FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

He sat in his car for a moment finishing the cigar. There was something about savouring a really good cigar, and this was a Romeo Y Julietta, so it wasn't half bad and he hated to waste it. He let the smoke fill his lungs and ignored the hacking cough that threatened to make his chest heave again. The sensation of drowning in treacle managed to wipe some of the pleasure from the experience though. With a reluctant grimace, he stubbed out the end on a copy of the daily newspaper right on the picture of the page three girl's tits and opened the door.

As he stood eyeing up the building across the street, he let some of his emotion show through in a slightly too forceful closing of the car door. It closed with a satisfying, almost musical thud though, and it brought a flicker of a smile to his grizzled face. He liked the car too, a genuine Ford falcon XW GTO phase 2 in original racing paintwork. From a time when folks made real cars, without all that fancy schmancy computer shit and emission control and electronic everything. Just a fucking grunty motor, a nice big heavy chassis, and real metal everywhere. Good times.

Crossing the street he gave a slight scowl at the Smart for 2 that struggled past him with a toot on a horn that sounded like the dying gasp of a pigeon being eaten by a stray cat and went through the door of the modest establishment that had drawn his attention this cloudy Saturday morning. The pile of steaming garbage by the entrance proclaimed the second week of a garbage strike, and the two winos arguing over a bottle of ouzo provided further testimony as to the nature of the neighbourhood, but the rabbit didn't mind. He kind of liked the squalor.

Squalor was his environment. It wrapped him in it's soothing embrace like his mother had when he was a kit, and kept him safe. And he burrowed into it with all the intensity of his species and made a home. This was his town now. Like the Ford was his car. He owned it, lock stock and smoking piles of refuse.

The bored looking fox in a training top on the front desk tore his attention from the fitness mag long enough to recognise him. The fox gave a sort of shudder and dropped the mag.

"Tell Clance I want to see him."

"Y...y...y..."

"Just fuckin tell the cunt will ya?"

He waited, watching the clientele inside the gym with practiced eyes hidden behind a studied boredom. To the casual observer, there was not much to make the fox so nervous, but the rabbit was not the sort to invite attention from the casual observer.

Under a heavy leather jacket, it was hard to tell his build. In fact, he was a ball of muscle, even well into middle age, his grey and white fur covering a hard figure that felt like mahogany, if you were lucky or unlucky enough to be close enough to touch, depending on circumstances. His face bore several scars, mostly hidden under fur but not all, including one long curving scar over his left eye, and his left ear was mangled as if he had been mauled by a dog.

As luck would have it, he had in fact been mauled by a dog, a Rottie to be precise, but this doggie was an ex-army special forces nut with a mixed martial arts obsession who had objected to the terms of a business deal the rabbit had gracefully extended. The Rottie had managed to get the rabbit in a wrestling hold and, after smashing his face had failed to dislodge him, had resorted to burying his teeth in the rabbit's ear. The rabbit had merely grunted.

The Rottie had done more than grunt, unfortunately, once he had lost the fight with the aid of a rabbit knee to the groin and the belated intervention of a couple of very large bulls who were the rabbit's close associates. He was last seen strapped to a dentist's chair in an abandoned hospital building with a car battery attached to his genitals by a couple of most unsympathetic wires. His final resting place was the source of much speculation amongst certain circles, as was the final resting place of his much abused genitals. Allegedly the rabbit kept a special safe for such trophies, and the number of inhabitants was said to number well into double figures. Nobody could agree though whether the number applied to the actual number of individual testicles, or the number of unhappy donors.

Hence the somewhat understandable nervousness of the fox.

"Jack! Great to see you...come on in."

An office door had opened, and a ram with a big smile and a pair of nicely curving horns waved at the rabbit with at least superficially sincere affection. He wore a training top just like the fox, and a pair of grey fleecy tracksuit bottoms and Adidas runners on his hooves. The top bore the words 'Clancy's Gym', and the eponymous Clancy was indeed an advertisement for his establishment, being a six foot six ripped specimen of male sheep.

He had been an amateur boxer, an amateur bodybuilder, and an amateur fitness instructor. He had also been an amateur criminal, which was how he ran into the rabbit originally. Now he was a professional of sorts, in all sorts of ways. For which he could thank his patron and banker, the unassuming rabbit under the jacket.

Jack, for that was his name, took the ram's paw and ignored the usual macho game of 'whose handshake can crush the most' the stupid lamb habitually played before taking a seat across from the gym owner's desk. He took out another cigar, carefully cut the tip off with a titanium cigar cutter provided by a most agreeable Iranian stag with a solid line in heroin importation, and accepted the assistance of his host in the lighting of his cigar. It pleased the rabbit that the ram kept a Swan Vesta just for him; he knew the health obsessed herbivore would rather die than smoke.

He crossed his hindpaws on the desk and blew out a smoke ring with a grateful sigh and settled in for the interview. A twinkle in his eyes showed he was, under the casual exterior, secretly looking forward to it.

"So Clance...how's it goin'?"

The ram spread his fingers in a gesture of openness and smiled a thousand watt smile of pure treacly bonhomie.

"Couldn't be better Jack. You seen the numbers?"

The ram reached for a drawer and brought out a bottle of Laphroaig single malt and two glasses. The rabbit gratefully accepted a triple neat and took a long swallow of the brown liquid. The burning in his throat nicely matched the burning in his chest, and he let off a stellar fart before cradling the glass against his belly.

"I've seen the numbers Clance. I was after something more...nuanced, maybe, than a spreadsheet."

The ram gave his rundown of operations. The gym itself, of course, was losing money hand over paw, as most of them did. Indeed, it appeared a strange investment on the surface for someone with a reputation in polite circles as an astute investor and businessman such as the rabbit.

For those in less polite circles, of course, the attraction was more obvious.

"Well, sales are going off. The steroids of course are a stable revenue line, and the usual shit like clenbuterol is always popular with these gymrats. But the new shit, that is something else. I knew coke and eccies would be popular, but the new stuff you have coming out. What the fuck is it anyway?"

The rabbit smiled and blew a smoke ring. "That would be telling Clance. My little beavers have been busy in the lab, shall we say."

The ram shrugged and took a swig of his own scotch. "Well, whatever it is, they can't get enough of it. I need more stock if you can get it."

"You shall have it. And what about our little sideline. How is that going?"

The ram gave a slightly embarrassed laugh and waved a paw. "Well, you can see for yourself if you like."

The rabbit always liked this part. He smiled and nodded, and the ram turned on a screen to one side of his desk and turned it to his guest.

"Enjoy!"

On the screen, the rabbit had a perfect view of a cubicle in the showers of the male changing rooms from the gym. In the cubicle in question, a thin canine, a whippet, was showering, and he frowned at the sight. Not his cup of cocoa at all.

"Give me the controls." He growled from around his cigar.

With a couple of peremptory clicks he had what he wanted. Now he had a perfect view of a different shower cubicle, this time inhabited by a muscled equine. He judged the horse to be early twenties, at most, and as he watched, he found himself admiring more and more.

The equine had a really beautiful cremello coat, and white mane and tail, with white feathering. His ears twitched cutely, and the rabbit briefly imagined himself nibbling those self same ears, before doing things to the equine that his mother would no doubt disapprove of.

His quarry was soaping up his chest, then bent over to soap his legs. One well wrapped equine tail flicked upwards daintily, as if sensing it's audience.

"Ohhhh fuck yeah mister pony. Is he on the gear Clance?"

The ram made a regretful moue. "Not from here anyway Jack. I think he is clean."

The rabbit nodded appreciatively. "Natural stud. Fucking equines, they get it easy the cunts. Now, show me some ass Mister Pony."

Whether by accident or design he got his wish. The stallion lifted his tail and turned, and as he soaped up his fetlocks, the ram and the rabbit were treated to a view of a perfect stallion pucker between two muscled ass cheeks and a heavy black scrotum glistening with soap suds.

The rabbit's eyes glistened. The ram just shook his head and concentrated on the whisky. It was not really his thing, in spite of a few memorable escapades in his boxing days with his trainer. Now he was strictly a tits and ass ram. So to distract himself from the obvious ogling he decided to enter into some good natured banter with his patron.

"Hehe. Lookie here...be careful horsey, Big Bunny is watching you!"

The rabbit narrowed his eyes and turned two slits of pure motherfucking malice on the ram.

"What?"

Clancy realised he had crossed a line. He knew the rabbit was not a big fan of his own name, after all a rabbit called Jack was asking for it, but he liked his nickname in the underworld even less. Nobody was allowed to speak it in his presence, under pain of making a donation to the special safe.

He temporised, after taking a large gulp of whisky.

"Just...making a 1984 reference. You know...Orwell...?

The rabbit scowled and shook his head. "I'm not one for literature as you know Clance, except for the racing formguide that is. Much rather the visual arts."

The ram sighed a sigh of genuine relief as his guest turned back to the screen. The rabbit's horniness had saved him.

The rabbit was indeed horny, watching the young stud in the shower had given him a buzz like no other, and the whisky wasn't helping. Then the equine under observation sealed the deal in no uncertain terms.

"Oh fucking hell. My little pony, such a dirty little pony. Absolutely magnificent!"

The stallion had let his long cock drop from his sheath as he soaped up his groin. Then, in the privacy of his shower stall, and with the burn in his body that only comes from a massive rush of endorphins and testosterone from a really punishing workout, he succumbed to his needs. And the rabbit could tell from the way those impressive testicles bounced, they would be some seriously intense needs.

"Fuck yeah...such a dirty slutty pony!"

Head tossed back, eyes closed, little pink tongue protruding in innocent pleasure, the young stallion jacked himself with the earnest intensity only a young stallion can manage. His hand moved in a blur, lubricated by the soap, and he squeezed his own balls and lifted onto the tips of his hooves and flexed his muscles as the pleasure washed over him like the warm water from the shower.

"This is the fucking mother lode here Clance. This one is going straight to the premium pay per view."

The stallion was of course oblivious to his future audience. The feed from all the cubicles was being beamed to a control room in a dark basement a long way from the gym, along with the feed from a range of other establishments including more than a few brothels that entertained the rich and powerful as well as the merely horny, and the dungeon level of several gay bars in the very few fashionable parts of town. Blackmail, or pay per view entertainment, the rabbit could rely on his team of associates to make the right choice. And he knew the stallion would be making a star appearance on 'hot studs unaware' within 24 hours.

Jack was, at heart, a capitalist. And nothing pleased him more than finding a market, and exploiting it.

Well, almost nothing.

"Oh yeah pony...give it to me."

The ram realised his boss had gone a slight step further. He screwed up his eyes, trying not to see the rabbit banging his long thin bunny cock with a clenched fist, but it was hard to miss. He was timing his strokes to those of the stallion, the two locked in an electronic embrace thanks to the miracles of concealed CCTV. With a slight gesture of disgust, he threw a gym towel at the rabbit who caught it with his free paw but kept right on jacking just the same.

The inherent differences between the two however made coordination difficult. After all, the stallion was younger, hornier, and had just come in from a hard all over workout. And, though the rabbit could not know it, he had gone a really really long time since he had a decent nut.

One pink flare swelled, opened up like a rose, and the urethra winked. The stallion let out a little whinny and suddenly a fountain of stallion cum burst upwards like God's own menthos and coke experiment gone wrong. Rope after rope of thick white cream went into the air and splashed on the tiles to be washed away like a catholic's guilt by the rite of confession. And the stallion had a lot to confess.

"Fucking hell...he's still hard..."

The ram was kind of impressed in spite of himself. He watched the stallion, stroking his now spent but still erect cock, and realised he was in for act 2.

Then he felt something more disturbing; something cold, hard, and decidedly not erotic unless you were into that sort of thing in which case get help now.

"Errr...Jack..."

The rabbit had casually pulled his hindpaws off the desk, and sat up. Reaching under his jacket he pulled out a Glock with a fat silencer attached to the barrel and it was the silencer of that most effective and easy to use weapon of choice the ram felt, a fraction too late, pressed to his neck. Then he heard the rabbit flick off the safety.

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed. And here comes a chopper to chop off your head."

The ram's eyes went wild. "What?!"

"Suggest you read 1984 again Clance. You were right, by the way. Big Bunny is watching you. Always. You seemed to forget that little lamb."

The gym owner swallowed, as much as his suddenly constricted throat would let him. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a very un-ram-like squeak. He swallowed again, and managed to get his voice down about three octaves.

"Jack, what the fuck man?"

"How were my good mates in the narcotics division? Detective Driscoll, that stuck up little cat?"

The ram swallowed again but words would not come. Sweat did though; although he hadn't had his workout, he was sweating buckets.

"I told you I have eyes everywhere, Clance. And not all of them are on shower stalls."

"Jack..."

"Tell you what mate. I'll make you a deal. Little game, like. I will jack off here, and we can watch mister pony there jacking his second load out. If Mister pony shoots first, so do I. But if I lose my nut first, I let you live. What do you say?"

"I...I...I..."

"Guess I'll take that as yes then. Fuck yeah...work that cock mister Pony. Work that amazing cock..."

The ram had to watch, fascinated, as the equine Adonis in his own gym shower pinched his left nipple and stroked his swollen length a second time. He hoped like fuck the stud had spent himself so much in the first cum that he would last a long time, and as he flicked his eyes to the side he saw his boss at least wasn't cheating. The rabbit had an earnest expression of extreme arousal on his face and his hand worked his pink length like a teenager on crack. Of course, the other hand did not waver, and the feel of the silencer against his adams apple added a certain piquancy to the situation.

"Oh you dirty cunt!"

Wondering what had brought that on, the ram turned his eyes back to the screen. To his growing horror, he realised the equine had shoved two fingers up his own ass, and was now furiously frigging his own prostate while his other hand wrapped round the flare and rubbed in insistent circles.

"No...no...no..."

The stallion arched his back, flexed his ample butt, and brought forth a second torrent of liquid delight like a Botticelli angel in the middle of a very kinky and very un-Renaissance fountain. His abs and chest twitched, muscles popped under the twin stimuli of a two hour progressive overload binge and a double orgasm in a public shower.

"Bad luck Clance."

The soft phut of the Glock was the last sound the ram heard, drowning out the sound of stallion moans from the screen. The rabbit thought it was more than the cunt deserved really, but needs must.

With a last glance at the stallion, now rinsing out his mane for the last time, the rabbit shoved his aching cock back into his pants. He needed to nut bad enough, but not here, not now. He did use the towel to wipe a small blood spatter off his cheek though, and then draped it over the ram's head to cover the eyes staring wide at the ceiling.

"How many fingers Clance...you dumb fucking lamb."

He had put the gun safely away again by the time he left the office. The quaking fox was still there, a whiter shade of pale under his orange fur.

"You just got promoted kid. Congratulations."

He didn't wait to see the fox's reaction. Instead he went out into the pale light to find it had started raining and the drunks had settled their differences by the simple expedient of one of them braining the other with an empty whisky bottle. He walked back to his car, and nodded to the black van parked behind. Two rather large and solemn looking bulls emerged, and he nodded to the larger of the two and jerked his head towards the gym.

Back in his car, he sucked on the cigar. A few moments of bliss in private, and he could face the rest of the day. In truth, he liked this. A wank, some action, a good whisky. A long cigar. Taking care of business; nothing quite like taking care of business. And when he got back to the office, his latest twinky wolf would get down on his fucking knees and he would finally get that nut. But he would be dreaming of the equine, he just knew it. Have to get a personal copy from the lads before he retired to bed tonight.

"Ahhh yeah. Taking care of fucking business."

The Ford roared into life, and he headed into the rain with a screech of tyres.