FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Go on. Give it a try. Who's there to stop you?

Your ears perk at the first insistence there in the back of your head, the impulse laid deftly enough that it feels as though it came from you yourself instead of an outside source. You life your head, look up at the mounting mare - the huge, padded breeding stand, used here on the ranch for the virile feral stallions. Still slick, still wet, still oozing with the lukewarm load of the last to come through for his routine checkup and harvesting.

The scent is thick on the air, I tell you, again focusing the thought as though it is one of your own. Why don't you take a taste? Why don't you indulge a little bit?

The desire and interest is already there within you; this is known. It doesn't take much coaxing at all for you to stand up and take a step closer, to sniff at the thick, glue-like milky white as it oozes down from the soft entrance. You swallow, lick your lips, reach up, touch it - grimace and jerk back, then reach in again... and sink your fingers in.

Take the place of one of the stallions. This is no tool but rather a live, perky mare, ready to receive your girth and seed. Go on; why don't you try it out? See what it feels like. Pretend you're one of them. You'll be taking seconds on this mare. Nobody's here to see.

_ _

A pause of reluctance... but then in a swift flurry of fervid, energetic momentum you unbuckle your pants and drop them down your thighs, slightly sweat-stained boxers quick to follow, tail lashing behind you in nervous excitement. A few squeezes and rubs to your sheath and you've gotten yourself half-hard; you drag over the stepstool, position it there behind it, take a step up, pull in a breath-

-smell the seed of these strong horses, so rich, so bold; feel it slipping down your tip, soaking into your fur-

_ _

-and then immediately let it back out as a shuddering sigh as you press into the thing, still warm from the equine's thorough treatment. The sensation bounces through your body, tail to eartips and back, and before you can stop yourself you've pushed in the rest of the way, supple sheath already slick and dripping with slime, tapered shaft buried deep in soft cushioning specially designed to earn this reaction. Another electric shiver and your ears flick again - then again, and again, and at first you don't notice the _change_in them.

It is quite obvious, though, especially as you lean over the thing, angle your body, brace your lower stomach against the stand, and continue to thrust. The pitch of your spine starts to shift and alter, the sensation unnoticeable beneath the sleek pleasure of burying yourself deep inside the tool; your tail flicks, straightens out, then starts to curl up and towards your body, fur pitching to a darker shade, markings shifting to come in along your back.

As you sink deeper, further into both the warm embrace of the mounting mare as well as my controlling grasp, I can feel the sheer, indulgent pleasure shooting through you. You know this isn't right, know that you should stop, know that someone could come through the stable door at any moment, and yet you still keep on going. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, muzzle broadening, forehead flattening from your original species into one more reminiscent of my own.

You love the sensation of a feral horse's seed slicking your shaft as you continue to thrust and pound into the thing, warm and slimy and sticky, matting down the fur of your sheath which also continues to roil and change against you. You have to widen your stance atop the stepstool with each thrust, sack simmering, growing, pulsing as the balls inside swell out as well, hanging down towards the ground, increasing in heft and heat. Your lips curl back, your tongue flops out, concrete and conscious thought in your head start to boil away into base, feral instincts.

You know you shouldn't be doing this. You know you've wanted to since the first day you were hired to this ranch. You know you _aren't_going to stop. Fingers grip the sides of the mount, broadening and stretching out into bigger, fuller claws, forepaws; now you have to tug your hips back further and further to get the same effect, as your sheath has plumped and pouched out as well. You can't hear it over the slick, wet squelching of your shaft inside the mount, the soft, molded interior walls of the thing squeezing and sucking more tightly around you as your length grows alongside your body, quickly overtaking the rest of you in proportion, but soon there's a thick, wet slime of your own gathering within the wrinkled folds of your sheath, liquid arousal mixed with feral musk and eagerness.

By now you have completely forgotten about your prior task here. All that matters is the warm slickness of the mount around you, the hunger in the back of your throat and deep in your loins, and the rhythmic swaying of huge, heavy balls underneath you, the weight and momentum driving deeper along your thrusts. In these moments all that exists is your mounting pressure and enjoyment, and the simple need to reach this climax.

And as such, I take it upon myself to push you a little bit further. A little tightening of the muscles in your thighs, an extra throb radiating out from deep in your loins, one last shudder of sensation through your body... and then it's no longer what you were before bending over the mounting mare, but instead a huge, heavy feral skunk, the very image of _my_presence, foaming at the mouth as it buries itself balls-deep inside the breeding stand. The strong supports falter and crack beneath your weight, the tube in the middle starts to split from the sheer girth, and as the thing thrusts forward, sucks in a wet gasp, and then rumbles in deep, peaking pleasure, its knot sinks in, pulses, pulses out - and the tapered tip of his shaft protrudes from the end, normally where the previous you would affix the unit to gather the product from the stallion.

Nothing there, though, and instead several thick, pressurized ropes of milky white jet out and slap against the far wall, one after another, painting the floor, gluing the hay to the cement underneath. Heavy, shaky breaths fill the stable, as does the cloying stench of feral seed.

No more of you remains. Just this big, lumbering beast, this extension of myself. And you don't even know what you've lost, for all that has taken the place of what was "you" is now those same feral desires: eat, breed, and sleep.

A little more tweaking should remove the unnecessary factors of that, and instead leave what is now your sole purpose. Knotted to the mount, exhaustion and satisfaction surging through your changed body, you squeeze, tug, shiver... and then move to start again.

Good.