FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Seventy years ago, Magic Mermaid Cove was founded as a lively amusement park with several indoor and outdoor aquariums and pools. On display in many tanks, it had bright tropical fish and "feral" marine mammals for all its customers to enjoy and observe. In other aquariums, restricted only to passive, non-venomous aquatic fauna, the cove employed several land and sea mammals as performers: the Cove's employees would each bind their legs in a green sequined tail-sleeve, and would swim about a large plate-glass tank to act out a narrated, music-guided mer-show. Air hoses were hidden behind plastic coral displays as to not "spoil the magic" when these land and sea mammals recalled their respiratory requirements. The enterprise was a tourist trap for millions of travelers until it all came to a laborious, grinding halt twenty years ago when the surreality of an able-bodied orca man, with his legs stuffed into a floppy-tailed sequined sleeping bag, was deemed ludicrous and sales sharply dropped off.

And of what use was a healthy, flowing wolf pelt to a sensuous, gyrating mer-woman? This suspension of disbelief crashed when the world demanded grittier entertainment twenty years ago. They wanted machine guns, venereal diseases, and holocausts: not seashell bras, singsong, and precocious princesses. Then the age of grit died with the internet, and what kitsch Magical Mermaid Cove had once supplied was wholly overridden by the kitsch of the internet, where videos of kittens knocking over model train sets and a comely fennec woman inserting a yard-long gummi worm into her rectum were readily available.

The young account representative, a skinny male named Kioga C. Davis, stood in the abandoned atrium of Magic Mermaid Cove wearing a tie under a shirt collar with no shirt, shirt cuffs with no sleeves, black professional socks with polished black shoes, and a clean, thick, white, billowy, plastic American Apogee diaper around his loins. It was an experimental brand hurriedly developed to combat the European Ultras, and as Kioga wriggled his small waist around the snugly taped portal, he remained satisfied.

Kioga's shoes clacked and his urine insurance garment rustled as he moved across the faded seafoam green concrete of the Cove's main hallway. Adorning the walls were cheesy cartoon representations of anthropomorphic fish, of merfolk, and golden underwater castles. There were whale kings and twisting double-helix rainbow whirlpools on which sea turtles and minnows rode sea currents; there was an underwater amphitheater where a swarthy male dolphin in an inundated speedo (such was the burden of his endowment) serenaded a school of lady dogfish. The cheetah's cock grew in his diaper.

Kioga wondered how the artist got away with that one: the bundle of the dolphin's scrotum and his plush penis resting in his testes' cleft was deftly depicted by distinct lines in the red nylon parcel. The cheetah imagined that his wad smelt like seawater and salmon, of a crisp beachside breeze with citrus, sand, and cum.

The cheetah groped the front of his dry diaper and pushed, spraying pee against his padding and groaning as it splashed back at him, hitting his receded sheath and gathering under his balls before receding. The American Apogee was a little slow on the uptake, but Kioga liked the few seconds immersed in his piss.

The diaper now a little wider between his legs, he waddled in his shoes as he followed the aquatic fantasy told on the wall. Aside from the dolphin whose cock-bulge neared that of a loaded diaper, this was a child's plastic fantasy-land. It was all cheese and whimsy, the impossible, the absurd: the saccharine and the safe. Twenty years ago, these murals were reproduced on sets of Pampers, on nursery walls, on jars of applesauce. As he walked the abandoned halls, Kioga blushed at their charm, then sighed as the heat faded from his cheeks, as did the heat from his wetted diaper. This silly princess/singsong/rainbow-whirlpool kingdom of innocence was so sweet, and so fleeting.

He looked at the seashell lighting sconces on the wall and cringed as he saw them for their flaked coral paint, at the faded crenelated waves around them. He saw the cracks and the concrete beneath; he saw starfish decorations held by hanger hooks and the screws hanging by a few threads. The evanescence of the Cove's magic blew past his whiskers with the hush of waves splashing against the shore.

In its current, ruined state, Magic Mermaid Cove was like a printed King Cub brief, cartoon animals frolicking on see-saws and swingsets, soaked to the point of leaking and in desperate need of changing.

Kioga wet his robust diaper with a long, languorous sigh, and as the warmth collected around his groin, encircled his undercarriage, and kissed the pucker of his rump, he imagined the Cove for what it was: the bright lights flooded the halls like liquid gold, crashing against the teal and turquoise seafoam wash on the walls. The plastic starfish and octopi hung in place like sentinels, and scads of men and women with their little bouncing cubs passed over the waxed floors as steel drum tropical music played over the loudspeakers, interrupted occasionally by a smarmy female announcer.

That would have been a place of kiddie respite where, in an adult-sized onesie, bonnet, and pacifier, Kioga would have romped through the halls with his beaux Lugo until their photos ended up on a diaper fetish thread and/or they were escorted out by security. He wished that more people would have supported such a quaint fantasy: the mermaid cove, he meant ... there were a decent number of support channels for his fetishism. He didn't exactly know how many.

Kioga looked down at his blued wetness indicator and rubbed his stomach. He was only damp, but as his boss Evan had instructed, the skinny cheetah had eaten a big meal. It was somewhere inside him, but where between his mouth and his anus he didn't know. He shrugged and walked along the aquarium's main tube, which was empty and mostly cleared of its coral reef decorations.

There were a few crew members below, wearing standard orange jumpsuits and hardhats, working on a trio of wire rigs that originally had been used to pull "flying fish" out of the water and let them leap through the air. Kioga pulled at his whiskers as he watched them tune the strange contraption, looking on at their strange new world like Andersen's "Little Mermaid," unsure but fascinated of their strange machinations.

A rumble in his gut brought him back to the real world, and the cheetah sucked in air as he felt a fat, firm worm wriggle its way through his bowels. The cheetah straightened his tie against his bare chest and marched, in a fat wet waddle, down around the aquarium tube to the ground floor, where his boss Evanstrom flipped through digital pages on a tablet as he talked to a desiccated, nearly-naked white mammal lounging in a director's chair: he looked like an albino otter or an arctic fox. The cleanly-groomed tiger, with not a whisker or fur out of place, looked over his clear bifocals as his incontinent lackey came into view.

Kioga froze as more than a few eyes settled upon him. He blew air through his nose as another telltale trickle rounded out his plastic loins. Evanstrom smiled brightly and gave his employee a quick salute, then returned to the skinny, nearly ethereal male slouched in the director's chair. That skinny male wore only a diaper, but it was shredded around the groin and hung over his plump male pile like a porn loincloth. On the other side of them was a jackal in rectangular spectacles and a pinstripe suit: it was a lawyer from Kioga's company. The cheetah came back into reality as the plastic between his thighs grew hot and pushed sidelong against his thighs. There were a few TV cameras situated around the suspension rig in the main aquarium tube: they were shooting a commercial.

"Are you the talent?" a brusque fox in an orange jumper asked. His voice carried that vulpine tenor but his manner sounded like a mastiff's bark. Before Kioga could answer, the fox looked right down at his swollen, exposed overnight-diaper and grimaced. A hot flush of fear and humiliation flooded Kioga's cheeks; he wanted to run or cover up his shame, but everyone knew why he was here. A thick worm piled against his anus. This was the company's off-site: this was Evanstrom's back-alley deal. This was recompense for that malicious prank that scat-balled into a fetid bathroom catastrophe, turning Kioga's old office into a septic tank.

Kioga felt the strong impulse to object, but when he took one crinkle-step forward the brusque fox put a paw on his chest. "Hold it, soggybottom," then took another look down and cringed. "You gonna be all right?"

Before Kioga could answer, the fox threw his head back at the group. "Fred!" he shouted at the ghostly male. The pale otter-fox leaned up in his chair, looking over his rounded muzzle with a languidly agape mouth.

"Turn around," the arctic fox/otter commanded. Evanstrom and his lawyer looked up at him expectantly, and the cheetah had no choice but to spin one hundred and eighty. He did not see the scavenging eye that appraised his soggy, sagging backside, but only heard a brusque "harrumph" that allowed him to turn around. "Fred" the "artotic" openly adjusted his powder-white sac and thumbed his red shaft back into its sheath, then pulled the diaper flap over it and motioned the fox worker away.

"Good; you've not spent your lunch. I hope you've let it all out because you'll be utilizing 'it' in its erotic function. That is, if the situation's agreeable, not-rape, consensual, sexual slavery et cetera," he droned on.

"Excuse me?" Kioga barked, clenching his teeth as his tailhole opened and closed against the first tenacious turd. It felt like a horse thrust its entire tumescent grandeur into his backside as he held it all in.

"This is FreDilect, or Fred. He's your director and will make us a _landfall_return; we're cracking into a sheltered, enthusiastic market. Sex sells, and Ferris-Chalmpers will take it to the next level in the ... freer countries. I'll get you the consent form," Evanstrom said, reaching over to the jackal who was now fiddling through his briefcase.

"The diaper's gotta go, though, chief," Wes said as he strutted out from the shadow. "You just do your classic male thing and it'll be over in ten minutes, unless you got your groove on."

Wesley the coyote was adorned in a towel, with the elastic band of a jockstrap poking up beyond the skirt. Kioga noticed that the rear tag was flipped up against his stomach. Between Wesley's fingers bounced two pills as he casually fidgeted: one was in the telltale blue diamond shape, and the other Kioga recognized as a stimulant laxative from his "compacted" days.

"This is really fucked up, Evan; what markets is this going to? I doubt even YiffHub's going to host this; this is a very specific demographic!" Kioga said. He thought it funny how quickly he went to business ... but he was on the clock.

The tiger retrieved his consent form and scanned the documentation. "It's a commercial, Mr. Davis. Ah, yes," he said as he reached the right page, "We're submitting this as art, not pornography, under the Eastern countries' definition of it. And we're not pixelating it?" he asked the bone-thin mammal.

"Japan can miss out while they stick to their puritanical edicts and tentacle porn," the artotic groaned with a flip of his paw.

"What the fuck am I doing?" Kioga demanded, grinding his polished shoe's heel against the concrete as his bowels inflated like a rescue raft.

"That'll be me, Mr. Davis!" Kyrie Danvers said, strutting out in only a yellowed feminine pad held to her groin by tape. Her naked, modest breasts bounced as she walked.

"So we're making 'art?'" Kioga groaned as his cock let loose again, spraying down its latent absorbent prison and lining the leg-guards with the run off. The American Apogee pulled down against his skinny hips, drooping and hot.

"Jesus, Davis. Are you done?" Evan asked, watching as a telltale wet trail spooled down the inside of the cheetah's spotted thighs.

"Oral fixation. I drink when I'm nervous."

Wesley laughed. "At least you don't have to leave your desk every five minutes. But, ah, the company store sells binkies, if you don't want to choke the landfill with your crotch-napkins."

"You're so charitable," the cheetah responded, then turned to the fennec woman. "Kyrie, I've known you for maybe a week; is that part of the show?" he asked, indicating the wet pad.

"I thought I'd get warmed up," she said, straightening it against her groin. "This isn't a diaper commercial but I thought I'd ... get into the mindset of you fetishists."

Wesley was indicted in that statement, and in response he let the towel drop. "Hey, whoa, that was one time and let's be serious. Nobody can hold it in all the time, am I right? Sometimes letting loose is just that: letting loose!" It was confirmed now that he wore a jockstrap backwards, with the pouch cupped in the cleft of his rump and his male externals on display for the world. Kioga was fondly reminded how pretty his ex-aggressor and bully was in the buff. With a grunt, a golden spring blossomed from the coyote's sheath and arced though the air to splatter continuously in a loud, spreading puddle in front of him, flecking his shins.

"Good God, Wesley, should I get you a leash and a hydrant?" Evanstrom groused as he swiftly walked past the gratuitous display, fanning out the consent forms and a pen in front of Kioga. Kioga took the forms with a grimace, his ears radar-locked on the continuing splash of piss on the cracked concrete floor, and scanned them.

"Our art department's going to mutate our faces?" he asked, stacking read pages under the others.

"You and everyone involved will be a generic, John-Doe furry. Your face will be directly drawn from stock photos."

"Much better than pixilation," Kioga muttered, then moaned as his guts rumbled south and his tail shot up like a whip. He grabbed his tail and pulled it through his legs, tugging it up against the soggy sagging diaper like a bondage strap. "I read the particulars. Let's get this going if we're going to do it at all."

The bony artotic gave him a single clap, then snapped his fingers at his orange jumpsuit lackeys. The mammal's cock pushed his shredded diaper flap up into a cheap, lean-to tent, and his plump balls rested comfortably, openly, against the canvas fabric of the director's chair.

Kyrie was given a stimulant laxative and a shot of vodka to wash it down, then she was lifted into the wire suspension rigs and had her paws bound behind her back. The rough fox henchman checked all the rigging, then whispered in her ear, to which she whispered back in a tremulous, excited cavalcade of affirmations. The fox then knelt behind her, his suit's groin distinctly tented, then removed her soaked yellow pad with his teeth, eliciting a moan from her. He spit the pad aside and licked his lips. The fox, padding around on all fours, turned towards the cheetah in a tie, cufflinks, shoes, and a saturated set of briefs.

"The Devil keep you," FreDilect remarked with an airy snicker, watching the fox crawl towards Kioga.

"I got it," Kioga growled, pushing the diaper down and stepping out of it. When he threw it at the fox, the fox caught it in his mouth and shook it like a vermin's corpse, flinging soaked gel and plastic everywhere.

"And here's yours," Fred said as he hopped from his chair, spinning a jockstrap around his long, thin finger with a grin. His ragged diaper-flap hung to the side of his blatant, erect cock. "Backwards, if you please."

Kioga held the garment aloft, shivering as an errant gust blew under his musky, naked nethers. The groin pouch hung down to his elbows as he held the waist in his paws. "Who's this for, a skinny rhinoceros?"

"Your janitor showed me pictures of your office," FreDilect giggled, tugging Kioga's tie. The cheetah groaned as his tail flagged again: his asshole wasn't closing. By the fox's shocked, lusty stare, who had just finished shredding his diaper and sported a blatant wet spot at the peak of his tent, Kioga knew he had a marker's tip of shit peeking out the back of him. The artotic held up the blue boner pill. "Baby make big boom-boom."

It was game-time. Kioga took the pill and crunched it in his mouth, then slung the hung jockstrap on backwards and walked with a flaccid second tail bouncing between his legs to Kyrie, who was bound up and suspended, naked, for the obvious act he'd signed to. His cock was already hard but the pill gave him three waves of reinforcements should his male libido question this beyond-dubious stunt. The TV cameras turned on their bright red indicator lights, and Wes the coyote tugged his erection to full mast as he stepped on the opposite side of the fennec.

Kioga held the fennec by her fuzzy, musky cheeks. Wes stooped down and kissed her on the nose before standing up and bumping her chin with his cock. "Hope you're ready for a real load, sport," he said, then grabbed the fennec's massive ears and pulled her over his groin. She readily groaned over his cock as she took the length, up his fat knot, into her muzzle, and from behind Kioga spit onto his shaft and slid it gingerly between her piss-wet labia.

The intense euphoria of a ready cunt overtook him, and as it squeezed his spiny shaft the cheetah let out a moan of pleasure as he hilted himself against her, then let out a gasp as his back end similarly opened up. As the coyote and the cheetah spit-roast the comely vixen, Kioga was struck with the simultaneous pleasure of all his backed-up feces soldiering forth, tumbling into his hung jockstrap and banging against his legs like a tail with its own mind, swinging back and forth, smacking into his calves with a hot, squishy slap as he thrust into the wet cunt of this young woman. He lost his mind as shit paraded into his hung poop-sock and slapped their legs brown, and he watched Wes similarly shiver as he filled the inadequate pouch of his own jockstrap, dark splatters lining his thighs as he exceeded his porous diaper and stepped into his own muck as it fell from his swollen cradle in broken, colorful chunks.

The artotic cheered, openly masturbating as the two males pounded the bound fox with progressively saggy socks swinging under their tales. Wes was sagging so low the cameras caught the brown muck piling against his rump before falling out the sides, whereas Kioga's long stocking filled out into a stiff appendage under his flagging tail, turning dark against its fabric and leaving brown stamps wherever it collided. Kioga's balls collided against her clit and the murky sock smacked against her stomach, and that's when stage three commenced.

Kyrie whimpered and pursed her lips against Wes's cock, her tongue savoring the lovely pre-cum leaking into her throat, then her pussy tightened around Kioga's shaft as her tail flagged. Her tailhole bulged, and a fetid spray of sticky liquid erupted against Kioga's stomach, soaking his strained jockstrap waistband and raining down his thighs in a calamitous fountain of digestive afterbirth.

The cheetah yelped as she painted the front of his lower, mating half with pungent, liquid shit, but the cameras kept rolling and his lust threw him into a frenzy. His soaked, malodorous hips slapped against her errant, erupting rump as he drilled himself deep inside her. Wes could no more than utter a few incoherent phrases as he thrust into her mouth, watching wide-eyed the gross display before him, slipping on his own shit as it wagged against his scrotum and fell piecemeal between his paws.

Kioga's waistband fell down against his cock and he hilted himself inside her, pouring cum against her own leaking scat deep inside of her. Wes grabbed his stinking, sagging load and pushed it against himself, moaning as he filled her muzzle, her lips leaking down his churned, pulsing balls.

The artotic came into his diaper-flap, cradling his pristine sac as it all came to a close.

"Just fantastic, guys; this is the sort of message that will reach the masses," he said afterwards, turning his ragged diaper around to leave the soiled flap in the back. "We'll have you showered and checked for all the nasty diseases in five minutes. Are you on the pill, Ms. Danvers?"

The fennec, suspended in midair as the lackeys worked to unbind her, nodded dazedly as white goo dribbled down her chin and a nasty assortment drooled from her backside. A solid chunk squirted from under her tail and splatted on the floor.

"Super. We'll have the film edited and submitted to you within a week."

Kioga's legs wobbled as he pulled the firm, fragrant poop-sock down his hips, then dropped it into a large metal can the fox wheeled out to him.

Evan had his glasses on his forehead and slumped grievously in his chair, the back of his paw wet with sweat he'd repeatedly wiped. "You're saying this is worth how much, Fred?"

"A couple million dollars apiece," he purred, strutting over and around the messy aftermath. "Our investors are delirious about a company that has ... a sense of humor."

Kioga stood naked. His cufflinks were splattered brown, the bottom of his tie had errant chunks on it, and his shoes squished with unspeakable filth when he walked. The fox lackey offered him a clean, pristine diaper and he smacked it out of his hand. He looked about the Magic Mermaid Cove in tired delirium, seeing that the flying fish act was now a mud-caked crater.

"If you don't mind, Evan, I'll be cashing in my vacation days for the next few weeks. Even if it's for a Babyfur Cruise to Jamaica, I could use some innocence in my depravity."

"You're not going next week, are you?" FreDilect said with a leery grin.

Kioga snapped his index finger right at the desiccated artotic, ignoring the warm squish between his toes. "If I am and we meet, you'd better be ready for a real load."

Fred grinned, pushing his fingers together up into a steeple. "I look forward to it."

The commercial came out in flush, off-radar 1st-world Eastern countries that the United States owed money to anyway and were so deliriously lush and highfalutin, their morals ascribed to their pleasure, no matter how dark or perverted they might seem. The commercial showed a highly edited version of their inglorious act where a nondescript coyote ejaculated into the comely vixen's mouth, her tits leaking milk (this was edited in), and she proceeding to spray the poor cheetah down in diarrhea. The waggling jockstrap poop-socks were emphasized in cringe-worthy zoom-ins. Kioga could nearly tell, by the high-definition particles, what Wesley had eaten. The message was: "In this fast-paced, frantic world, we're all carrying a heavy load. But when you need to get your message across, don't let it come out as shit. Use Ferris-Chalmpers to pass it right!"

Kioga cracked his knuckles as his laptop crackled with the commercial's preview file. He wore a onesie, had a pacifier in the corner of his mouth, and an open bottle of vodka nearby. His two-week bag was packed with fur-burnishing sun lotion, swim trunks, regular clothes, baby clothes, and enough diapers to soak up the entirety of Lake Michigan. Lugo rattled around in the background, ranting about the vacation and waffling as to whether or not he should go. "How did it get this far," "Do I need to keep you in check," etc. On Kioga's desk sat twenty bank checks from twenty different shell corporations, all signed "Fred (something or other)." Kioga was a soon-to-be millionaire.

"I'm going to get you, Fred," he whispered as he closed his laptop and dipped his binky's nipple in alcohol, "If this is the way the world is going, _I'm_going to be its padded prince. My diaper dominion is just beginning."

Kioga popped the pacifier into his mouth and strutted out to his boyfriend.