Okay, we were meant to do an urban legend or something. I wasn't there so I don't know. Here is my substitute which could be an urban legend if it really wanted to be. And yes plushophilia is a real and frightening condition. Look it up.
I moved quickly, avoiding their strange static gazes, trying to suppress the growing feeling of rage against such a perverse lifestyle. The mansion began to pass into the distance and I steadied my breathing, riding the tremors out. This was of course, the lesser of two evils; walking through darkened streets is hardly preferable to a chance encounter with a plushophiliac; the dreaded ‘furries’. Slowing now, I crossed the road and turned my head slightly, glancing back.
The problem with these fanatics is not their sexual preference. They may delight in the soft silky touch of another’s pelt and that’s all fine, I guess. It’s more that they’re too involved in the character being played, too enthusiastic to debase and humiliate themselves, above all else; they’re creepy. And a perfect example of that was the leering panther not a meter behind me. Oh and it was pink, I guess that was some attempt at wit from the moron inside. I walked a little faster, cursing the padded feet of my stalker, unable to check it’s progress without acknowledging its presence. Turning onto my road I caught the animal’s scent as the wind changed direction. It stank of alcohol and something not unlike wet dog. I wondered if that was the suit or some obscure perfume, there must a niche in the market for people like this. I considered turning around and rejecting the advances of the degenerate as I normally do when one of them peels away from their orgies but I hadn’t quite shaken off the disgust.
Instead, I shifted direction, now heading for the woods rather than the hotel. The creature made a strangled sound which I guess signified approval. It thought it was getting lucky and I laughed to myself as I swung my bag off my shoulder and rummaged in it. The moment my hand closed around the handle I felt all my anger drain away, becoming focused in the very tip of the blade. Still chuckling I removed the knife from my bag and threw it against a tree, hiding the weapon in my back pocket. Turning around for the first time I took a condom from a fold in my jacket and was surprised to find my admirer unmasked. I wondered at that – how it must surely eliminate the point – and perhaps that is why I failed to notice the blade in its own hand.
Lying in a pool of my own blood, not centimetres from my normal burial site, had to appreciate the irony there. I guess it was someone I’d rejected before. A strange thought; that such beasts might have emotions like you or I.