FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

In retrospect, perhaps placing that advert in the paper wasn't his best idea.

Trevor Featherpaw's tail, a fine silver with a black tip at the end, lashed nervously through the air. A discontented yowl built in the back of his throat and threatened to give itself voice, bit back only by his fear that his visitor might hear as she neared the front door.

It wasn't so much that he didn't need the help. Heavens no! His home on the outskirts of Pinecrest Village, situated northwest of Summer's Vale, was ... well, there was a family of pigs in town who'd be quite offended if he called it a pigsty. Offended more that theirs was more orderly.

But such was the life of a student of magic and sorcery. One devoted the bulk of their time and energy, and a not insignificant chunk of sanity too, all in the name of the Art.

Unfortunately, that also tended to mean his sitting room looked as though a gaggle of pixies came through, cackling and giggling as they threw everything about like a whirlwind whipping through the house.

His ears twitched to the sound of shoes crunching against the dirt pathway, the old gate creaking as it swung open to admit her, and then closed and latched with a click and rattle of rusted metal. Trevor heard her cluck her tongue and resume her approach, humming an aimless, happy tune.

Stars and moons and galaxies, this was a terrible idea. Trevor thought back to her voice, a low, dusky alto that made his mind wander back to cold winter nights spent huddled up by the fire with his siblings, gathered to their motherr's side. Those were always his favorite memories.

A warm fire, a cup of tea, and mother reading a story while her kittens drifted off to sleep ...

Thrice, his visitor knocked upon his birch door, startling him out of his brief trip down memory lane with a startled mrowww! and staggered into his coat hanger, knocking it into one of his bookcases and sending several tumbling to the floor with a chorus of rustling and thudding.

That sweet voice floated to him through the woodwork. "Mr. Featherpaw?" she called. "Mr. Featherpaw, it's Lucilla Croithete! Are you all right?"

Trevor had to bite back a curse. "E-Everything's fine!" he stammered as he hurried to pick up the coat hanger and books. What a way to make an impression.

He set the books on the shelf in no particular order or fashion, and took a moment to straighten himself up again. The young tomcat drew in a deep, calming breath, and thumbed open the latch so he might open the door to greet his guest. With a smile upon his lips, Trevor pulled it open and said, "Good afternoon, Ms. Croithete, I apologize for my--wha?"

Ms. Lucilla Croithete looked down upon him through warm amber eyes, a kind smile worn upon a muzzle adorned with silken auburn fur. She appeared a vixen of middling age, with a kindly air which seemed to speak of experience in mothering, a pleasantly plump form, and hips wide enough they might require the aid of butter and an effort to come through the front door.

His jaw hung open, drawing a laugh. Trevor ducked his head. "I--I apologize, I didn't mean to stare! I just--"

"Oh, don't you worry, dear." The vixen tussled his hair as if they'd known one another for ages. "Most furs are quite stricken by my appearance the first time we meet. Though, I do appreciate the thought. May I?"

The tomcat gave a startled murr and scooted out of her way. "O-Of course! Please, do come in, Ms. Croithete!"

"Thank you, and, please, do call me Lucilla." The crown of her head, nearly kissed the top of the doorjamb as she ducked inside and deftly turned to twist her hips such that they narrowly avoided catching on the sides.

What followed next, though, Trevor could only describe as a sudden wave of the fluffiest, most vibrant fur he'd ever seen. He watched, awestruck, as Lucilla's tails, nine in total, each of them nearly as thick as her thighs near their ends before drastically narrowing into a fine tip, slithered inside as one and spread so they could lash and twist gaily in her wake. Each of them, he realized, were as long as she was tall, and perhaps another half again.

So stunned was the tomcat that he let himself drift closer, his fingers twitching with an unspoken desire to stroke one. At exactly the wrong moment, one merry swish sent the broadest portion beneath his chin like a boxer's uppercut. Her tail launched him off his feet and through the air in a flail of limbs.

He struck the wall with an audible thud, hanging in place. Blinking to clear the cobwebs, Trevor cast his gaze down to his arms and legs--each of them embedded about a half inch into the old walls.

Lucilla hummed her merry tune again. "Well," she said, her voice carrying a hint of an Irish lit. "Isn't this a lovely little home you've made, Mr. Featherpaw?" With an expert flick and tugging of one tail, the vixen closed the door behind her and put the latch into place. "A bit of an older feel to it, no?"

"Not--in--the family--exactly!" Trevor replied as he worked to pry himself free. He fell from the wall with a pop, landing nimbly on his feet. Wincing, the tomcat plucked a splinter from his rear and flicked it into a bin, then turned his gaze upon Lucilla again. "I, er, must thank you for coming on such short notice. Though I do apologize for the mess. My work--well, does occupy a good bit of my time, and so ..."

"Oh, hardly!" She waved him off, chuckling as she ambled around the room to take stock of his home. "When you've raised as many kits as I, this is little more than a bit of clutter!"

She'd raised kits? Trevor blinked and shook his head. Hardly his business. Though, it did seem to fit. "Er, well, that's--"

Lucilla made her way over to one of the shelves built into the far wall, her ample hips swaying with each step, and tails swishing in an almost hypnotic, fluid fashion. Some counter, some complementing. But as she moved, as they moved, Trevor noticed one or two coiling about the table and old, worn down couch to tidy up disorganized papers and books and fallen cushions.

One took a saucer and teacup, balancing both on the tip like a circus actor balancing a spinning plate. Trevor blinked, his eyes tracking the cup and saucer as that magnificent tail deftly carried them around to an upturned hand, held out at just the right moment.

She sniffed, nodding to herself. "Tea with a hint of vanilla?"

"A friend got me hooked on the flavor," he admitted. "You can tell that after it's been sitting out for--" Trevor thought a moment, and winced "--a day?"

With a laugh like singing bells, Lucilla turned to look over her shoulder at him, and traced the edge of her snout with a tail. "This nose knows, my dear Mr. Featherpaw. Oh, this stain should come right out, if only a day. A lovely choice, this nice pewter color. Part of a set?"

"Yes, in fact. My late grandmother gifted it to me when I bought this house." His heart sank into his stomach, but Trevor managed to keep the setting of his ears from betraying it. He gave a wan smile.

A curl of auburn fluff traced his cheek, circling just beneath the bone. Lucilla approached him and laid her free hand on his shoulder in comfort. "A lovely gift. She must have been a wonderful cat." With a sigh, she patted his shoulder. "Mortal lives always seem so short to me, but ... I suppose that is their beauty too ..."

Even as she spoke, Trevor noticed a shifting in her tails' actions. They weren't so busy, now, while she stood by his side in comfort. They abandoned their work to straighten his home and seemed to drift nearer to him, one or two twitching almost anxiously near his shoulders as though to loop around like a blanket of living fluff.

Stars and moons and galaxies above, she barely knows me and she's like ...

No, that was a bit too forward in thinking.

But this warmth was ... certainly appreciated. Missing, in his life, since he was young and the weight of family expectations weighed on those same shoulders one tail now kissed in comfort.

"You mentioned kits yourself?" Trevor asked.

"Oh, yes. I've had quite a few in my time."

The young tomcat nearly opened his mouth to inquire about her age, but clamped it shut just in time. His mother would almost certainly appear in a flash and spell soap straight into his mouth for such rudeness.

Still, he couldn't quite quash that curiosity. The same which led him to pursue such an esoteric career path. "Would they all be adults, or will they be, er, joining you in town?"

"All adults. My youngest is ..." The vixen fixed him with a considering look, then smiled. "Well, my youngest would be about your age, I think. My oldest is nearing her first millennium, though, which means it'll be time to celebrate a new tail--time does just fly, no?"

It certainly did, and sent his head spinning around the notion. Certainly, Trevor wasn't so ignorant that he'd never heard of the mighty kitsune, one of the most magical of races. But actually meeting one?

Nigh unheard of--theirs was a most reclusive, secretive commune.

"So, er, I suppose I should actually discuss the rate with you." Trevor thought back to his advert. "Is it to your liking as is, or--"

Again, waved off. "Perfectly fine, perfectly fine. Quite generous in fact, given the size of your home." One of Lucilla's tails slithered around his shoulder, tickling the base of his ears as it rearranged those books he'd so hastily shoved back onto their shelf. Not a word of scolding or questioning passed her lips.

Instead, she let her tails wander about, straightening things up here and there they talked. Nothing seemed out of reach, her tails endlessly flowing with alluring, fluid motions. The very light traced and caressed her fur in a way which demanded one stop and just stare.

No sooner had he begun to let his mind wander and wonder about how it might feel to just reach right out and touch one, and bring it in and just rub his cheek all over it like a bag of catnip than did the vixen's voice break her own spell. "Would there be any areas you'd rather I avoid, Mr. Featherpaw?"

He blinked. "Er. My laboratory, I suppose. Unless I ask, I think would be best." A rosy blush colored his cheeks. "It's nothing personal, I assure you, but sometimes my work can get a bit volatile. And I'd rather not have you caught in the proverbial crossfire or have something explode and turn us into something ridiculous like ... I don't know, a pair of big, cuddly pink elephants or something."

Lucilla stifled a laugh behind a paw. "Pink cuddly elephants? My! What an imagination!" One of her tails stroked his cheek. The urge to rub up against it was like a siren song. "Might I see the kitchen, then? Incidentally, have you had lunch yet?"

Naturally, the laws of the universe and the purest essence of Schadenfreude converged upon Trevor's very body and spurred to life all the necessary muscles and gastrointestinal workings required to send a complaining groan as loud as a slumbering dragon's snoring.

That rosy blush spread to the nape of his neck, even burning the very tips of his now splayed ears.

Those amber eyes of hers danced. "I'll take that as a no?" she teased.

He squirmed. "I-I may have gotten so wrapped up that I forgot to eat a full breakfast this morning. And, er, lunch." Trevor quailed beneath her gaze and an arching brow. "I had an apple and tea."

"Thank heavens for small mercies," came her reply. "Well, come along, then!" The tail which had just stroked his cheek slid down his arm, bringing with it a tingling sensation that nearly sparked a rolling purr and urge to close his eyes tight as it coiled around his wrist like a silken lasso so she could tug him along toward his own kitchen. "I believe it's high time I see the kitchen, anyway."

Trevor managed to bury that response under the weight of his own curiosity. The tomcat gave his wrist an experimental tug in kind to see if he could slip it free, but the vixen's tail muscles worked in combination with that voluminous fluff to hold him in place, tightening just enough that he could only pull at the tail itself before it pulled him right back and made him hastily step forward to keep pace.

Like a kit, he realized. Like a kit trying to wander away during a trip to the market.

Together, they crossed the threshold into his kitchen. The old woodwork had been polished and treated once upon a time, but the slow turn of the years had left it cracked in places, held together and preserved by the runic circles Trevor himself had chiseled ages ago. Ahead, there was a door with paned glass, affording them a look out into the sprawling hills dotted with Scots pines as far as the eye could see, and a step to the left, his small wooden table and two chairs, purchased new a year ago after its predecessor was blown to splinters by a rampaging Will O' Wisp's errant, ethereal flame.

The scorch marks still showed a scarred ring around its replacement.

Lucilla unwound her tail from Trevor's wrist and let a second slither across and settle upon his shoulders. With it, she steered him into the near side chair, and casually pulled it out for him to sit with a third.

She was like a walking concert. Despite her ample hips and rump, and such large, seemingly unwieldy limbs, Lucilla's every motion was poetry flowing forth from the pen of the old masters. Not a pot hanging from the ceiling mounted hooks nor a utensil nor decorative salt and pepper pot did Lucilla disturb as she sauntered around and began to open and close cabinets to get herself a feel for the place.

Her tail left his shoulders, robbing Trevor of its tender warmth. Again, the vixen began to hum her aimless tune, pausing only as she gathered his kettle and ceramic tea set, painted lavender and orange to imitate the sky at dusk. "Where do you keep your teas, luv?" she asked in that lyrical voice of hers.

"Er, in those glass jars to the left of the set."

"Whoop! Silly me, of course." The vixen rapped her knuckles against her head, laughing as she looped a tail around the kettle handle and brought it over to fill with water. With the others, she began to root through cabinets and ice box, procuring sugar and cream, as well as various cooking implements. "A bit of a hearty brunch, I think, would be lovely. How do you like your eggs?"

"O-Over medium, thank you."

Stars above, she even fit like a glove in the kitchen. Well. Maybe not fit in terms of physical space--that she barely had to step back from cutting board to refrigerator to close the door with a bump of her hip was testament to that. Rather, it just seemed like Lucilla had been in so many over her long life--far longer than he could know!--and was as deft a hand there as he in coaxing magic's secrets from its nature.

All with the most expert swishing and swaying and coiling of those nine, fluffy tails. Each of them working in such beautiful concert, the urge began to creep up again.

His eyes flitted here and there, his pupils dilating, belying his enjoyment and fascination like a kitten batting at his first yarn ball mobile.

"Would you like to brush them?"

That lyrical Irish lit jolted Trevor straight out of his stupor and into a motst embarrassing reality. He jumped in his chair, which reared back on two legs to support him.

Lucilla's eyes glittered. With a turn and flick of her wrist, twin flashes of blue foxfire swirled together, a brush with a polished wooden handle popped into her waiting hand.

The tomcat stared, his heart lodged firmly in his throat.

Another tail set a skillet atop a burner, then flowed forth to coil around the brush handle. "I often find my tails get quite a bit of attention," she mused aloud. "Though, most don't wait. They simply reach out and take hold." Lucilla guided it to his hand and, with another tail, closed his fingers around the brush so he could hold it instead. "Save for my husband, you're the first to bother with restraint, dear. So with that in mind~"

Trevor's only warning was the gentle squeezing of one of her tails, one he hadn't been minding, wrapping around his waist. A single tug, almost playfully gentle, was all it took to yank him out of the chair and off his backside so quickly he had to stumble forth, clumsily staggering into her bosoms.

With a startled mrrow! he drew back, his silver and black-striped cheeks flushing pure crimson. Trevor gazed into the eyes of the smiling vixen matron and stammered, "I-I thought touching one of a kitsune's tails garnered one of the most powerful curses known."

"To those who touch them without consent, yes. The most terrible." Beaming, Lucilla pressed her forehead against his, another tail tickling teasingly beneath his chin. "But being granted permission and doing so garners something else."

Curiosity gripped him once more. "Wh-What might that be?" Trevor asked.

The vixen hummed. She drew back and poked his snout. "Affection," she answered, turning to resume her work.

Gaping, Trevor felt two of her tails snaking around his arms to guide him along. His hands, they drew toward the one teasing his chin, and set him to hold it at its most voluminous, softest point.

Warmth spread forth from his fingertips, melting into his chest like chocolate melting on a pan.

Trevor bit his lip. Like a little kitten all over again, he observed her tail through squinting eyes and began to pet it.

A deep, rolling purr sounded from deep within his throat as he brought the brush to bear.

In retrospect, perhaps placing that advert in the paper was his best idea.