FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Lester shook out his fatigue jacket, shaking off the November cold. The little door chime tinkled and he felt the odd sensation of walking into air heated to precisely skin temperature. He was a wiry but fit black lab with short spiky hair and a plethora of piercings. Even the stiff November chill couldn't dampen his don't-fuck-with-me punk appearance. The jacket. The jeans and chains and boots. The grubby notebook in his pocket where he jotted down his song ideas. He always stopped at Hong Kong on the way to band practice, and they'd been practicing a lot with the benefit show coming up.

He ordered the usual General Tsos and took a seat, fighting with the non-existent WiFi to surf Bitter. Then the server brought the plate. Lyle almost never finished the whole thing. He wasn't that kind of guy. Most days he pecked at his meals at best, but something about the heavy sweet tang of this food always led him to indulge. There was well over a full pound of juicy deep fried battered protein marinated with heavy sweet syrup liberally mixed with pepper flakes. An egroll that in honest appraisal was always heavy and overdone. And a quart of the most cake-like, moist protein rice he'd ever tasted. He was the only customer. The staff was all in the kitchen. And suddenly he felt ravenous. He dug in with fork and spoon, shoveling somewhat indelicately. He felt warm, buzzing from the spice and the heaviness of the food. His hunger abated slightly, but somehow he never felt the need for food drop below a dull ache. Suddenly the plate was empty, and a paw flashed bringing a fresh one to the table. Back in he went.

He turned his head slightly to the side as he shoveled in, trying to use the broad side of his muzzle to ingest as quickly as possible. He wasn't taking his time to chew, but he still savored the mixture of the heavy starch of the moist, savory rice and the sweet, juicy, peppered protein. When the second plate was whisked away he realized how fast he'd been eating and paused a moment to look down. His stomach bulged noticeably, swollen with food and gurgling faintly. His Dead Milkmen shirt pressed against his flesh, riding the slope down to his beltline. He noticed the server, a female cat his age, regarding him faintly from the entrance to the kitchen but when he looked up to catch her reaction she'd already disappeared with a flutter of the doorway curtain.

Despite Lester's distended state, he didn't feel sated. Not even close. In fact, his gnawing hunger had sharpened, stabbing from deep in his churning belly. And so he leaned back into his food.

He engaged in niceties for the first few bites of the General Tso's and then dropped his fork and spoon along with his pretenses for civility. He dove face-first into the plate, gobbling and gnashing and trying desperately to ingest enough to sate his starvation. He felt positively ravenous despite feeling his stomach stretch and distend as an empty plate was swapped with a heaping, steaming new one again and again. They seemed to be being delivered to him piled with more and more food, and it was getting heavier and heavier. The rice was richer and stickier and larger cuts of protein sopping with sauces accompanied it. It was to the point that now the entrees seemed to be half-pund slabs soaked in the sweet, spicy sauce to the point it oozed out his mouth and down his shirt and jeans. He scooted his chair back and leaned down directly into his food, feeling his belt dig in and in to his groaning belly and then give way with a sharp crack.

When the server took the empty plate he realized the table was piled with several new replacements. In fact, the table seemed bigger now. Almost everything on the menu was laid out steaming and fragrant before him and paired with a side of that wonderful rice. The hunger inside him was clawing him up, seemingly sucking in his very being even as he could feel himself roil and slosh with the sheer mass he'd consumed. He wanted to call out to the server and plead with her, beg for some insight to why he was both ecstatic and miserable or just to know what his bill would be when he was done, but she had already disappeared into the kitchen. And if he didn't push all that nutrition into his body he was terrified he'd faint from hunger.

Lester began pushing food into his mouth with both hands, soiling the sleeves of his jacket and splattering his shirt even as it was stretched into little more than a thin sports bra across his nipples. He paused his gorging for a massive, desperate breath and looked down at himself. His jeans were straining at the seams as his thighs fattened and puffed like two overstuffed sausages. His arms were about to burst his sleeves. His belly was awe-inspiring in its rounded, gelatinous enormity. He felt like he'd even gotten a little taller. He'd inflated like a balloon, or to accurately judge the heft and doughiness of his physique like a bag of mud. His arms and legs weren't any longer, and his head (and his poor overworked mouth) were no larger either. He was just massively overfull, bloated, and hungrier than ever. And when he turned back to the table he saw every surface of the restaurant covered with bowls and plates and platters of food. Like a mouse in a room full of traps. His chair creaked and collapsed. His jacket and jeans tore clean along their seams. Clad in nothing but his comically undersized t-shirt and boots he sat, fat ass to the cold floor, breathing in ragged sobbing breaths. He was so fucking hungry. It was all he could think about. It was all he was. And he began sweeping the food in with his arms, cramming as fast as he could.

He shoveled and gorged, his jaws snapping and slobbering. He felt his gut gurgling and boiling and bulging, feeling his skin slide and stretch as he inflated with spicy sweet masses of protein and starch. He loved the sensation, and the feeling of power. He was enormous, growing taller and fatter even if his limbs were getting comparatively stumpier and stumpier. His shirt finally shredded as he crawled across the floor, ingesting everything he could reach into a mouth that would never be big enough for the hunger inside.

Finally Lester was at the curtain separating the dining area from the kitchen. He was little more than a bloated black wineskin of food and need, gurgling at a volume that suggested whole weather patterns were raging inside him. His skin felt tight and hot but he jiggled and jostled with a doughy looseness that would have lulled him to sleep in a calmer state of mind. But god, he was so hungry. There was nothing else to eat, and then the server stepped from the curtain with a ten-gallon stew pot of General Tso's. He thrust his muzzle into it, tears running from his eyes. This would never sate him. He would eat and eat and eat forever, and either explode or turn into an unsated planetoid.

As his tongue greedily slurped the last drop of sauce from the bottom of the pot, the server patted his spiky hair. He looked up, into her eyes, and she smiled warmly. Proudly. And in that instant, the most powerful feeling of fullness bloomed in his gigantic bulbous belly. It flooded out to the tips of every limb and the tip of his snout. It practically sparked from the points of the spikes in his hair. The server had gone back behind the curtain, but he laid sprawled in all his bobbling massiveness on the cold floor and heaved a sigh of relief. He felt good. Hell, he felt so good he wanted to do it again. He felt warm and huge and powerful. His soft, massive belly (he was almost all belly now) overflowed every chair and table in the dining area. His ass, wide as a pickup, blocked the door. He lay for a moment, burbling and jiggling, bloated to a giant with all he'd eaten.

The server had left a fortune cookie on the floor by the tip of his muzzle. He stuck out his tongue and lapped it into his mouth, eating it paper and all.