FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

On the balcony far below me sits one of the beautiful creatures. I lean forwards over the parapet to see him better, wrapping my tail around an iron chimney for support. I know this one. He is a fine example of his kind. He has sandy hair that flows like wind over a beach, and skin as smooth and perfect as a pebble washed smooth by the tides of centuries. His body is thin and supple, like a palm tree bending its crown over the ocean.

How can such a creature come to look so sad? He is everything I ever craved, and craved to be. And yet, at the same time every day he comes out to this lonely balcony, wrapped up against the bitter cold, his back turned to the light and heat and laughter spilling out from the windows behind him. Every day he clips open his tin box packed with food, and he unscrews his metal flask full of a hot brown liquid whose scent drifts up to the rooftops and fascinates my nose. Every day he eats, and he drinks, and he says not a word but stares out into the darkening night at the rooftops and the clouds and the comings and goings of birds. And when he has eaten, and drunk, he tips out the crumbs from his box for the pigeons, he screws shut his flask, and he steps wearily back into the light.

I feel a kinship with him, if I may dare to provoke the anger of the cosmos by declaring any possible kinship between an abomination like myself and a fair beauty such as he. I am a creature of the darkness hypnotised by the light. He is a creature of the light hypnotised by the darkness. Sometimes I think to show myself to him, but of course I do not. I show myself to none of the beautiful creatures. I would be ashamed.

But not for much longer! Tonight is the culmination of years of magical preparation. Tonight - and only tonight - I shall be beautiful. I shall dance the dance of the creatures of the light amongst them, and they shall not know me but as one of their own. Tonight I shall shine.

The hour is now. I take my place on the highest tower, amongst the antennae and the great metal ears. I say the words of transformation, and the full moon shines upon me, and I feel it change me. And it hurts! Oh, but it hurts! The searing of skin, the folding of bones, my wings and tail burning completely away to ash, the agony is exquisite! But I bear it, because I must. And in the end I stand there, gasping in the night air, shaking but alive. I look at my paws... no, not paws, my hands. There is no midnight black fur, no horrendous claws, just a beautiful pair of hands. I turn them to study my palms. I flex my fingers. Powerful hands, but capable of such delicacy.

I exult. It is done! There is no time to waste. I must join with my new brethren.

I leap, swift and sure as a shadow, from rooftop to drainpipe to balcony to streetlight, and land on the cobbles of the alley below. Something of my old agility remains even in this form, of that I am thankful. A pool of oily water sits on the ground below, and I look down to see my reflection staring back up at me.

I am completely changed. Gone is the thick matted fur, except on my head, and in patches on my chest and groin. Gone is the tail, also are the wings, the horns, the claws, the slavering fangs. What is left is beautiful. A tall, muscular figure with a straight back, firm in chest and buttock. I see myself smile.

And yet, I am not completely changed. The magic is not perfect. My hair is still as black as coal. My eyes are still as dark as night with the same glint of fire when they catch the light. There is still something lurking and dark hidden in the features of my face. I am still a creature of the darkness. But, I will suffice.

Enough time wasted on self-admiration! The night is short! I must go out and join my fellows in the dance!

I stride out into the street. A brightly-lit place fronted by brightly-lit rooms and crowded with brightly-lit people. I walk amongst them. I spread my arms in a gesture of goodwill and beam out at the shining faces. But nobody welcomes me. I see looks of horror as they see me. I see eyes turning sharply elsewhere. They move away, pulling their loved ones along with them. One of them screams.

Has it failed? Can they see me for what I am?

But no. Two of them laugh and point, and I look where they are pointing and it is at my naked groin. I look around me again and notice that all are clothed while only I stand naked. I have found the cause of the creatures' alarm, but still I do not comprehend. Is my cock not of good girth with a fine swing as I walk? Are my balls not fulsome and pleasingly formed to the eye? Why would they be the object of horror or of mirth? I shrug. I cannot hope to understand everything in one night, I can only adapt. There is a place nearby behind glass windows, with lines of clothes hung upon racks. I enter, and spend a moment choosing, but a moment only, as time is wearing on. I select a fiery red shirt, and trousers and jacket of a deep and relentless black. Putting on the outfit, I admire the effect. It matches my eyes.

A wail and a flash of blue lights outside. Two of the creatures come inside, dressed in thick black and fluorescent yellow. I sniff the air. They don't smell friendly. Quick as a flash of thunder I leap between them, through the door, up to the second-floor balcony and up, up to the safety of my rooftop.

My adventure was not a success. But I will try again.

This time I drop down on the opposite side of the building. The street here is darker and narrow, and only a few of the creatures grace it with their presence. They glance at me, and they look away again, casually. They do not run or scream. It has worked! I am accepted!

But what now? There is none of the warmth, the bustle, the gaiety of the world of light here. This street is full of shadows. The beautiful creatures are few, and they do not dance. This is not what I came for.

I turn. I see something new.

A door, and spilling out of the door a dazzle of wonderful lights and marvellous noise, as though the room beyond could not contain it all. A place full of people, and laughter, and strange smells, and colour. There above the door, a piece of cloth flapping in the breeze, its design a spectrum of rainbow colours. Its meaning is clear: this is a temple of light.

I walk in, and I see dancing.

I see many things. I see warmth; I see shining, colour-shifting lights; I see deep, pulsing music. But none of these are important, because I see dancing. The beautiful creatures, basking in the light and the noise and the heat, waving their limbs, flexing their spines, shuffling their feet, in rhythm with the beat of the universe. This is what I changed myself for. To join with them in their strange, wild worship of all things beautiful and divine.

But I do not dance. I do not dance because I see something that makes me forget even about dancing. I see a beautiful creature. My beautiful creature. The creature from the balcony.

My creature doesn't dance. He sits at one end of a long wooden bar that runs one end of the room, away from the dancing, almost in shadow. But he watches the dancing. He is hypnotised by it, just like I. I wonder why he does not join with it.

I go to him. I stand beside him, my arm resting on the bar. He looks at me, and I notice for the first time that he has bright blue eyes, like the reflection of a summer sky in a tranquil ocean.

He looks at me and I do not know what to do. For some reason I cannot rationalise, I want to connect with this creature above all others. I want to, but I do not know how. How do the beautiful ones greet each other, talk to each other, bond with each other? From my high vantage point I could never see these little details. I only saw them from afar, moving to and fro through the streets below, weaving and winding around each other in their endlessly complicated dance.

I look to the creatures around me to discover their customs. On my other side two of them stand in close embrace, their lips pressed together and their hands sliding across one another's backs. Very well, I shall try it.

Imitating our neighbours as closely as possible I swing my creature out of his seat and pin him against the bar, planting my lips firmly against his. I worry at first that I have made some mistake in this intricate greeting ritual for I feel him jump and then struggle as though in shock, but my confidence is restored when he settles down and wraps his arms gently around my back, just as mine are wrapped around his.

A strange thing, this greeting, but a much more pleasant thing than I had expected. How enjoyable a sensation it is to rub one's lips slowly over another creature's, I never would have expected. How tightly the mind focuses on every slight movement, every touch of pressure, every flash of cool wetness. And how gently my creature touches me in return, his fingers like the wings of starlings, his lips like the first drop of rain on a thick and heavy summer's day.

I feel a change, his hands pushing me gently away instead of pulling me closer, and I pull away. It is a surprise when I notice that my cock is considerably erect. It seems that this touching of lips awakens the rutting urge. I am curious to know if my creature has experienced the same odd effect, but from the hang of his clothing it is difficult to tell. I notice him glancing briefly down at my own bulging trousers and he does not appear surprised, but perhaps interested. A mystery.

He speaks some sweet-sounding words, but I do not understand his language: a problem I had failed to anticipate. I ask him if he speaks my own language, but of course he just looks at me in confusion. I am glad. To have heard the foul words of my own guttural tongue emerging from his luminescent lips would have been an ugly rip in the order of the universe.

He turns to speak to another creature on the other side of the bar, and I worry that I am forgotten. But the other goes away again after taking a few small metal disks, and returns only briefly to deposit a pair of glasses filled with golden, bubbling liquid: one in front of my creature, one in front of me. I look at them uncertainly. My new acquaintance sits, and gestures to the seat next to him. I sit.

Picking up the glass before him, he imbibes a small amount. Still very unsure of the manners of this world, I am eager to learn by imitation, and drink from my own glass. The taste is a surprise to my mouth. I had expected the sweet nectar of the heavens in a place such as this, but instead it is bitter and noxious. What is stranger is that despite this, it is drinkable. It is even, after a few sips, seductive.

My tongue feeling oddly loosened, I find myself speaking. Even though he cannot understand me, even though the very syllables of my wretched tongue are unfitting for this temple of light, I speak because I feel the need. I tell him that his eyes sparkle like molten sapphire. I tell him that his hair is more exquisite than a cobweb woven by a thousand enchanted spiders from golden thread. I tell him that his hands are such perfectly formed machines that anything coming forth from their work must be a masterpiece worthy of the highest planes of existence. I tell him these things because they are true. And he nods, uncomprehendingly, sipping his drink, smiling, as though my words were not eldritch squawks but melodious music to his ears.

It is weirdly pleasant, just sitting here talking at this creature. But I have not forgotten the dance. I cannot help but glance over my shoulder at the great swaying, flexing mass of creatures behind us. Perhaps my creature notices these glances, for now he is standing, gesturing towards the dance, and holding out a hand in invitation. I am thankful, and take the hand in my own. It is warm and squeezes me gently. I follow, my excitement rising, as he leads me into the throng.

I am excited, yes, but also I am nervous. I am unsure how to dance. Shall my creature be horrified if I move my body in an incorrect way? Shall I be ejected from the temple of light for sacrilege?

My creature starts to dance. At once I am nervous no longer. It is obvious, even to me, that he does not know how to dance either. Comparing him to his fellows, he is all elbows and no rhythm. But he has a grace of his own, and looks to enjoy himself, and nobody ejects him from the temple in horror.

I dance.

I am perhaps an even worse dancer than he. I have no grace at all. My knees and arms appear to be at battle, despite my efforts towards harmonious co-operation. But he does not seem to mind. He laughs in a gentle way, pats my shoulder, and dances harder.

I find that I am enjoying myself. Dancing is everything that I hoped it would be, perhaps more. The beat of the music is fast and vigorous, driving my feet on to attempt wild, overambitiously complex patterns. And yet I do not think I would have taken so much pleasure from dancing had not my creature been there alongside me. We rotate and flex and oscillate, trying to outdo one another in exuberance. We laugh. An empty space develops around us on the dancefloor, a few turn to watch and smirk, but we do not care. Why should we care? We are in an ecstatic rapture of dance. I wonder if perhaps we are the only two creatures there who really understand how to dance.

We tire. The music changes to a slower, softer beat. My creature wraps his arms around my waist and nestles his head against my chest. I pause, uncertain of what is happening, and then I place my arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. I notice we are still dancing, but only with our feet now, in a soft, swaying rhythm, like trees blowing in the wind. The space around us closes in.

I like this dance even more. I feel his hands stroke softly across my back. I feel his face cushioned against my chest, moving ever so slightly in rhythm with the ebb and flow of my breath. I touch his golden hair and I feel the delicate strands flow like velvet rivers of sand between my fingers.

He reaches down a hand and touches the bulge in my trousers. I did not realise, until this moment, that the rutting urge is strongly awakened in me once again. But I never knew the urge could be so soft, so warm, like my blood has turned to hot thick syrup. His hand gives my cock and balls a quick squeeze, and my heart beats faster. I pull him closer. My own hand drifts down to touch his rump. It is soft and round and pleasing. I lay my palm flat over his buttocks and just hold him.

The slow music ends; another fast, lively beat takes its place. Are we to begin our wild dancing again? No. He takes me by the hand and leads me away. I follow. He takes me out of the room with the light and noise and colour, through a narrow passage and now into a small room, its surfaces hard and white and clean. He guides us into an even smaller room within the room, so small that we barely fit in it together, and closes the door. And locks it.

And now it is he who is pushing me against the wall, standing up on his toes to press his lips against mine. I had thought this strange meeting of mouths to be a ritual of greeting, but I must have been mistaken: here we are performing it, and we have already met. What then is its significance? Or perhaps it is something done simply for its own sake? I hope so. I enjoy this ritual very much. But now, it is not quite the same as the first time. It is somehow more vital, more demanding. And what is this? His tongue probing wetly against my lips, its tip probing slightly in-between. Curious. Following his example again, I thrust my own tongue deep inside his own mouth, hoping I am performing my part correctly. He makes a content-sounding mumbling noise, and I infer that I am.

Another thing different from the first time: his hands do not whisper across my shoulders, but rather are busy removing my jacket, and now unbuttoning my shirt. Inconsistent, these creatures. First they are outraged by my nakedness, now I am being made naked as fast as his hands can do so. I shrug my unbuttoned shirt off my shoulders and it joins my jacket on the floor. My creature pauses in his derobing of me to pull his own buttonless shirt off over his head in an extraordinary acrobatic manoeuvre of the elbows.

His chest is slender and beautiful, with wisps of golden hair like whirls of morning fog reflecting an autumn sunrise. Mine is dark and craggy, like a moss-encrusted cliff in moonlight. I wonder about the difference between us, but I wonder more about his hand, which is reaching down into the crotch of my trousers to grasp my genitals.

His hand is small with thin, delicate fingers, and my cock is long and broad. One fits pleasingly around the other, as though his fingers had been designed to circle my cock, or my cock had been sculpted to fit within his fingers. Either way, the touch of him dazzles me. I have never felt its like before. As he slides his hand up and down, it is like silken fire running through my veins. As he delves deeper to squeeze my seed-heavy balls, I feel a bud of lust bursting into blossom within my thumping heart.

I do not understand what is happening. I understand rutting, and this is not rutting as I know it. I have just come to understand dancing, and this is not dancing as I know it. But it has something of the quality of both. The grace and ecstasy of the dance, mixed with the fire and lust of the rut. The pleasures of the light stirred together with the vices of the darkness.

He squeezes my cock firmly and I find myself making a soft groaning sound against my will. I look at my creature and he smiles sweetly up at me, and squeezes harder still. I drop my trousers, finding that they are in the way of his attentions. My cock is hard and stands stiffly erect, well above horizontal. My pubic hair is wild and black, covering my groin and balls like a shadowy forest. My creature sinks his spare hand deep into that forest, stroking and cuddling my balls, while he works my cock up and down with his fingers, stimulating me so strongly that I must brace myself against the walls to either side to stop myself swaying on my feet.

Part dance, part rut. But a dance requires input from both parties. Not like a rut, where the rutter performs his part (mount; penetrate; hump hump hump squirt) and the ruttee's only expectations are to struggle and grunt. I sense that this thing we are doing together - my beautiful creature and I - is more like a dance than a rut. I have been passive this far, but no longer. I do not know the correct moves, but I hope that - like the dance - it matters little.

His trousers are in my way and I remove them, releasing the button and letting them slide down his slender legs to the floor. Another layer, a pair of tented white underpants, remains to frustrate me but I make short work of it, navigating the elasticated waistband over his upstanding penis and tugging them down towards his knees. I marvel, my attention divided between his naked loins before me and the escalating magic his fingers are still performing on my own eager member. His pubic hair is like a field of golden wheat seen from afar as it waves to the sunlight in the morning breeze. His cock is much smaller than mine, but more beautiful, and rises straight and buoyant into the air. His balls are full and round with little dangle, and look like they'd feel good to have cupped in one's hand. I cup a hand around them. They feel good.

I draw him close, my other hand around his shoulders. I stroke and toy gently with his balls, while his cock presses against my hip. As he stands on tiptoe, his cock reaches the level of my own and they rub one against the other, as though exchanging a fond greeting, or perhaps starting a dance of their own. My creature plants his lips on my own once again, briefly, softly.

I move to wrap my fingers around his cock but I am frustrated in my intention: just as I make the motion he drops to his knees before me, his eyes on a level with my thick bush of pubic hair. He looks up at me and I see there is fire in the calm ocean of those eyes - just like in my own - like impossible flames burning deep under the placid waters. His gaze snaps back to my cock. He squeezes it. A single, spherical drop of pre-seed forms at the tip. He slips out his tongue and delicately laps up that drop and draws it into his own mouth.

I puzzle over the meaning of this strange action, but now he does something stranger and more unexpected. He closes his mouth completely around the head of my cock.

For a moment I panic, thinking he is going to make a meal out of me. Instinctively I try to pull backwards, but my buttocks are already pressed flat against the cold tiles of the wall. His mouth slides further over my cock, engulfing me, but there is no bite. I breathe out, my heart racing. How could I have thought such a thing of a pure, beautiful creature such as he?

There is no bite but there is... exquisite sensation. There are no words adequate to describe the artful stimulation being performed on my hungry shaft by his soft lips and subtle tongue. My cock has found a warm, pulsing wet heaven so divine that it sends paralysing waves of pleasure singing through my whole body. I gasp and grunt. My creature suckles hard on my shaft, taking it deeply inside his mouth, his eyes gently closed and a frown of concentration on his face. I comb my shaking fingers through his fine sandy hair. Soon, I know, I will be gushing my seed inside his thirsty gullet. I can feel it coming. I welcome it.

But it does not come. My creature pulls away, leaving me with balls full of seed and loins full of rut-lust. I want - I need - release. But I am the stranger here, so I am patient. I follow as he leads.

He pulls something small from his pocket, and rips it open. It is rubbery and elastic. I barely have time to wonder, and now he fits it to the head of my cock and slides it downwards, its slippery membranous strangeness encapsulating my member snugly. This is bizarre to me, but the creature seems to want it there and it causes me no discomfort, so I make no complaint.

He stands, plants a quick, hot, wet kiss on my lips, and then spins around in my arms so that his shoulders are pressed against my chest, my hands touching his belly and groin, my cock pushing hard against his lower back. My mind drifts down to the two pale, round, blonde-speckled swells of flesh that are his buttocks. I know that I am going to rut this strange, beautiful creature. Imminently I will be parting those gorgeous, tender buttocks to force my meat into his willing hole. The thought excites me on levels that go beyond the mere physical desire which typically anticipates a rut. But even the physical lust is deeper and brighter than anything I have ever felt when contemplating the dire black-furred rumps that lie beneath the tails of my own fell kind.

The rut will be soon. But the rut can wait a little longer. We are still dancing, and the dance is all the sweeter for the knowledge of the rut so soon to come.

I run my fingers up and down the firm, perfect line of his cock. He seems to enjoy being touched thus - as I knew he would - and he arches his back against my chest and moans. I touch him again more vigorously, massaging the sweet flesh of his cock, and he whimpers pleasantly. And then he looks down and his whole body suddenly tenses in shock.

At first I cannot ascertain what is wrong, until I myself look down at his groin. There, his beautiful cock stands supported in the grip not of long flexible fingers, but of mean, curving black claws.

Too soon! The magic is failing! I am turning back!

Shame and panic hit my mind like hammers. I pull away from him and turn away so as not to see the horror written across his face. There is black fur growing on my arms now, and I can feel fangs lengthening inside my mouth. I must escape! He cannot see me for what I am!

I fumble for the lock on the door but my claws can't find a purchase. Desperate, I kick the door hard - I see there are claws on my feet now too - and it opens with an unhealthy crunch.

I run: out of the white room, down the passage, into the room with the dance. There is black fur all over my body now, and horns growing from my head. I charge through the dancers, pushing them roughly to one side or the other in my haste to reach the door. There are screams. I ignore them. I dart through the door and jump, up into the air, and find myself flying: my wings are returned. Up I fly, up into the cold rain-dotted night air, to land on the parapet above, back in my own world, back in my own shape, invisible to all.

I check myself over. Dark, hulking, hairy and hideous. Exactly how I ever was. Or, almost. There, still wrapped around the brutal black shaft of my still-erect cock, is the mysterious, colourful rubber coat the beautiful creature placed there. It seems inappropriate on my wild and ugly body, so I rip it off with a single claw and let it fall into the night.

I watch the thing flutter hither and thither like a dying butterfly as it descends, until it lands sadly on the wet stones of the streets below. And then, almost as soon as it touches the ground, a figure stoops to pick it up and examine it. It is him! My beautiful creature, wearing nothing but hurriedly-applied trousers, standing in the rain looking upwards with a look of confusion upon his face. He cannot see me, of course, for I do not wish him to, but I see him. I feel immense guilt, for exposing one such as he to the grim world of one such as I. And I feel immense sorrow, that I could not have held onto my fairer form for just a little longer to complete our rut. Soon I find it hurts too much to look upon him, and so I retreat back to my lair amongst the chimneys.

It is the next evening. After a long day of much quiet despair, I find myself once again on the roof's edge, my tail wrapped around the ironwork, leaning out to overlook the balcony below. My beautiful creature is about to appear there and eat from his box and drink from his flask, as he does every day. I cannot be with him, but I need to see him nevertheless. I wait for him.

He is late. Still I wait for him.

He is not coming. Perhaps I have terrified him too completely for him to be alone in the night ever again?

There is a creak of metal behind me. I turn, and there he is! He steps onto the roof from the outer stair, wrapped up in a thick jacket and gloves. His eyes swing from shadow to shadow, and his breath condenses in clouds in front of him.

He is looking for me. But why? Perhaps he did not clearly see what I was? Or he did see, and now wishes to eradicate me from existence? Whatever his motivation, he searches in vain. I will not let myself be seen. The shame of being seen in this form by those eyes is unthinkable. I hunker down low amongst the aerials and make myself a mere patch of deeper darkness in the dark night.

He searches for a long time. I watch him sadly. At last, when he has searched everywhere and not found me, he slumps his shoulders in defeat and heads back towards the metal stair. But he does not reach it. As he steps onto the parapet the weak brickwork crumbles slightly under his modest weight, and he is pitching dreadfully, inevitably over the edge, his arms flapping wildly in the air as he tumbles hopelessly...

Suddenly, without thinking, I am in motion. A mere second later and I am holding him, flapping my wings to keep us in the air, pulling him up, over, and laying him down safely on the rooftop. There he lies, staring up at me in shock, and there I crouch over him, unsure what my next move should be. He has seen me now. I cannot be unseen. His ocean blue eyes stare fixedly into my flame red ones. He reaches out a hand to touch me, cautiously, combing his fingers slightly through my matted black fur as though to convince himself that I am real and not a nightmare of his imagination.

He looks at me. All of me. He looks at my graceless, bestial form and my terrible leathery wings. He looks at the serpentine whip of my tail and the awful clawed paws which can only slash and never caress. He looks at the ugly horns on my head and the deadly fangs which fill my mouth. He looks at every eldritch square inch of my shameful body.

And then he leans towards me and presses his lips sweetly against my maw.

It is only a momentary touch, but it leaves me confused. Is he really such a selfless creature of the light that he would touch lips with a monster of the darkness out of sheer good manners? Or pity, perhaps? But as I look again into the blue sky of his eyes I know the true answer, as impossible as it seems.

He thinks I am beautiful.

As I struggle with the sheer audacity of this realisation, he touches mouths with me once again. This time it is a slow, intimate touching, a rolling of his sweet lips against my hairy maw. I feel my cock twitch into life beneath me. What does he intend? Surely he cannot still hold a desire to be rutted by one such as I? But no. He climbs to his feet, and holds out a hand in invitation, a smile upon his face. Now is not the time for rutting. Now is the time for dancing.

We dance on the moonlit rooftop. He holds my forepaws in his gloved hands, and we take slow steps in time to the silent music of the stars. We stare into one another's eyes in fascination. After the first dance, he steps aside to remove his jacket and his gloves, his scarf and his boots. Then his socks and his trousers, his jumper and his shirt. Finally his underpants slide off his legs and he stands naked in the cold night air, the moonlight shining softly on his smooth buttocks and slender thighs. There is something striking about him here in my domain that was not present down among the lights and glitter of his world. He is a creature of the light, and like all lights he shines most brightly in the darkness.

We dance again, the beautiful naked creature and I, to a quicker beat, my claws clattering and his bare feet sliding across the slates and flags, feeling the hectic baseline of the city below us. But as that dance ends, I notice he is shivering with the cold. I draw him closer, wrapping my wings around his slender form, drawing his vulnerable body in to the fur-lined warmth of my own.

We dance one final dance. A slow, wonderful step and sway, with my wings around his back and his arms circling me tightly. We dance to no music but the beat of our hearts and the slow, warm rhythm of his breath which I feel tickling the fur on my shoulder. At the end of the dance we are still, our mouths touching again, our bodies pressed one against the other, our cocks twitching into erectness.

There is to be no more dancing. The time for dancing is passed. Now is the time for rutting.

He drops to his knees in my embrace and reaches out to touch my cock. I stand motionless in an accommodating posture as his delicate fingers trace the shapes of the mean bumps and ridges which run the length of my long, thick black member. The feel of his fingers is ever so gentle at first, like the wings of a moth brushing against me in flight. His eyes gaze at my cock in fascination and - understandably - more than a little trepidation. I worry that his nerve is failing him, but then a devilish smile spills across his face and his fingers tighten around me. No moth-wing fingertip fluttering now, his grip is as sure and firm as the stranglehold of a serpent. His other hand joins his first and together they vigorously pump my sizeable shaft up and down in a two-handed embrace. My fur puffs out in tingling pleasure and I let out a rasping whimper. I ooze for him. He notices, and pauses just long enough to lift a gobbet of ooze onto a fingertip, the touch of his digit against my tender tip like a spark of new life, making my cock twitch and ooze some more. He gazes at his messy fingertip for a moment, then it and gobbet together disappear between his delicate lips, tasting my seed with a thoughtful expression as though he were sampling the nectar of heaven. A moment of stillness and silence passes. Then he drops his head to engulf my tip in his mouth in one fluid motion.

I do not panic this time. I exult. The feel of his lips and tongue around my most sensitive place is almost disabling in the intensity of pleasure. I stretch my wings out, raise my head to the night sky and let out a howl of joy that comes out as more of a broken whine.

My whole cock is much too big to fit inside his mouth, but he works the base of my shaft with one hand while his tongue works magic around the tender ridges of my tip. His other hand cups and strokes my furry balls, which tingle in anticipation. I find myself pulsing my hind quarters back and forth in rhythm with his attentions, ready and willing to spill my seed inside his suckling lips.

It doesn't happen. Just like the night before, he pulls away from me well before I reach that climax. He has other plans for me, and this time we will have no interruption. Once again he reaches for his jacket and pulls from a pocket another one of the strange rubbery things. He looks at my monstrous cock again for a few more seconds. Now he puts the rubbery thing away again. Whatever it was, he has apparently decided it isn't needed.

My creature gets to his feet, takes my paw in his hand, and leads me over to a low metal railing running along one edge of the building. There he leans forwards, his hands planted firmly against the steel, his pale bottom jutting out towards me, the soft curves of his buttocks catching the moonlight enchantingly. He looks back into my eyes and smiles. Reaching behind him, he slaps his own right buttock three times in invitation. Slap. Slap. Slap.

I accept that invitation, nuzzling my snout firmly in-between his proffered buttocks to nudge against the vulnerable pink hole which hides within. I inhale deeply. The smell sends another primal shiver of urgent excitement running through my veins, urging me to get rutting. Ignoring that urge for a moment, I thrust my tongue deep inside his rump. As I enter him I hear him gasp and feel him quiver, his passage tightening instinctively around me. I taste the taste of him, a dark, mouldering tang not at all disagreeable to the tongue. I lap in and out of him a few times, flickeringly fast. This is a tight hole to rut. I'm thankful my copious oozing has left my shaft slick with slippery seed.

I withdraw. Now the rut can begin.

I mount him. My forepaws are placed on the rail next to his hands, my hind paws rooted close behind his feet. My wings droop down either side of me to form a dark, private canopy around us. The tip of my cock nudges against his balls.

This is a good place for a rut. Leaning together over this railing, we can both look down over the side of the building to where the other beautiful creatures mill and aimlessly dance in the street far below, unaware of what is happening above their heads. I fondly nuzzle my creature's silky golden hair with my snout as he gazes down to that distant street. He turns his head to gaze up at me with those eyes like summer skies, and I stretch out my tongue to flicker across his cheek and lips. His lips caress my tongue briefly, fondly, tenderly in return. He reaches back a hand to grasp my cock, and guides it gently up to point between his buttocks, its tip nestling against the lubricated button of his anus. He breathes deep breaths as he prepares himself mentally for the rutting to come. A few seconds later and his breathing is steady, and I feel his sphincter relax against the slight pressure of my cock. He is ready.

I push gently, and his buttocks part for me like reeds as my cock slides smoothly inside him.

He groans and grasps the railing tightly. I am about half-way inside him. The feel of him squeezed around the flesh of my cock is irresistible, and the black lust pumping through my body makes me yearn for more. I am incapable of pausing now. I dig my claws into the stone and push forwards more firmly, easing the thicker base of my shaft through his tight sphincter inch by inch. I stop only when I can go no further, when I have fully penetrated his tight rear up to the hilt, the fur of my groin pressed against the soft pads of his buttocks.

He emits a cry not unlike that of a startled seabird. Now I do pause, my concern that I might have hurt my creature overpowering the hammering urge to rut. I nuzzle my maw questioningly against his cheek. He breathes deeply, and slides a hand across the railing to rest reassuringly atop my paw. He is fine. He can handle me. I let the worry ease from my mind and allow the rutting urge to flood it completely.

The undignified gull-shriek escapes again from his lips upon my second thrust into his rear, and again on my third. By the fourth, the fifth, the sixth his yelps have softened into mere gasps, and by the time I lose count he has mellowed further into grunts and groans much more agreeable on the ears. In fact, his early vocalisations are the only thing in the least disagreeable about the rut to any part of me. My nostrils are pleased by the sweaty, perfumed odour of him, mingling pleasantly with the rising stench of sex. My eyes are pleased by the sandy streams of his hair rippling in the winds, by the pulsing back-and-forth sway of his delicate shoulders in harmony with the humping of my hind quarters. My hind quarters themselves are pleased by the easy but full-blooded rutting rhythm they've settled into, my tail swishing happily as I push my groin again and again against the twin cushions of his well-rounded buttocks. My testes are well pleased that a rut is underway, and busily prepare the coming deluge as they swing back and forth, their furry dangling sack slapping into his own petite testicles at the crux of every in-stroke. But my phallus is most pleased of all. My phallus is positively ecstatic with the feeling of the tight, well-formed hole it is occupying. Its tightness squeezes exquisitely against my every little bump and ridge, so that every hump into or out of that lightly-lubricated space brings an intense liquid ripple of pleasure along with it. And my hips are generous in their humping, burying my cock up to the hilt on every in-thrust and maintaining a tempo just barely slow enough to be sustainable for a good, long rut.

As I hump him, I lean over to whisper to him, the fur of my snout tickling against his ear. I do not care that he cannot understand me; the common language of the rut is communication enough. But I speak anyway. I tell him that his skin is as pure and bright as moonlight filtered through raindrops. I tell him that the curve of his back beneath me is as graceful and beautiful as the curve of the heavens above us. I tell him that the tight embrace of his rump around me is the most exquisite feeling I have ever felt since the tight embrace of the womb, or will ever feel until the tight embrace of death. I tell him that I love him. I tell him these things because they are true.

I rut faster and harder now. The pleasure is unendurable, but I do not mean to endure. I grip my foreclaws hard into the cold railing, I dig my hind claws firmly into the cold flagged floor, and I rut the warm, beautiful creature beneath me with every iota of my being. My phallus flows in and out of him like the piston of some mad machine. He groans and shudders and sways, tickling against my fur as he moves. I am the one letting out uncouth seabird shrieks now, I realise. The pleasure is overwhelming, demanding me to go further, faster, harder. I desperately need to feel that release. It is not long now. A few more wondrous thrusts into his embracing depths... A few more... More... It's coming... coming...

My mind clears to a wonderful moment of emptiness of everything but the ecstasy welling in my loins. My hips pause abruptly at the apex of their thrust, deep inside him, as deep as I'll go. In that frozen instant I hold his quivering form tight against me as though trying to meld us into a single being. Then the ecstasy overflows from my testes and shoots out of my cock in hot liquid bursts. I growl and moan as I come, letting my eyes close and nuzzling my snout into the curve of his neck. I fill him, every nook and crevice, and every spurt feels like a streak of living fire escaping from my overheated soul, leaving behind it an easy tingling warmth. The spasms of wet pleasure are receding now, until gradually it is over, and I stand there, blinking in the moonlight. I am hunched tightly over the railing, my beautiful creature trembling and gasping beneath me, excess seed dripping slowly down his buttocks and the inside of his thigh.

I withdraw myself, releasing another wet torrent of seed from his rear, and take a step back. He gets up too, shakily, and regards me with those hypnotising blue eyes, with that intoxicating smile.

What now? I am at a loss. People of my own kind leave each other's company promptly once a rut is complete, quite likely never to cross paths again. I do not know if that is the custom of the beautiful creatures also. I desperately hope it is not the custom of this one. My heart would shatter if I were to lose him now.

But he does not seem in a hurry to leave. He looks... tired. Shaky. Exhausted. So am I. I take his arm in one clawed hand and guide him to the place where I sleep, a little lost place hidden beneath the shelter of a sloping roof. There I lay him down on my bed of twigs, moss and newspaper, and myself beside him. He snuggles up close, his face pressed against my shaggy chest, and quickly falls asleep.

I gaze at him for a little while. We are opposites, he and I. The beautiful and the hideous. The light and the dark. The world above, and the world below. It is an aberration for us to be together. But I look forward to more aberration.

I do not know what decisions the morning will bring. We shall face them as we come upon them. For now, I wrap my wing shelteringly over my beautiful creature, sigh in contentment and drift slowly off to sleep.