FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

These accounts were laid down as part of an old tradition of journaling as a mode of confession and absolution from sin. The common people who worked the fields of Kerland, between the Ash Mountain Range and Pale Moors, were often isolated from places of spirituality and worship by necessity. As a means of purifying their souls, followers of the Dionist sect would detail their admissions to sinful thoughts, words and deeds in books bound in scrap leather and sealed with the sigil of Karmat, the goddess of temperance, purity, and order. These two volumes were discovered buried in a cave in the foothills of the Ashtoc Mountains and chronicle the complicated relationship between a widowed hare and his son.

The spring goddess has blessed us with her warmth and light once again. It seemed the frosts would never recede. Now the first chains of pink heather have reared their heads over our hill. At last, father and I have seen fit to prepare the fields for planting. Despite the days upon days of hard labor that requires, shoveling earth, tilling by hand, plowing and sowing, it all seems a blessing now. The heat of the sun feels so good on one’s fur after long months of frozen winds.

Not that we lacked for warmth inside.

Ever since our decision, father has been quite nearly unable to keep his hands off of me. Every day begins with his strong arms scooping me up from my side of the bed and tucking me against his breast, his hand caressing my scalp so tenderly between my ears. During the day, he always seems to find some new way to touch me and delight me; his gentle claws sliding like hot water across my back as I stoop to tend the fire, a clap on the shoulder for a job well done in the garden with a hearty squeeze, a sudden push to pin me against the barn wall and nuzzle his way from my neck to my mouth.

Lords almighty. Father must occupy himself during his quiet labor thinking of new ways to race my heart.

I have never seen nor heard of a man so transformed in demeanor.

The same time last year, father was as cold as a boulder. Never unkind, mind you, though he could be brusque when tasks needed doing faster or better. He would tromp from duty to duty like a soldier who’d lost his voice. I would sometimes try to joke with him, the way mother or my siblings used to. Few of my weak witticisms, observations or simple antics elicited more than a snort of acknowledgment. I still tried, knowing the weight of our lost family must have laden his heart like a mill stone. He blamed himself, I knew. As if he could stop Black Death with force.

But now, his aspect is like winter to summer. He laughs, he jokes, he smiles at the simple pleasures of life, and he showers affection on me physically and verbally.

I feel like a maiden wooed by a lord, giddy, silly, rich with delight. Maiden being apt for this is the role I mostly play. Father loves sweeping me off my feet and telling me how “beautiful” and “lovely” I am. He loves the long curves and cotton fluff of my ears. He loves the colour of my fur, like honey and milk, he says. He loves, as he puts it, the gracefully sweeping contours of my body. He loves my soft round rear with its plump full cheeks, less with words but oh so surpassingly with his time spent enjoying it.

It should be indecent. It should be beyond indecent what we do. What we’ve done. Our decision. But god help us and our souls…it feels so good.

It feels like what they say heaven will be: warmth and comfort, endless joy of worship. My father and I worship and comfort each other in our aching need, banishing loneliness with intimacy and have never felt such joy. From the gentle touches to the rough and carnal, we have created heaven in each other.

The feeling every single time father slides his thick, full cock between my rear cheeks sends every nerve through my body reeling. He loves to tease first, dragging its full length across my sensitive hole. The heat of it makes me cry out. He covers my mouth with his callused hands, despite us being the only sentient animals for miles. One of his fingers often curls into my mouth for me to suck gratefully as his cock head slides ever so slowly into me, his guttural groan sounding in my ear. His voice rings with relief every time, as if he’s dropping a burden with every pump into me.

He has bred me in close to every place on our farm in a myriad of positions I would never have known. Our bed is the easiest and most common place. It was there that our first “accident” occurred. That cold winter's night where necessity defeated impropriety. That night when, in his sleep, his stiffened cock slid between my thighs. When I had…encouraged him. A simple, flexing, movement back and forth that changed our lives forever. We have relived that moment many times, far more deliberately and effectively.

I have lain with my back on our oak dinner table, crafted by father’s own hands, while he pumped into me standing up. I’d laughed the first time. He’d been perplexed until I explained the strange thought I’d had.

Father was using an object he’d made to support breeding a person he had also made. Father rolled his eyes but couldn’t help laughing too. Then we broke a bowl we’d forgotten to remove as he pounded me into a screaming mess.

I have bounced like a feral bunny on father’s lap as he lazed on his back in the grass at the top of our warren hill. I watched in blissful haze as the clouds crossed the blue sky all around. I felt then like a true doe, making love without heed for all the countryside to see. Father said my tongue never lolled so sloppily. It must have been a beautiful sight because father's seed ran like mountain streams down his hips into the earth that day.

Father and I have extended many a bath in the pool we dammed together, kissing and fondling each other’s arms, bosoms and cocks. I once came just from his hand surrounding both of our manhoods. He chastised me for tainting the water. I shrugged and made him cum moments later into my mouth.

“Is that better, father? None spilled,” I said with a smirk.

He scratched behind my floppy ears and called me a good lad.

Father’s methods of love differ greatly in intensity. They have the ebb and flow of rainstorms: sometimes a slow, gentle, summer drizzle - father tenderly caressing my body as we lay on our sides in the bed while he slides in and out with the delicacy of a weaver - sometimes a harsh, howling, spring thunderstorm - father fucking fast as a feral rabbit with his full length as I am brought to tears with ecstasy, him yanking my long ears like reins, me holding onto the bridals hung in our stable for support. Yet no matter the intensity of rain, the result is always the same: life, color, the world wet and rejuvenated, our bodies hot and sweaty, tucked into each other, whispering words that barely describe our gratitude. Our love for each other.

How wrong can this be when it feels so right? Our isolation from the world and each other defeated by love, lustful and forbidden, yes, but tender and carefully tread through honest conversation. I know this to be a confession, but the fact stands, I do not feel guilt. Not anymore.