It had been a bad week for sexual release. The boyfriend was too tired. Even when I asked him to check on the risotto while I masturbated, he seemed miffed. Every time I went to the gym to work off some of the sexual energy humming in my veins, the shower would be filled with straight horse-hung studs, soaping their cocks, lathered fingers disappearing up assholes for a good scrubbing. What was I to do? I was jonesing, skin fairly prickling with desire.
Since the gym and the boyfriend were out, and having been banned from more conventional avenues until I could better contain my rampant sexuality (who else but me has ever been thrown out of Man's World for being 'too horny?'), I decided one late spring night to take a stroll along those slippery slopes that had once been so popular with my kind: the Belmont Rocks.
And he was there. Adorable in that feral way only someone whose balls were fairly churning with man honey would find attractive. But I did; his cute little rodent-like face setting off libidinous alarms.
He sniffed the air. Pheromones. He rolled over on his back and made a chittering sound that I heard above the crashing waves, and even in the violet twilight I could discern from his prone pose that he was ready. He wanted me as badly as I wanted him.
Boys and girls, I am not above the odd nonhuman mammal when it comes to satisfying my needs. I am no stranger to the embraces of Great Danes, Shetland ponies, or hunky primates who smoke. Among us mammals, the sex organs and various orifices are pretty much analogous, as capable as giving and receiving pleasure as, say, Charles Nelson Reilly. But the prairie dog on the rocks did give me pause. After all, I was in the mood to top and the little fella might be a tad more of a challenge than even my patience could overcome. But again, I thought of the boyfriend, the gym, the tired shaking of the head of various bathhouse proprietors when I approached. So I seized the furry little object of my affection and with little more than spit and a whispered promise to be gentle, I worked my manhood into him. He squealed at first, tiny claws digging feverishly into my flesh, breaking the skin, which immediately chilled from Lake Michigan-borne breezes.
But then the squeals turned to coos as my gentle, yet forceful, ministrations awakened in him the most rapturous satisfaction. Your guide to the sexual underground knows how to handle a tight bottom!
After we were spent, I lounged on the rocks. The prairie dog had scampered away, casting behind him what looked like a lascivious smile. Had he winked?
You know how it ends up. Promiscuous prairie dog spotted around Halsted Street, paying no heed to the disease he spawns, relentless in his pursuit of pleasure. Polymorphously perverse wordsmith becomes a grim, anonymous statistic: one of the confirmed cases of monkeypox in Illinois.
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