FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"The packaging isn't as nice, but we'll fix that," Renamon says. Her hand is warm and sleek as latex as she lurches from your computer and takes grasp of your wrist. You pull back, but already she's pulled through completely, smirking wide with a hand on her hip. "It's been so long since I've visited the physical world," she says. "You will make a fine host."

You turn toward the door, but it's already too late. The heft of her rubbery form takes hold of your shoulders and forces you down to your hands and knees. She's over you, around you, nibbling affectionately on your shoulder blade, and then upwards, trailing kisses along your collarbone, your neck, your cheek.

Weren't you clothed a moment earlier? The threads are gone, and her massive gloved mitts wander. They slide along the curvature of your hip, explore the flatness of your chest. You're heating up, biting your bottom lip, too overwhelmed from the hot, incessant touch, and too overpowered to resist. She seems soft, gooey, thick as liquid latex, but when you reach back to pry yourself away, her own curved hips grow solid like a non-newtonian fluid.

"What do we have here?" A single finger curls around your stiff cock, dribbling of its own accord. Her touch seems to burn hotter, and delicately the single digit slips along the base of your shaft, trailing along the sensitive cumvein until it graces your crown with a tap, as if meant to be a kiss. "Now this is cute," Renamon purrs, and then her tone turns sinister, "but it just has to go."

Her nails rake across your chest in search of a sensitive target. As you shudder in confusion, they find it: A pair of digits pinch your stiff nipple and tweak it subtly, enough to milk a moan from your surprised lips. She alters the intensity of the sharp, stinging squeezes as the finger, idly flicking your cock, is joined by another. They wrap firmly around your member, slipping to your dribbling tip to gather precum and spread the glistening slick liquid downward, until again they search for more. Renamon's hands burn passionately, burn in the way a sauna seems at first too hot to slip within until you're immersed, buzzing with pleasure and relief.

But relief doesn't come. Renamon's slippery mitts work faster -- she's flicking her wrist, the air filled with a consistent spattering schllk schllk schllk as her wet hands work you over harder, faster, as its twin sinks the tips of her nails into the sensitive pink bud of your nipple, working it like a button. You're panting, pink-faced, your thighs growing thick and dense until they are shuddering. A tension builds between your thighs, held back by an obstinate mental dam. You can't hold back. Your cock twitches, half a second from release, when Renamon chuckles, shakes her head, and uses her firm grip to squeeze your cock, to trap the cum within, to deny you release from the onslaught of heat and overburdened senses. "Nobody gave you permission."

Something tight squirms up your toes and ankle in the same way you'd wriggle on a pair of long socks. But it's more constricting, more torrid, and you look back in your surprise to see that Renamon, in need of a physical host, is hollow and segmented. She's a latex suit with a bright sheen. Her leg is an empty stocking, worming up your own and melding to it like an adhesive. "Just think of me as a costume," Renamon muses, still squeezing your cock as the hand toying with your nipple slips over your chin and presses a thick finger against your lips. They submit. She prods your tongue, your cheeks, your teeth, mimicking the motion of a dick during a blowjob. You expect something salty, something organic, but instead all you taste is the industrial musk of rubber. "A costume you can never take off..."

Her dense, burgeoning haunch slips up your leg higher, until your calves and thighs are gone. Not just gone in the sense that you can no longer see them, but gone in the sense that you no longer have control. This time, Renamon doesn't feel the need to tease you. The second haunch slips in place with a single fluid motion. And now, as if to test her new body, she stands upright. You still feel your legs, but they are no longer your own -- and they are thicker now, digitigrade, and more powerful. Your derriere feels twice as heavy.

"Not bad," the vixen says. But now she's serious. You try and pull your arms away from her grasping hands, but how could you escape, standing still with nowhere to go? Still keeping one arm to herself, she takes her other and slips the warm, sleek latex material up over your fingers. It squeaks against your skin and slides higher, up over your elbow, until it's just kissing the base of your shoulder. Your arm is gone. And she's quick to use it for herself. There's less and less of you to fight back. You're flustered, sweating as more of Renamon's burning heat consumes you. And you're still on-edge.

You outstretch your arm as far as you can from your other, the now three-fingered, yellow-and-white limb gloved in a scandalously-vinyl-scented purple glove. But how can you escape your other arm? You can't. Your new trio of meaty, sharp-nailed digits grasps Renamon's final limb. You feel it flatten in your grasp. "Finally time to stop your pointless wriggling." Fingers fanned, they still aren't wide enough to stop Renamon from simply slipping her second slick arm in place. It glides over your knuckles, consumes your elbow, and like a creeping numbness your incessant twitching comes to an end. Your arms and legs are hers now. You can twist your head, shake your chest, but nothing more. Renamon is your body's pilot, and you're nearly completely suited up. Heart trying to beat free from your chest, it's one of the few things that still belongs to you. You can't imagine it will remain yours for long.

"You're much better this way. Who wouldn't want to be me?" She walks you over to the foot of your bed and reclines like she's sunbathing at the beach. But a new hand wanders. She slips it across your chest, over your abs, and indulges in her new toy: your dripping, half-rigid cock, still reverberating with pleasure. With need. She sighs, closes her eyes, and delicately slides her wide thighs together, biting her lip as your conjoined pleasure builds. Though she's not completely part of you, it's clear she can feel this as if it's her own. You gasp in complaint, which swiftly she silences, forcing you to generously divulge your attention to your new fingers as they slip, one at a time, into your maw. Every time you near an orgasm, Renamon shudders in bliss and pulls her hands away, edging the conjoined pair ever onward. It's a harsh, silent, endless torture, with only the sound of your muffled moans rumbling across your bedroom -- Is it even your bedroom anymore?

But now, with a listless purr, she sits upright and takes the flattened torso of her hollow body off the floor. It's shaped like a leotard. You thrash -- thrash by shaking your head, by freaking out completely, but Renamon doesn't seem to notice. She helps wriggle the yellow leotard over your head, and from there the thin latex just needs some wrinkles ironed out. The largest wrinkle being the spherical ball trapped between your thighs and hidden beneath the costume. "Nearly a perfect fit..." Renamon has nothing more to say to you, for you're nearly gone already. First she works out the wrinkles along the limbs of the clothing. The chest melds with the arms, the legs, seamlessly locking in place over you like a second skin. You can hardly shake your head.

Then, as if just a simple, larger imperfection in the suit, she trails a single nail around her new bulge. You shudder. Entombed in seemingly your own body, you're unable to resist. You're a toy, played with how she desires, when she desires, for as long as she desires. This fact makes you melt, compounds the burning heat that threatens to claim you completely. "Now, I don't remember this being here, do you? Let's iron this out." The vixen's trailing finger is enough to bring you back to the edge. Your bulge trembles, as if it's the only part of you -- besides your head -- that's still yours. It seems a simple inconvenience to her, a small defect that now only calls for the faintest of pressure from her pointer digit.

She squishes your bulge like a fly and grinds it down deeper. It almost seems to be shrinking, melding into the goopy latex, flattening out into nothing. But you don't notice. You can't notice. The teasing is nearly at an end. You pant, whine, squirm. The bulge gives a final shudder. You feel your climax approaching, the dam breaking. But yet the sensation remains. "There we are," she coos. "All gone." Looking down in disbelief, you see she's telling the truth. Your bulge has been ironed out like a wrinkle. It's seamless, gone as if it were never there, had never been. But trapped in your new suit, the ghostly pleasure persists, locked on the precipice of an orgasm that never comes, can never come.

"Oh, stop whining," Renamon chides as she bends over, fluffy foxtail in hand. "I know just the place for this." You catch the glimpse of something phallic. The massive tail hangs on an equally massive anal plug, which suddenly kisses your star through an extra hole in the suit you didn't know you had. The pressure builds as the vixen prods her new hole, stretching the delicate, stubborn button wider for the fox-shaped toy. You moan in tandem. The tip of the toy sinks in deeper, and her tail stirs as if alive, as if an electric-powered thing that's just been plugged in its socket. You squeal. You've never been stretched this wide before, but Renamon's encasing warmth relaxes you like a drug. Her trained, delicate fingers twirl the toy and seemingly know when to stop, where to push, until you're both shaking on your thighs. The plug slips in with a pop and seals in place with the rest of the outfit.

Renamon walks you over to the mirror. It's just your head now, looking diminutive in all that sea of fluff and white and yellow. "Now, for the cherry on top." She picks up her smirking head with both hands and holds it above your own. You meet her glare in the mirror, putting on a final display of perfunctory complaint before the hot, rubbery latex slips down over your face. It sticks to you like a second skin and seals with the hem of the leotard's collar. You can see through her eyes, see your reflection. But is it truly yours? What you see is Renamon in her entirety, smirking at herself in the mirror as she tilts side to side, observing her new body. She punctuates her appreciation with a meaty smack to her ass. You feel it, just as before, though it's impossible to moan under the constricting tightness of your new latex suit. You're certain this smack was intended more for you than for herself. A reward.

"I couldn't have picked a better body. Here I thought I'd just drop by to savor the attention at the digimon convention. But," she says, outstretching her arms, "looking like this? I'd say a_very_ extended trip is in order." For once, you can't help but agree. The heat is getting to you. The pent-up pleasure clouds your thoughts.

Renamon reaches back through your computer and pulls out a purple purse that matches her gloves and slings it over her shoulder. She sashays out the front door of your apartment, still smirking with pride for catching herself a new physical body to enjoy.

"Dressed up, looking like this? The convention is going to love me. The camera is going to love me. I think a few nerds are going to get very lucky tonight in the VIP lounge.

"I'm sure you won't complain."