her face past the curve of her belly. All of the baying voices that had once made home in his head had quieted, replaced by an assuring clarity. The myriad ways he could cuddle this giant tigress unfolded in his mind.

“Yeah, let's."

With a start he realized he once again soared skyward in Franky's grip. One hand on his ass, the other on his back, she pressed him between her breasts, face in the generous tuft, and carried him off.

He could get used to riding the tiger.