FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Between the end of sleep and the beginning of wakefulness there is a moment as memory returns to the sleeper. In that moment Stephen felt content in the comfort of his mattress, and hugged his pillow tightly in the conviction to extend sleep just a little farther.

This plan was dashed by the rush of realization. His mattress was weirdly lumpy, not to mention coarse and hairy. His pillow was the same. And to top it all off someone seemed to be operating a sawmill just outside his window.

Oh, right.

Nascent rays of dawn peeking through the curtains confirmed what his sense of touch had already revealed. He was sprawled on top of Franky, her belly providing a decent amount of comfort, his head resting on her right breast.

Again a circular saw seemed to bite into a log, confirming what he really should have guessed beforehand. Franky snored. Loudly. With a bit of a growl. Really, he had no right to be surprised or annoyed. Her entire appearance was a big, great hint that this would also be part of the package.

Ah well, there wasn't much to it. Now fully awake, and with no real hope of regaining sleep, he decided he might as well get up and see if he could get anything done in a place where telephone booths served as end tables. He pushed off against his fluffy lover, dimpling her fat, one leg questing over the… edge?

With the rustle of fabric one large, striped arm rose up from the sheets and pressed him to her once again. Her weight shifted under him as she let out a light chuff, then continued snoring.

Or he could just stay in bed for a while longer.

This really happened. Not that he was ever under the impression that he was dreaming, but he certainly didn't start the previous day with the expectation of using Franky like a mattress by the next morning. But here he was, casually poking her gut with his morning wood.

It was pretty great.

The rise and fall of her breath did lull him into something approaching sleep, though the sounds she made might take some getting used to. Eventually she did stir, and gave a deep yawn, teeth bared, tongue curling. The pressure of her arm lifted from his back.

“Mornin'." Her voice was deeper and rougher than normal.

He pushed himself upright, Franky brought up her hand to support his back, leathery pads and tufts of fur soft to his skin. It was a habit she'd grown into without either of them considering it, which made him appreciate it all the more. Pulling his legs into a cross-legged position, he noticed a pang of stiffness and a stab of pain in his injured side. He'd over-exerted himself, he figured.

“Sleep alright?" he asked.

“Yah." Franky yawned again and stretched her free arm. He could feel her other muscles tense under him. “Guess I got real tired yesterday. Ya didn't help in those regards, neither." She winked. “I ain't never been fisted on the first date."

Stephen could feel the hint of a blush forming on his cheeks. He hadn't really thought of it like that, but when you got down to it he did shamelessly shove his arm halfway up her pussy. She had room for it, but it wasn't his usual first date strategy. If you could even consider yesterday a date at all. He still held out hope for a cute breakfast.

“It was a first for me, too," he answered.

Franky's eyes drifted down to his groin. “Ya plannin' to do somethin' with that?"

His waking erection was obvious in this pose, pointing almost straight up and giving no indication of going away any time soon.

“I don't know." He grinned. “You got any ideas?"

“Yeah." She slipped her other hand under his balls, enveloping him completely, and closed it with gentle pressure. She let them roll around in her palm, gave a squeeze and tug, in idle exploration of his manhood. Then her nose wrinkled in a snort. “Let's take a shower. Ya smell like pussy."

That really couldn't be anything but true. In fact, he even was kind of sticky. The bed had no shortage of shed strands of fur, orange, black, and white. Quite a few of those were stuck to his skin, and if he rolled around a few more times he might give a good attempt at growing a pelt himself.

“Alright."

He untangled his legs and let himself slide off his furry seat, negotiated his way to the edge of the giant bed. Though it was higher than a regular bed, the edge about the height of his hips, he could make his way down without help. There were two ways to go about it. Either he could roll and slide down backwards in a controlled and decidedly unmanly descent, or he could just jump the short distance. He choose the latter.

When he hit the floor his side issued a stab of pain, which seemed to clue the rest of his body in that they should protest as well, especially in his shoulder. Yeah, he'd definitely over-exerted himself.

He stretched his sore muscles, shrugging off the pain. Literally. Only some slight, residual pain. Such were the wages of fisting tigresses, he thought.

With a thump Franky's paws hit the floorboards as she pushed herself out of bed, scratching an idle itch on her butt with the sound of a wood rasp. Fur stood out in thick whorls, an after image of his own form visible on her soft belly, with some fantasy. With the deliberate slowness of morning ritual, and the precise moves born of daily practice, she stretched her thick limbs. Really, it was a perfectly normal morning routine, except it took place at an industrial size, and Franky was one of those people who really liked using her arms. The occasional pops and cracks made it seem as if she were pushing and pulling errant body parts back into place.

“Jesus, I don't think I'll ever get used to that," he let slip.

“I'd like to see ya after a career in liftin' an' pullin'." She rolled one paw, flicking out sickle-shaped and -sized claws, then the other. “Now get movin'. I'd slap yer ass, but yer too short."

He was getting his answer a lot sooner than he expected to get it. As it turned out, Franky's fur-drying solution wasn't an array of ventilators, but a single large one mounted to the wall on a swivel arm. It looked like a cross between the jet turbine off a commercial airliner and whatever you called those things hairdressers used to give old ladies perms. The rest of the bathroom followed the rules of the giants' world he was, by now, a regular guest in. All the usual things were there, but they were larger, more robust, and out of reach. No toilet, though. That was a bit of a relief, however mundane. He'd simply always thought it weird to have one in the same room as your bath or shower. It was a plumbing thing, and it made sense from a builder's perspective to put a lot of the heavy duty water-using utilities in the same room, but it still just bugged him. Just the potential of the Solomon's choice of either locking someone out when using one function, or not having the privacy to do so was inelegant. It wasn't the end of the world or anything, but still.

The brush of fur as Franky pushed past brought him out of his toilet-based musings. Did he care too much about stuff like this? Her tail pressed against him, dragging as she moved, its tip curling around his body. Even her tail was strong, as he'd noted the first time he met her. He caught it with his hand and let it glide through, savoring the touch of velvet.

The shower cabin was a small room in its own right, large even for Franky. A waterfall cascade hit the tiles as she turned the knob and waited for the water to reach temperature. The tiles themselves, he suddenly noted, were spotless. Apparently all the energy Franky spared on cleaning the rest of the house went into the bathroom. There was the clutter of the usual products, and the unavoidable clump of stray fur, but not a spot of filth.

The harsh clatter of water softened as she stepped under the stream, fur drenching, losing its volume. She wasn't particularly thick of pelt to begin with, but as the fur flattened against her body its true definition stood out more clearly than ever before. Thick, corded muscle was obvious under the skin of her legs, arms, and shoulders. Her back had the clarity of an anatomy textbook, and he could see the muscle shift as she slicked her hair back under the stream.

“I like it kinda hot," she spoke over the running water, “so ya tell me if it's too much, OK?"

No time like the present. He followed her into the cabin, tiling underfoot already warm from the run-off. The stream was wide enough that not all of it went to Franky, and the pressure was predictably high. It ought to be, to get through all that tigress. Its touch as welcome as could be, already running the residue of the previous night's adventure from his skin.

“It's fine," he said.

“I got an idea." With her sideburns wet and plastered to her face, her bestial snout stood out all the more. There was that tell-tale smirk, with the fangs glinting between her black lips. She bent over to snatch up a plastic bottle from the floor, breasts and belly dangling, dripping droplets in a way that renewed any vigor Stephen might have lost. “This stuff's for fur, but it ought to work for a humie just fine. Here, hold out yer hands."

He did as he was told, presenting both hands in a beggar's gesture. With a squeeze she forced out a sputtering, farting stream of thick liquid soap. Barely a hint of perfume, clearly not a luxury product. By the way his hands overflowed, he guessed she must go through metric fucktons of the stuff.

“Ya can do me lower half, if yer down there anyway."

That he needn't be told twice. He slapped the soap against her thigh and set to work in long strokes. He kneaded with force, pushing off against the floor. A light chuff sounded from above. Franky wasn't the sort of person to enjoy a light touch. He pressed himself against her in a soapy hug, rubbing the inside of her thigh, enjoying the warmth she gave off as rivulets of water ran down both of them. Foam ran down his arms and spattered his chest, washing him almost as much as her. Then he worked down, soaping a massive kneecap and the back of the joint. An unfeminine giggle drifted down to him.

“Really? You're ticklish there, too?"

“I'm givin' away too many of my secrets to ya," she growled in return.

He moved down to her calves, which he really hadn't given too much thought until now. They were as thickly defined as the rest of her. Pure, dense muscle of immense power set in a pleasing curve. He gave it a resounding slap.

“Paw up."

Dutifully, she obeyed, raising her leg so he could work the underside of her foot. The damn thing was massive. It wasn't a surprise, but he couldn't get away from just how big she was. This thing had to hold up all that weight, and it looked the part.

“I'm going to need more soap," he called up. This time she didn't wait for his outstretched hand. Franky eyeballed it, and dollops of the stuff slapped down on his back, head, and her paw.

He set about working the paw, massaging the dense pads and soaping the stray fluff between them. As he did so her toes flexed, tips of claws peeking out, her leg jittering and pushing against him.

“Ah, careful." She suppressed a giggle.

Right, handle heavy machinery with care. Basic workplace wisdom.

“I've got to wash these filthy paws somehow…" he muttered.

Washing a giant tigress wasn't light work. Stephen moved on to rub down her other leg, the smell of wet cat and cheap soap thick in the small, giant bathroom. As he worked down below, soapy foam rained down from above as Franky gave the parts of her out of reach an energetic wash. With another slap he signaled for her to lift her other paw, clasping her ankle in the best arm lock he could manage before digging his fingers deep in the fluffy space between the pads. A shudder passed through her body, and the powerful limb squirmed in his grasp. The wet, soapy tiles provided little purchase, and his bare feet skidded with a squelch.

“I told ya to be careful," Franky said, flexing the jitters out of her toes.

That was most of the bits of tigress he could reach done, but another obvious target swayed lazily before him. Fiercely striped, with a funny, black tip, her tail had lost most of its volume under the soaking rain of the shower. There was something mildly hypnotic about the slow sway of the appendage. Something that whispered in the back of his mind.

Grab me.

So he did, seizing it with both hands. With a twitch, a length of it slipped through his soap-slick grasp. It was as strong as the rest of her, and he recalled jotting it down as a potential workplace hazard after it had swished overhead when they first met. Wet, secured, and with the both of them naked, it was much less threatening.

“Ya pullin' my tail now?" Franky called down from over her shoulder, soap spattering down as she continued her routine.

To be honest, he had no real plan. “I'm washing it," he spoke over the waterfall clatter, beginning to rub her tail up and down as it squirmed in his hands, though it was clear she tolerated him. He figured he'd be on the floor already if she didn't. “But I do find it quite erotic."

Her only answer was a soft -for her standards- chuckle. Then a tell-tale twitch passed through the appendage, its tip slapping his leg with a thwack. The kiss of wet fur clung to the inside of his calf, traveling up past his knee over his thigh. By the time she let it thump against his testicles with just enough force to let it be known who was the bigger animal here, he was already hard. With a teasing languidness she pulled her tail from between his legs, finding his erection in the process. She made sure to press hard into him, giving a parting flick with that black tip.

Even wet, her fur retained some of its usual velvet. Its caress once more roused the primitive parts of his mind. Following her tail up, to its root, they found a likely target for their wild lust.

Franky's giant, fat butt.

Her lifelong fight against gravity had resulted in a fairly squat build, well suited for defiance of the laws of physics. On top of that, she was slightly broad in the hips, and had built on that with a rounding diet. The white fur that marked the inside of her thighs, and continued up her belly on the other side, clung to her cheeks in a heart shape that seemed entirely too meaningful to be ignored. Especially sitting at face level as it did. Rivulets of water streamed down her striped back, running over steel cords of muscle as she continued washing herself, oblivious to his mounting perversion. They continued down, some parting to run down her tail and clatter to the tile from there, others following the planetary curves of her ass. The water particles that he thought must have superior taste clung there, forming beads that grew heavy and formed a steady drip.

“Franky," he said, his lizard brain running his mouth, “give me some soap. I'm going to wash your butt."

“Here ya go." Without looking, oblivious to his nefarious thoughts, she pointed the practically brandless bargain basement bottle in his direction and, with an inelegant plastic fart, deposited a stream of it into his waiting hands.

His cupped hands brimming with soap, his erection stalwart, and the full moon of tigress ass before him, life couldn't be clearer. Twin slaps resounded from the tile walls as he started rubbing the soap into her butt fur, the stuff squeezing out between his fingers. No reaction from Franky yet, as she continued soaping up her upper body. This was new, he thought. Any human woman would have guessed something was up, by now. But Franky was so large and sturdy that she didn't pay any heed to him fondling her ass. A smile that was, without a shadow of a doubt, quite perverted formed on his lips.

Moving in increasing circular motions, he continued soaping her up, cutting furrows in her wet fur. Her cheeks dimpled under his touch, but the muscle required to hold up half a ton of tigress (plus load) was obvious under the soft layer of fat. The orange, and its black stripes, were beginning to be obscured nicely under a coat of foam even as small streams of water cut through it. He'd arrived at the sides, and let his hands follow the contours of her ass top to bottom, needing the full extent of his reach to do both sides at the same time. It was that fact that made his dick buck in a surge of lust.

This big, giant ass was all his.

When he reached the lower curve of her butt his fingers found the groove where butt met thigh, usually comfortably pronounced on big girls, and Franky was no different. He let it guide his fingers as he cupped her cheeks with his palms, smooth and soft under his touch. Though her butt was definitely heavier than the regular thing, when he put his shoulders into it, and a minor complaint from his ribs, he could lift them well enough. He could let them go just as easily. There was something about a good ass jiggle that was quite hypnotizing.

A chuff sounded above, and with a wet newspaper slap Franky's tail hit Stephen's chest, pushing against him.

“Ya doin' weird stuff, now?"

He'd answer, but the ass that loomed before him demanded all his attention. There were plenty of ways the difference in their respective statures influenced the way they looked at each other, but this was maybe the most practical. He'd never be so casually face-to-ass with a normal-sized woman, and neither would the ass be so big. And so he barely spent a thought before slipping his fingers between her cheeks.

In contrast, Franky did, giving an attempt at a high-pitched yelp.

“That's weird stuff!" she growled.

“It's just a wash." As a man hypnotized, Stephen could hear his own voice from a distance, monotone and far off. His hand easily disappeared in the white heart on her butt, enveloped by comfortable warmth. She tensed a little in surprise, then relaxed. Letting his fingers travel up along the sensitive, hairless skin between her cheeks brought another chuff forth from her, and a shudder when he hit a particularly sensitive spot. By the time he had lathered the length of it, he fully had his soap-slick arm enveloped up past the elbow. Just his entire arm swallowed by fat tigress butt, him leaning heavily into her, side of his face pressing against the soft curve of her ass. Her tail curled around him, not exactly prehensile, but strong enough to give it a go.

This was nice. Comfortable. He could stay here like this for a while.

“Soooo… ya plannin' to keep your arm in my ass forever?"

She swayed her hips to affirm the question, jostling Stephen out of what was shaping up to be a nice rest.

“Can I?"

“I need it fer sittin'."

Leveraging his grip, he pressed himself against her butt, nuzzling the wet fur. The soap hadn't banished, couldn't, her sharp animal musk. “But you could use it for so much more."

“If ya stick in there, I'll just sit on ya."

It wasn't something he could confirm from his position, but he'd seen that sharp grin accompany this tone too often to not imagine it now.

“Probably lethal, but a good death." He gave his heavenly headrest a good hug, then let his arm slip from between her cheeks with a decidedly unsexy, but not unexpected, schlorp.

“Not like ya can't be a 'casional visitor."

“Good." He gave her rump a pat. “I was actually planning to put my face in there at some point."

A laugh rumbled down from above.

“How 'bout ya get back to yer job?"

The considerable weight of Franky shifted to face him, then she took a step back to rest her back against the wall of the cubicle, parting her legs slightly to draw his gaze to the thick fur between, dripping and dangling like a patch of stark white seaweed under the shower's torrent. She coaxed another thick dollop from the dollar store soap bottle in her free hand, with another loud rasp of air sputtering along with the stuff. Leaving no doubt about her intentions, she slapped it down in that thick tangle of fur beneath the swell of her belly. That is, on her fat pussy.

“Back to work, lover boy," she said with a sleazy grin, and equally sleazy wink.

“Yes, ma'am!" he grinned back.

With no concern for subtlety or grace, he plunged both hands into her soaped up fur, feeling out the gentle curve of her outer lips, the defiant inner lips not living up to their name, traveling up to give her giant knob of a clit a good rub. She shuddered as he did so, chuffing loudly.

Tigress roast beef sandwich, kingsize. The dumb, primitive part of his brain chimed in. It wasn't wrong, but just a bit crass.

He let his thumbs play into the crease between her outer and inner lips, running from top to bottom as Franky gave something between a moan and a growl. Even as he rubbed her down, he could feel her swell under his touch. He moved on to her inner labia, taking them between his fingers to lather them up and down. This was still just a normal wash, after all. While they were already proper dangly of themselves, his touch coaxed them out even further until he figured they'd be clearly visible even with her fur dry and properly poofy.

Franky, queen of the roasties.

Pinching them, pulling on them, made her shudder again. A strong squirt hit him square on the forehead, but he kept his balance this time.

“Oh God, do that again," she moaned from above with a roiling edge to her voice.

It felt a little counter-intuitive, but Franky had long ago proven herself to be more robust than any normal woman. Besides, his boner was in the driver's seat at this point, and one thing it was never going to do was question any decision that involved playing around with tigress pussy.

With a slow deliberateness he pulled down, teasing, stretching her out. A low moan sounded from her, primal, seemingly rattling the walls and his bones alike in the deep infrasound range. Following his motion she sank down, sliding against the wall with a squeek. For the last bit she let herself simply drop, her ass hitting the tiles with a squishy thud, sending a rumble through the floor and a small wave rolling over his feet.

Regarding him with half-lidded eyes, golden shine undiminished, she batted her lashes at him once and gave another chuff. Maybe he was biased, but Franky seemed to be one of those women who attained more of her natural beauty with an orgasm or two. The reclining posture pushed out her gut, leaving it resting on her thighs and hanging over her pubic mound. Gravity seemed to have more of a grip on her already pendulous breasts. Her legs splayed wide on either side of him, pink pussy on unapologetic display, she was the full image of a fertility goddess. Though, the steady rise and fall of breath, the cute spot on her nose, and a content, somewhat scheming smile on her black lips, fangs poking out, set her apart with an undeniable reality from the mythical.

“Yer a bit of a weirdo, ya know. T'go pullin' on a woman's pussy like that."

“You're a bit of a weirdo for liking it." Figures Franky wouldn't be able to do without a crass comment.

A slap hit his balls from behind and he flinched as Franky gave a chuckle. He'd failed to account for her tail, which snaked between his legs. She played the tip between his nuts in the tell-tale gesture of a cat up to no good.

“How 'bout ya come over here so I can give ya a good wash?" By means of invitation she held up the bottle of soap, then bared her fangs in a flash of a smile. “Maybe a little more?"

Well, maybe he was a weirdo indeed. Just the thought of the big tigress rubbing him down was already enough to make him feel hot and flushed, let alone a little more.

As he came closer Franky welcomed him with her free hand, pads remarkably slick in the wet. Even when reduced and drooping due to being waterlogged, her typical tigress sideburns were obvious and inviting. Being on eye-level with her was already somewhat of a rare luxury, so he certainly couldn't stop himself from reaching out with both hands and giving her a scratch. This close, the cute spot on her nose was equally irresistible, and neither could he stop himself from planting a kiss straight on it. He had to lean far forward, and felt the tip of his dick poke her belly like a lance.

Franky wouldn't let a cute moment stop the course she had set herself on, and set it to the soft tune of a plastic bottle farting out a torrent of soap. It spattered on his shoulders and back, where she spread it evenly with only two swipes of her hand. Having done that, she pushed him away a bit. Before he could protest, she squeezed another generous amount of the stuff out on herself, right between her drooping breasts and on her bulging belly.

“Uh…" he responded.

“Just think of me as a big sponge." Again she flashed her teeth.

Before the running water could wash either of them off to any degree, and before he could question her further, her two hands closed around his chest and pressed him to her with a squelch of soap. His face ended up between her breasts, right into the soaked tuft of fur she kept there, while his lower body dimpled into her chubby belly as if he'd been pressed into a particularly gaudy, dangerous couch. Still stiff as if blessed by Priapus himself, his dick seemed to struggle against its tigress-based confinement.

It felt good. Even when wet her fur was soft enough to tickle.

By instinct, he attempted to wrap his arms around her in an embrace, finding the task impossible. However, her breasts were within range, and just about the right size. He wrapped an arm around each, drawing them against him in what had to pass for an embrace, considering for a moment how lucky he was to be hugging such a stupendously large pair. A low growl issued from above.

Franky massaged him to her in rhythmic motions, the pads of her hands gliding over his back. Just as he was about to wonder at her gentle nature, one hand slid down to his backside and groped as if she was appraising fruit. He let out a gasp and felt his erection dig further into her.

This was going to be one of her signature moves, wasn't it?

The grip on his butt gave her the leverage she needed. With continuing gentility she rubbed him up, down, left, and right, frothing the layer of soap between them into thick suds. True to her word, she was basically being a big sponge.

“Franky…" he mouthed.

There was no way she didn't know what she was doing. His dick was dragging a pattern in her fur and the soft fat underneath, giving a soap-slick tickle that made the warmth of pleasure grow from tip to stem, to his loins, to his brain.

“Franky!" he called again. “You're going to make me cum."

“That's the idea." There it was, that contented, little growl behind her words. He could picture the lop-sided smile. “It's 'bout time I unhorny'd ya."

With a twist of her wrist she adjusted her hand, then returning to a solid, possessive grip. She wasn't even pretending to still care about cleanliness and soapy goodness now, gyrating his hips for him, pushing him into her. Her moves were impossible to resist, as implacable as if he were stuck in an industrial polishing machine. All he could do was cling to her breasts in return, digging his face into that thick, wet tangle between them. Even the water and soap weren't enough to rid her of that tigress musk completely.

He couldn't hold out long against her strength. In a motion up and to the left, he climaxed. As soon as he did, the pressure mounted, Franky pressing him even closer into her soft body. He spent himself in panting spurts, her smell tickling his nose.

And then, she let him slide down, dragging a bit of a cum trail, with his feet back on the ground. He was in no mood for standing, so sat, mirroring her reclined posture, his cock flopping on the tiles before him. Water streamed down unabated, in thick droplets that, he noticed for the first time, were just as Franky-sized as the rest of the house, resembling more a summer rain than any shower he was used to. She was already rubbing the spot on her belly with a generous hand of soap and a shit-eating grin on her face.

“Yeah, that was pretty weird," he said.

“Figured it'd be kinda like a titjob," she returned. “Ain't never had someone cum from my belly before."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

“We're busting a lot of your 'ain't nevers', aren't we?"

Her smile widened, flashing sharp teeth. “I still got a few left."

There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that they'd get around to busting them down like so many walls of a house under renovation, and with about as much subtlety as a sledgehammer meeting brick.

Unorthodox as her methods were, they were also fairly effective, and it wasn't long before they finished washing. There was a unique joy in watching Franky's unrefined motions as she slapped soap about herself and rinsed it off, flopping her breasts as she worked them, jiggling her gut as she rubbed out the last remains of… well, him.

Before long she shut off the water and they moved under the dryer. The thing produced a fierce howl, and a desert wind that stripped the moisture from his skin almost faster than he could register. With a tap on her thigh, he excused himself before she was done, lest he mummify himself. Such a thing wouldn't really be conducive to any relationship. As he stole out of the bathroom, leaving Franky to drying her fur, roaming naked into that giant living room that still smelled of sex from the previous night, there could be only one thought on his mind.

Where the hell did he leave his socks?

Scattered as they were around Franky's living room, it wasn't too hard to find his clothes. For starters, all the ones in his size were, in fact, his. It was a simple task to slap the dust off and pull them on. With relief he noted that any smell clinging to them was his own, with a small hint of sweat that the studio lights and the judging faces had drawn from him.

Right, that. Even though it had only been yesterday, the memory had been pressed to the back of his mind by the other, happier, more recent memories of the same evening. The dead lump of his phone sitting heavily in his pocket, willfully unused as of yet, reminded him that he'd somehow been brave enough to put his face on live television.

But hey, if his friends asked if he were fucking the giant tigress now, at least he could dodge the question and feel good about it.

Finding his socks was a bit more of task, picking through the dark bedroom with only a vague recollection of where he'd thrown them. He'd had other things on his mind at the time. Eventually he found the one, and a good few minutes later the other, which he'd somehow managed to get under the bed. His worst suspicions were confirmed.

They were quite well marinated, courtesy of Franky's sloppy lovemaking. Dry, but it was hardly an improvement.

Before he returned to the living room he could already hear she was there, from the absence of the howl of her fur-drying contraption, and her thumping footfalls. Upon entering he found her contemplating the interior of the fridge, still quite naked, tail swaying languidly. If she'd taken the effort to pull something on, she might have made for a good cheesecake image, but Franky was too shameless for the 50's. Maybe a bit too chunky, as well.

“'Fraid I ain't got no breakfast," she said, peeking closer as if food might manifest itself. “Shoulda told me ya were intent on stayin' the night."

“That's one more you owe me, then." He made his way over, taking exactly twice as long as he would have in a normal apartment. “Wait, if I'd just said I was planning to fuck you yesterday, you'd have run out to fill the fridge?"

With a thunk she swung the fridge shut. “Maybe," she shrugged. “I do like to eat after a good fuck."

“Healthier than smoking, I guess." Really, he doubted if such a direct approach would have worked, but he was talking to a woman with all the subtlety of a tank, so who knew?

Almost by habit, he put a hand on one massive thigh and ran his fingers down through her fur. Drying had returned its regular volume, and the parts of her where it was particularly thick were appropriately fluffy again. Her sideburns, the tufts under her arms, the tuft between her breasts, the one between her legs.

Without much thinking about it, again, he put his face right into it, letting the fur tickle him, taking in that soft, clean tigress smell with that hint of spice.

“Weirdo." It sounded from above.

“It's your own fault for being so big, soft, and fluffy," he said, his voice quite literally muffled.

One giant mitt cupped the top of his head. Rather than pushing him away, she only gave his hair a tussle like a friendly tornado.

“Nah, it's fine. Boyfriends get to be a little gropey."

Score! He just got free license to get grabby… did she just use the b-word? Rational self and lizard brain engaged each other in brief combat over which part of that to pay more attention to, making Stephen's mind skip like a record. Thankfully, standing with one's face pressed firmly into tigress pubic fluff wasn't the worst position to contemplate such things.

Leaning back he peered up past the curve of her belly, meeting her blazing, golden eye. Both of them, in fact.

“You sure?" he asked. The perfect, non-committal response.

“Yah. Makes a girl feel sexy, y'know?" With a sudden change her glance turned baleful, brow furrowed, blazing eyes full of intent. “That don't mean ticklin', ya hear?"

If he were a cartoon character, he would have gulped. Instead, he just nodded.

Her gaze softened. “I mean, if only for safety. If ya tickle me, and I kick…"

She let the implication hang in the air.

“…you send me straight into the hospital. Or the morgue. It's OK. I know what I was getting into."

By instinct he rubbed his side. Most of the real pain had dulled, he'd adapted his way around most of the rest, and ignored what remained after that. As if summoning a genie, the act conjured a vivid memory of a heavy impact, tumbling on a filthy, beer-soaked floor, and pain. Lots of pain.

The times he'd come into contact with the reason why people like Franky called people like him 'squishies' had been highly educational.

Her grin shone like the sun from up there, baring enough teeth that it was disarming only through display of superior force. “That's one 'ain't never' I'd like to keep."

Clever girl.

“I'll refrain from tickling you." He pressed his face back into her pubic fluff and placed a gentle kiss on the fat of her pubic mound. “Much."

“Har har, that'd better be an empty threat, Stephy."

He placed another kiss on the same spot. “I promise I'll be careful."

Wait a minute.

He pulled back and peered up past her belly again. “Did you just call me 'Stephy'?"

She gave a supersized shrug. “Ya get to do your weird crotch-sniffer thing, an' I get to call ya funny names."

“Is it too late to trade one in for the other?"

“Yah." One of her lopsided smiles cracked her face. “B'sides, ya'd look good in a dress."

Still some barbs left under the soft coat of girlfriend fur, huh?

“So would you."

Her grin drooped, together with her ears and whiskers.

“I aught to get dressed," she said.

Direct hit. Now for a dignified exit.

In as fluid a motion as he could manage he ducked between Franky's legs, being greeted on the other side by the fullest of moons, stripey on the sides with a white heart in the middle, thick tail brushing his hair as he erected himself. With both opportunity and permission, there was no way he could not.

Truth be told, he didn't give the slap his full strength, though he imagined Franky's abode was large enough that it wouldn't have echoed anyway. What it did accomplish was to send a pleasing ripple across her generous rump, to absolutely zero further physical response.

No news is good news, as they say.

Without further commentary she stomped off to the bedroom, leaving Stephen to contemplate his socks. There was a simple truth to them, and that was that they were… filthy. It wasn't a kind of filth he was familiar with, but being soaked in tigress ejaculate did no wonders for their wearability.

He'd settled in a decent lean against the couch, and was in the middle of contemplating that the coffee table might make for a decent seat, when her heavy gait once more announced Franky's presence. One would hardly think it possible for her size, but she had acquired a pair of aggressively pink sweatpants that clung only loosely to her frame, topped by an anonymous, white shirt he gave a scant two hours before it would be decorated by one stain or another. Her brush with fashion remained scattered across the living room floor.

The contemplation of the socks was really just a recognition of the figurative next step, which was directly related to the literal one. The one out of the door.

“I should get back home," he said. The words tumbled out of his mouth, falling into the air between them, clumsily. It was more a matter of need than want. The dead weight of his phone burned in his pocket, foretelling of the ramifications of the crazy thing they'd done together. His finger caressed the nub of the power button, a single press of which would cease the reprieve he'd given himself for the time being.

“Got stuff to do, huh?"

“Yeah." He did, though he wasn't sure how much of it he'd get done. No matter what he did, tomorrow real life would come screaming back at him. Not to mention he now needed to fit a rather large tigress into it somewhere. What he really needed was to unscrew his brain for a few hours.

“Got some cleanin' to do myself. I'd offer ya breakfast, but…" she gestured towards the fridge, “…ya know…"

Their eyes met. Before gaining groping privileges, he hadn't spent much thought on it, but most of the time where they could look each other in the eye, they were too far away to touch. With a few steps, he solved the problem and hugged one of her meaty thighs, tigress musk still subtly breaking through cheap soap and no-brand detergent.

“It's fine." He rubbed her leg through the sweatpants. “We'll go out for a real breakfast soon."

It was certainly the lack of a proper view on her which caused his surprise as strong, striped arms cradled him and carried him upward, leaving his stomach lagging behind in that peculiar partial out of body experience.

“Oh… um…" was about as eloquent as he got while Franky cradled him in a position he only vaguely recalled through an anesthetic haze, cushioned against her right breast. Their size disparity was too close for him to be hammocked completely, leaving his legs dangling as her hand cupped his ass, but he couldn't argue with the comfort of luscious fur, even if it was layered on the hard muscle of her arms.

Her golden blaze turned on him fully, radiant, confident, for a second before her eyes widened, her ears drooped, and her glossy, black lips framed the tips of her teeth in a gasp.

“I shoulda asked before grabbin' ya." She tried and failed at making her rumble sound small.

“It's OK." He shrugged with his free shoulder. “Can't be the only one with grabbing rights, right?"

Her gaze softened, a small smile painting her lips. “Yeah, but I'm the big one. Ya can't do anythin' to me I don't want. But yer… ya know… squishy."

With some force he wiggled his arm out from under her tit, to some mild pangs of pain from his side and some mild pangs of lust firing in his lizard brain. He reached out and let his fingers sink into the deep fur framing her face, finding skin and settling into a rhythmic scratch.

Yeah, that was the stuff. She let out a small huff, maybe even a chuff, that washed over him in a wave of warm air. Minty. She'd brushed.

“I won't break from being picked up. And for what it's worth, you did ask just now, so don't beat yourself up over it." He dug his fingers a little deeper into her pelt. “If I'm ever not OK with it, I'll tell you. For now, you're doing great."

At first the throaty sound emanating from her wouldn't form in words, holding somewhere between a stammer and a growl, but eventually she did manage to get it out.

“Thanks."

He swore, if she didn't have all that fur on her face, she'd be blushing half the damn time. Maybe this was just one of those great secrets of the relationship between large folk and squishies. Nobody at floor level would even notice her being bashful.

As he mused the nature of things, she brought her face forward to make her lips connect with his and half his cheek. Downy fur, scratchy whiskers, and cool nose all rubbed up against him in a kiss that made up for the lack of dexterity in her thin lips with enthusiasm. The wet tip of her tongue lapped out between his own lips briefly, then she retracted once more.

“You're a good kisser," he said.

She wasn't. The key word that would come to mind was 'slobber'. Indeed, he was left quite moist. But he couldn't imagine a day he wouldn't welcome that big snoot bearing down on him, cute spot and all. Unless, perhaps, it was to take a bite.

They stared into each other's eyes in a moment of serenity, the golden glow of Franky threatening to envelop him entirely. At least, that's what they attempted to do before the distinctive noise of a chemical plant rattling its pipes sounded from below.

“I'm… I guess I'm kinda hungry," Franky explained the obvious.

“Well," he gave her what he knew was a shit-eating grin, “I hope I don't look too tasty."

“Don't push yer luck."

She put him back down, letting him slide off her arm to the floor. He gave her thigh another pat before seeing to the inevitable next order of business. Hopping on one foot, then the other, he pulled his tigress-stained socks onto his feet.

Before long he'd located his jacket and shoes in the wardrobe by the door, with its phone booth table that was actually also a real phone booth. She joined him there, finding a genuine knock-off Adidas jacket, blue with white stripes on the sleeves, sliding her socked paws into the Niké Goliaths.

There she stood, Franky ready to go out into town, every color clashing with the other and her orange fur with its aggressive striping joining in for good effort.

Fucking glorious.

How was he ever going to explain this to his parents?

“Wait a sec." Even as she spoke she moved passed him, stirring the air like a passing truck. She cracked the apartment's vault-like door and stuck her head out. “Coast's clear."

Yeah, it probably wouldn't do to be caught in the corridors with the guy you just appeared on television with. Especially considering the guy was a squishy, and kind of a nerd to boot.

“I'll go first," he said, “you follow later."

“Cool," she affirmed, holding the door open for him.

The door thunked back into its frame behind him, the sound echoing off bare brick walls. Without Franky being there to be louder his steps echoed shyly as he made his way to the stairs. It was more the sound of a modest church than of the factory or warehouse this place had once been.

He found his way down the squishy-stairs that stretched down besides those broader steps at a crooked, mismatched angle, to the cyclopean front doors. With no convenient smaller entrance in sight, he had to labor against the spring, set more in favor of the large-size inhabitants than their squishy visitors. Applying leverage with a foot, he managed to wrench it open and slip through.

Crisp morning air washed over him as he entered a city still in its Sunday morning slumber. Only the occasional car trundled down the road, haste as absent as its could be in any vehicle. Sidewalks that would have supported entire subcultures only a few hours ago lay empty and still under a film of dew, with only strays cans and congregations of cigarette butts to remind one of more lively times. A single middle-aged jogger passed him by with a dogged expression and sub-standard pace, pounding feet amplified by the silence around them. He saw no recognition on that determined face. The jogger kept his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, or at least the end of the street, and plodded onward.

With every step he took to remove himself from Franky's apartment building his mind trickled the experiences of the previous night, and even this morning, into the giant file cabinet of memory. And it seemed it wanted to grab for the drawer of dreams more often than that of reality. Even as he walked he felt unbearably light, as if the stark air might rush in and fill his place. Poof, gone, like a ground-bound Icarus who dreamed beyond his means.

Feeling the instinct welling up in him, he turned and looked the way he'd come. Just as he did so, a fiercely colored, poorly dressed giant exited the building. She swept her gaze around the empty street, and caught him with those blazing searchlights, at once stripping the cold doubt that came so naturally from him.

He gave an understated wave, one of those that doesn't extend above the elbow. In return, she flashed a quick smile, baring fangs. He could swear the nascent sunlight glinted off them. Then she ducked into the collar of her track jacket and stalked down the opposite way, in search of prey lying on some supermarket shelf or butcher's display.

See, real as can be. Larger than life.

The thought of explaining the surly giant to his parents crossed his mind again. And his friends. And his sister… oh God, she was way too preppy for this shit.

And your boss, whispered a foreign part of him as surely as if the devil had his ear.

Fuck that. He tugged his jacket sharply into his neck and started down the street, wishing to disappear as deeply into it as a brooding detective into his trench coat. He was the last person he'd tell, and perhaps the last person who ought to even know in the first place. It's not like he needed anyone at work to know, really. That's the difference between family or friends, and work. One you can avoid as it suits you, the other pays the rent.

Thankfully the city's population was collectively not boring or responsible enough to send a representative to the bus stop. He had the glass and steel rain-stopper all to himself, the only presence of other people being the acrid smell of piss, no doubt deposited only hours earlier.

Eventually the bus arrived, heralding its presence with the hiss of its brakes. He studied the driver in a way he'd never done, taking in the bald head, jowls, wrinkles of middle age, bags beneath the eyes, everything. In return, he received only a dull, cursory glance, and breathed an internal sigh of relief. No recognition shone in the eyes of the man. Even as he still stood there, the man worked the controls that closed the door behind him. Two steps down the aisle, and they pulled away from the stop, down the open, early morning road.

Feigning a sudden interest in the scenery passing by on the opposite side, he passed an old lady, then nestled himself near the middle door. He pressed himself into the nook of the seat, head down, and dug out his phone to busy himself with not looking at other people.

His own dark reflection stared back at him from the dead screen.

Right, no escape there.

So he settled for staring out the window, letting the placid city glide by. For a moment he contemplated the empty streets, imagining some sort of apocalyptic scenario that left everything pristine, frozen for a moment before entropy would set in. But soon enough they passed some workers, surly and working on a sewer line, then another jogger, attractive but in poor form, moving slowly in a near sinusoid gait, then two men loading a moving van. He had trouble thinking up a post-apocalyptic scenario that only made a place boring, rather than empty.