FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The Paris skyline glimmered like diamonds under the setting Sun. I hummed a random ballad to myself midway through my daily evening ritual of walking from the Île de la Cité and follow the magnificent Seine River straight to the Champ de Mara, where I would then enjoy another hour seeing the Eiffel Tower shine like a lighthouse by the sea. I would pretend the ambience and mammals surrounding me were real. I would smile as the Sky turned different shades of orange and purple. I would lose myself in the colors, in the rustic Parisian landscape, the scent of gardens, bakeries, cafes, restaurants, the trees, the river to my right, and bask in ignorance. My tail would wag. I'd be happy.

Sadly, that routine was interrupted by my bladder. I stopped along the Left Bank of the Siene, savoring the illusion one more time, then lifted both paws to my mustelid cranium, removing the headset.

The pedestrians around me transformed into other lost souls. We all sat shoulder to shoulder and sometimes back-to-back, inside a random suite. Most occupants were quiet, muttering to themselves, or speaking with someone across the room, maybe even across the continent, in a virtual dream. There was little furniture, all the windows permanently taped shut with black out curtains, as much for our benefit as to avoid the harsh heat outside.

I frowned at the reminder, carefully staggering myself up and placing the VR headset down before stepping over sprawled legs and twitching bodies. The suddenly noticeable acrid scent of someone already pissing and/or shitting themselves hours prior made me reconsider returning after the bathroom break. At the same time, the seductive pull of the VR headset made every departing step and wayward sway of my tail hurt a little more.

I groaned at the smell again, combined with sweat, musk, and everything else that would come from dozens of mammals sitting in one cramped bedroom suite. At the very least, I hoped one of the enclaved city workers would stop by to perform 'cleanup duty'.

Leaving the VR Suite—as we all liked calling it—I tried to keep pretending to myself that the world did not end. Las Vegas still functioned as Sin City. I pretended to still be a stock market expert and a weasel with millions of dollars in the bank. In this dissonant state, I made my way down the hallway directly towards the hotel's main lobby, expecting to see the receptionist, bellhops, and Midwestern tourists in their tackiest summer outfits.

The lack of tourists, the abundance of armed PMC goons by the revolving door, and the tall lobby windows being covered by blackout curtains did not help the illusion. It was also hard to pretend the workers were hotel staff when they wore dirtied servant clothes and a few of them sported bruises. None of them smiled or said a word, but they always kept their noses to the floor whenever someone passed by. On the rare occasions they did smile, they were forced and incredibly stiff.

One of these workers was cleaning the men's bathroom adjacent to the lobby. I ignored him however and went into one of the stalls after he cleaned it. By the time I finished my business and washed my paws at the sink, the vulpine worker muttered something under his breath.

“Fucking enslaver."

A flare of anger rippled up my back for a quick second. We locked eyes. His widened in slight fear. Then, I snorted and left. I could easily report the older fox for calling me that, for saying treasonous things against the Vegas enclaved city and its council. Just the previous month, they exiled a bear and two wolves for plotting to murder a council member. He wasn't worth it though. Instead, I would let another less forgiving mammal punish him, the next time he talked like that.

Honestly, I rationalized. He should feel lucky to be here. The West Coast is irradiated, the Great Plains is full of tornadoes and superstorms, and the East Coast is a flooded urban jungle. Everywhere else outside the city walls is full of marauders and cannibals. Nothing but anarchy, violence, and unpredictable weather patterns.

Plus, everything within a few hundred miles of Vegas was barren No Man's Land. Nothing was able to survive in the expanded Mojave Desert. In fact, it could get so hot that most mammals died of heat stroke within a couple hours. Not at the enclaved city though. We had the air conditioning, indoor crops, and a steady water supply. Granted, it wasn't exactly Paradise. The Nevada temperatures could get unbearable. Everyone had to stay indoors between dawn and dusk, save for the enclaved city guards and civilian workers, who often needed to either guard the perimeter walls or keep making sure that the water and electricity continued to flow.

Shaking my muzzle, I started to walk towards the VR Suite. A deep growl interrupted my steps, however. Clutching my thin stomach, resonated in my belly for a few seconds and then settled to a low rumble. When was the last time I ate something?

I let out a frustrated sigh. My apartment resided on one of the penthouse suites on the second-highest floor. From there, it would be easy to order room service from either the hotel kitchen or one of the few Vegas restaurants forcibly kept opened and staffed. They could have it delivered to my room within a couple of hours. I didn't want to wait a couple of hours. So, I mulled over where I could quickly get a snack to eat.

“Of course," I chuckled to myself. “Guess I'm going up to The Orgy Room."

***

I exited one of the elevators and departed onto the 10th floor. A stretch of floor to ceiling windows showcased the sprawling desert beyond the Vegas walls, revealed the creeping sand eating up the 'uncolonized' sections of the city while buildings and streets closest to the Las Vegas Strip remained pristine. Well, as pristine as they could be.

The airport only went to other enclaved cities for supplies, like Portland or Denver. Gulf courses became tent cities for our overflowing worker population. The Sphere no longer operated due to high electricity demands. Even by the standards of the Enclaved City Council, the rooftop solar panels (plus, control of Hoover Dam) didn't provide enough electric power to keep the monstrously expensive concert hall working. Now, the derelict metal dome lay abandoned. The nostalgic sight made my stomach churn again.

I kept almost a foot away from the glass windows, frowning and limbs trembling. Even in the shade, intense sunlight and scorching temperature practically radiated through the transparent barrier and began to make me pant. I tried looking away. Unfortunately, I didn't have downtown Paris or the castles of England to distract me, and I had to be reminded that those places no longer existed.

At least, not in their pre-apocalyptic forms, I remembered with a curling tail. God, has it really been five years?

I paused by a less-scorching hot window. It gave me a perfect view of the mountains beyond. Six years, thinking back to that first meeting with the charismatic representative, an older timber wolf with a southern accent and a smile that easily charmed me as he explained: he worked as a liaison for powerful, wealthy men who'd been well-aware of the writing on the wall. The severe weather in recent years and superstorms caused by climate change was going to result in the collapse of civilization no matter what. No amount of money would stop it from happening. Instead of locking themselves away in bunkers though, this elite cabal of wealthy socialites had a plan to rebuild, and they desired my help. They needed me to secretly fund an extremely illegal, extremely covert water pipe that went from the Colorado River to Las Vegas, which would then be used to help hydrate the enclaved city once it was established following the end. In exchange, my residency for the unclaimed city would be secured. I would never have to worry about rent, food, water, or anything really, ever again in the brave new world. I easily believed the representative, falling for his buzz words and his descriptions about how I would be contributing to the survival of civilization.

“We will be a lightbulb in the darkness," he kept telling me, and I agreed.

My only condition? They wouldn't bat an eye when I brought my blue-collar parents with me. They agreed, and so did Mom and Dad once I explained. We would be one big happy family until eventually, the survivor's guilt got to Mom, and she popped one too many of the antidepressants pills one evening.

I still remembered each of their final words to me. Dad screamed at me, “This ain't utopia! It's a medieval nightmare, son! Can't you see that you only built a city of Caligulas?! This isn't 'civilization's last hope'! It's where hope goes to die!"

As for Mom's final words, she only took another couple pills from her container, and said to me, “You should have left us both behind…You should've left us to die out there."

Like a bad memory, I decided to try and shove those thoughts as far into the back of my mind as I could. I locked them up behind a solid metal door. I wasn't able to throw the key away though, instead repeatedly opening and closing it.

I wandered around the hotel corridors for a little while longer, dazed and trying to suppress other memories. Such as the fight between me and my parents after they discovered how horrifically everyone treated the workers. They viewed it like slavery, citing how some of them were forcibly recruited from outside while others were tricked into becoming indentured servants. Dad did not stop railing against me, which was why it didn't surprise me one day to learn that a group of the PMC guards once entered his free penthouse and then left with him, never to return. That was right when Mom traded our daily talks for the antidepressants, and we never spoke again.

I let out a sob. Why couldn't I find the Orgy Room? I wanted to eat. I didn't want to think about them or about life before the end of the world. Everything hurt. Everything throbbed with pain. A part of me tried to say that I could always ask for those same antidepressants that one of the enclaved city doctors gave my mother after Dad's fatal interrogation. Deep down though, I knew it wouldn't matter. I would follow mom right into her grave.

“Where is it?" I muttered. “Where is it? God, where is it? I'm hungry. Horny? Both. Where is it?"

At last, I found my destination. The moaning and orgasmic cries hit my ears well-before the scent of cum did. Much like the VR Suite, my building's Orgy Room was an outfitter hotel suite converted into a den of meaningless sex between elite citizens of all genders. Gender and status didn't matter so long as we all got off somehow. On the right side of the door, a stallion PMC guard stood pantsless in his tactical uniform, holding an assault rifle to the floor in his left paw while the right gripped the headfur between the folded ears of a vixen's bobbing head. She wore the worker overalls they all wore. A full laundry hamper sat abandoned nearby, and despite her loud gagging and choking that sounded painful, the vixen didn't waver. I saw in the way she gripped a paw full of ration dollars.

The stallion's nostrils flared, his lustful grin unwavering, and the vixen continued to swallow as much of his dick as she could. He made subtle gyrations of his hips, his balls visibly slapping against her drooling chin, but I was more focused on the length that disappeared between her lips. Eventually I looked away. My eyes locked with the PMC guard for a moment as I entered the room. He winked at me. I nodded back. He continued thrusting his hips deeper into the vixen worker, making her gag much louder than before. I would've been lying if I said I didn't feel more horny than hungry at that moment, but not by much.

Speaking of which, inside the kitchen of the Orgy Room, I easily found the snack bar. Set a new top every inch of available countertop space sat different snacks that ranged between slices of meat, crackers, aphrodisiac desserts, fresh fruits, and even a while turkey that had been getting whittled to the bone. Plus, the bottles of tequila, daiquiris, whiskey, beer, and other forms of alcohol. I avoided that, but did indulge myself in a helping of nachos and some bananas. Were they grown at the enclaved city in Atlanta? Or did one of the PMCs venture all the way down to Florida just to extract them in large bulks? I didn't care either way, savoring the fresh fruit.

While eating my meal, the hunger subsided alongside the aches in my joints and the curl in my weasel tail. I surveyed the room and started to feel myself getting erect. Not just at how much the bedroom suite was a writhing sea of naked debauchery and flailing limbs, but just who was among them. My I wandered to the faces I easily recognized.

Michael Dalton, a middle-aged wolverine, and his younger wife, Anna. His family used to own a superstore chain that stretched between California and Maine, but at the moment, the wolverine sat on a couch, watching his dear wife get eaten out by a random mouse nearby as he groped and made out with a pair of fraternal twin tigers. I recognized them next as George and Georgina Landon, the singing brother-sister who who wolf seats out weekly in Las Vegas. At one point, I thought I spotted them drunkenly making out with each other, the brother fingering his sister as a former hotel chain executive came all over one of their backs.

Kevin Tuckerland, the former owner of a popular social media platform, knelt in front of a tall female hyena I believed to be a former social media influencer, whose physique would give any of the city's PMC guards a run for their money. The soft-spoken tabby was giving her the cunnilingus of her life, turning her into a gasping and drooling mess who can barely say a few words. It didn't stop her from occasionally giving random handjobs and reaching out to fondle some ass. Wasn't Kevin married? Where was his wife, I wondered.

I noticed another familiar face, an overweight lion being pleasured by a lioness and two spaniels, all of them former corporate female executives. The burly lion used to be Harry Montague, a rich radio host who obtained his wealth by scapegoating every minority group for the country's problems. From what I heard before the nationwide blackout struck, and what I'd occasionally hear in the grapevine, Harry had been dealing with multiple sexual harassment lawsuits, only for them to no longer be relevant without there being any rule of law. At least, a rule of law that mattered anymore. Sitting next to him in a neighboring chair was a Rottweiler getting orally worshipped by a busty mare, the former once a top hedge fund manager and the latter an ex-porn star who once became an Internet meme.

Other faces blurred and blended together, and it finally struck me that the brownies I had eaten were one of the aphrodisiacs. I wasn't alarmed though. Not really. Not as I felt my cock throb uncontrollably inside my shorts, and I lecherously gazed at every male participant in the orgy. I spotted former Vegas entertainers, managers, the old mayor at one instant, and at least a dozen retired politicians who used to be incredibly loyal to a country that no longer existed.

Across the room, I noticed the former Hollywood actress Jaqueline Fairchild being given a slobbery rimjob by the college-aged bear son of an insurance company's CEO, who in turn was being blown by the sultry middle-aged vixen. Next to them, a muscular Great Dane was fucking the everlasting daylights out of a former teen idol, the handsome red deer singer Elliot Evans, whose antlers had recently fallen off. It resulted in him appearing more feminine and based on his cries from the Great Dane (some kind of pre-apocalypse wrestler), he sounded more feminine too. I was mesmerized momentarily by seeing the Dane's buttocks flex, pull back, then thrust forward as he pounded the lithe deer against the wall.

Another pairing that caught my attention was right near the kitchen: against an empty portion of the island countertop, former high-paying elk actor Benji Delandro was being eagerly blown by an equally naked otter. My feet mindlessly walked around the countertop, empty plate forgotten, shorts falling down while approaching the limber otter from behind. Pre dripped from my cocktip like a horny cunt. I didn't know him or recognize him, but that didn't stop me from gaping at his rudder tail as it raised up high for me. Even a half a decade after the end of the world, the otter somehow managed to keep fit.

Ecstasy shot from my hardened dick and up and down my spine as my weasel shaft spread him open. My barefoot toes curled into the carpeting, feelings various fluids, but my focus remained on the pleasure. I wasn't the first to fill the otter up. I felt other men's cum and spit slosh against my cock. More so when I pushed his tail aside and began to pull back and then thrust in, both paws grasping his hips as I felt him squeeze his ring around my invading member. With each moan and shudder, he even started to push himself back onto me. All while he devoured the elk's amazing length.

My eyes met Benji Delandro, the former actor, who held onto the nameless otter's ears with one pot as he brutally face-fucked his lips. I started to match his pace as well and soon found myself deeply lost in carnal pleasure.

Thoughts of Paris and the Seine River faded to distant memory, along with the apocalypse, the enclaved city, California's radioactive wasteland, the plight of enclaved workers, and everything else.

Nothing but pleasure.

Nothing but pleasure.

***

I tumbled out of the Orgy Room as soon as the number of participants began to peter out. Some members felt completely drained. A few got bored after a couple of hours. Most of them realized it was night time and they could no longer be forced to stay indoors like vampires. Me? I decided it was time to go to bed.

I walk the hallways completely naked and grasping my clothes. A few other former participants did the same, but most of it didn't even bother carrying clothing, let alone brought them. It wasn't strange to occasionally see a naked citizen wander drunkenly or completely satisfied as they were nothing but their birthday suits, likely wanting to reach their apartments. I was no different.

I entered my penthouse apartment near the top floor. My feet, legs, torso, chest, muzzle, back, and asshole was drenched in drying jizz. Without a beat, I stumbled into my luxury bathroom and showered underneath a tiled waterfall. Little by little, I started to feel clean again, and happiness filled my lungs as much as cum filled my stomach. By the time I left the bathroom, wearing an incredibly soft bathrobe, a sense of contentment left me feeling totally relaxed. It followed me onto the king-sized bed and into my dreams all the way until the following morning.

Unfortunately, I ended up always waking up in the same mood.

The continental breakfast buffet and endless activities—like hunting, relaxing at a spa, or watching reruns of every TV show, movie, and recorded concert in existence— in the other outfitted Vegas hotels rarely kept me distracted for long. The high of happiness I fell asleep in wavered especially when I looked out one of the windows to see the endless desert that surrounded us. It wavered when I spotted the smaller Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty within the perimeter walls, end it repeatedly struck me that I would no longer be able to see them for myself ever again.

Neither would plenty of the other VR users. I never asked but based on the fact that plenty of the mammals weren't North American, I could guess that they missed their home countries, and were wealthy enough to join our cabal, but did not or could not return to their homelands. One tanuki regular rarely left her headset. A red panda from either Taiwan or Mainland China sometimes stopped by to use a headset. One French-speaking pine marten used to stop by until I last heard that he'd managed to convince the Council to let him join a supply flight to the enclaved city in Toronto. Still, he would never be able to return to France.

Luckily, I still could, in a way.

I wandered back downstairs to the VR Suite around noon, waiting until at least one soul left a headset available. During which, I thought I'd spotted one of the PMC workers dragging a non-compliant worker into the stairwell, where their shouts and grunts echoed and died. I didn't remember their species, let alone if they were the same worker from the previous day in the bathroom, but one thought did come to mind.

They ought to be grateful, being alive. They work, they operate the factories and keep the plumbing working and the lights on. In exchange, they earn their ration bucks and have a roof over their heads. Honestly, it's no different than before the end of the world.

My smile returned after realizing that a worker had stopped by overnight to clean up. Then, I sat down against a wall, placed the headset over my eyes, and fell back into that digital bliss. I fell back down the hall into that digital wonderland. My parents became distant memories. I returned it to pretending that Paris and New York and England still existed in their pre-apocalyptic forms.

Every time, every day, I didn't let myself be reminded that there was no going back.

I sighed happily as the pain within my bones disappeared and sweet dopamine washed over.