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"description": "[i]I’ll do anything for you.[/i]\n\nA sentence I have heard a hundred times from a hundred different girls. Uttered in the heat of the moment, when she thinks you are too drunk to make sense of it, hoping it to be forgotten the next day when you wake up on the sofa, back bent over the backrest and too occupied fixing what you jest about being a slipped disk.\n\nBut what if, deer reader, I told you that type of girl does truly exist? Someone who will not just read every wish of your lips, but who will go the extra mile to do things the way you [b]really[/b] like them?\n\nThe type of slut that that truly deserved the title. Who opens the door for you, with not just a smile, but a little jump; a flick of her tail, positively frolicking and with her fists perched up against her chest in anticipation of you coming inside, figuratively and literally. \n\nStarry eyes, bleating your name until you tell her you prefer ‘Daddy’. You get to watch her mouth it silently, that red hue creeping on her cheeks before she bleats it out, loud and proud and steps aside to ask you in; [i]please, please, Daddy, won’t you make me yours tonight?[/i]\n\nAnd while I bend her over the desk that has her little plushies strewn across it, rattling the old wood to have them fall off, while I dig my claws into that short Dyke-esque mane she calls hair, twisting it to make a proper handle, I tell her how much I like her small tits. I like them, because they remind me of younger girls. \n\nAnd what does she do, this little slut I left behind that night, with her legs quivering and her knees almost giving in? She shows up at the door in hoodie and sweatpants the next time. Hood up over her long ears, tongue flicked out between her lips and swaying left to right with her hands hidden in the pockets, shoulders pulled up and a meek, girlish tone asking the big, bad Wolf to [i]please, please not hurt her![/i]\n\nWho could blame me for leaving her kitchen the way I did? Or my own bedroom in the weeks following? She has caught onto my vices and acts as though she was half her age. All the bells and whistles, from mimic to gesturing and choice of words. All that lovely Generation Z vernacular which has my blood boiling, wishing to close my hands to fists with their necks in the space between my fingers. No, I can’t be blamed at all!\n\nAnd the nights grow long with her around. Who wouldn’t let them? With a girl that can coax your balls to go through entire packs of condoms? Most break. I tell her to drink the ones that don’t. She obliges after some protest. I can tell those are acted. In fact, all of her protesting is! And she knows I know, if not for lack of skill but because she lets me.\n\nBut that is the magic of the matter; if one is overacting with such blatant and outright intent, when she screams, hollers and bleats at the top of her lungs while your dick kisses her second door and yet you know she does it all to make your taint twitch and your claws dig into her skin… it all swings back and turns from mocking to arousing. And so, she continues to act. All those dreadful, little things I make her do, she blushes and gasps audibly about. [i]Mister Sooniecher![/i] she huffs, all just to do it anyway, barely able to hide her excitement!\n\nSluts like these, who make the payment involved a secondary affair, a proxy-price that is barely talked about and only exists as a formality? Yes, those are the ones you want to warm your sheets. And turn them damp with both your sweat. That is the type of girl you loathe being unable to pump your pups into. Blasted biology… but the domed stomach left by the liters of semen certainly helps.\n\nClaws dug into her flesh. Teeth sunk through her skin like waxy paper. Neck clamped between my jaws so that I may feel your pulse race like the broodmare I know you aspire to be. And what is it to you, Cervid slut? What does it do? It makes you not run, but throw your head back before clenching your fists against my shoulders and moan my name into my ears with such volume, the Tinnitus could still get me off in the shower the day after.\n\nAnd when I finally cum, when my first ropes make you curl your hooves and your body limp for a second because the impact into your womb feels like a hot rod? You claw your way right back to the act and whimper, moan and beg. Beg for more. Beg for Daddy to pump your womb fat with his pups until your doming gut pushes even your Maldivian shelf of a chest up enough to let you watch your stiff nubs bounce into your peripheral vision!\n\nLiters of seed, pumping her little gut until it has reached the size of a beachball, the middle line straining with stretch marks. Then comes that little pause when nothing seems to happen… before the pressure skyrockets and finally prompts a true, genuine bleat of panic from that tight esophagus. Oh, deer reader, you could cum right a second time just from that, I assure you! It is that moment you will think about as you lay atop of her again tonight. \n\nHips meeting hers with steady pace like a metronome. Your thumb finds its place in her muzzle, letting saliva mat both your fur before, inevitably, you roll onto your back, her gullet firmly clamped in your chokehold, before you ignore how taut her tissue is and force yourself in one level further; that knot will fit her, no matter what! And when your seed fills her like just another condom and you feel the weight shift from your goods to the little squealer kicking her legs as you press her against yourself? \n\nThen you know. \n\nShe is that kind of girl.\n\n[center]______________________________________________________________________________\n_________________________________________________________________________________\n[url=https://www.furaffinity.net/user/goocasden]GoocasDen[/url][/center]",
"description_bbcode_parsed": "I’ll do anything for you.
A sentence I have heard a hundred times from a hundred different girls. Uttered in the heat of the moment, when she thinks you are too drunk to make sense of it, hoping it to be forgotten the next day when you wake up on the sofa, back bent over the backrest and too occupied fixing what you jest about being a slipped disk.
But what if, deer reader, I told you that type of girl does truly exist? Someone who will not just read every wish of your lips, but who will go the extra mile to do things the way you really like them?
The type of slut that that truly deserved the title. Who opens the door for you, with not just a smile, but a little jump; a flick of her tail, positively frolicking and with her fists perched up against her chest in anticipation of you coming inside, figuratively and literally.
Starry eyes, bleating your name until you tell her you prefer ‘Daddy’. You get to watch her mouth it silently, that red hue creeping on her cheeks before she bleats it out, loud and proud and steps aside to ask you in; please, please, Daddy, won’t you make me yours tonight?
And while I bend her over the desk that has her little plushies strewn across it, rattling the old wood to have them fall off, while I dig my claws into that short Dyke-esque mane she calls hair, twisting it to make a proper handle, I tell her how much I like her small tits. I like them, because they remind me of younger girls.
And what does she do, this little slut I left behind that night, with her legs quivering and her knees almost giving in? She shows up at the door in hoodie and sweatpants the next time. Hood up over her long ears, tongue flicked out between her lips and swaying left to right with her hands hidden in the pockets, shoulders pulled up and a meek, girlish tone asking the big, bad Wolf to please, please not hurt her!
Who could blame me for leaving her kitchen the way I did? Or my own bedroom in the weeks following? She has caught onto my vices and acts as though she was half her age. All the bells and whistles, from mimic to gesturing and choice of words. All that lovely Generation Z vernacular which has my blood boiling, wishing to close my hands to fists with their necks in the space between my fingers. No, I can’t be blamed at all!
And the nights grow long with her around. Who wouldn’t let them? With a girl that can coax your balls to go through entire packs of condoms? Most break. I tell her to drink the ones that don’t. She obliges after some protest. I can tell those are acted. In fact, all of her protesting is! And she knows I know, if not for lack of skill but because she lets me.
But that is the magic of the matter; if one is overacting with such blatant and outright intent, when she screams, hollers and bleats at the top of her lungs while your dick kisses her second door and yet you know she does it all to make your taint twitch and your claws dig into her skin… it all swings back and turns from mocking to arousing. And so, she continues to act. All those dreadful, little things I make her do, she blushes and gasps audibly about. Mister Sooniecher! she huffs, all just to do it anyway, barely able to hide her excitement!
Sluts like these, who make the payment involved a secondary affair, a proxy-price that is barely talked about and only exists as a formality? Yes, those are the ones you want to warm your sheets. And turn them damp with both your sweat. That is the type of girl you loathe being unable to pump your pups into. Blasted biology… but the domed stomach left by the liters of semen certainly helps.
Claws dug into her flesh. Teeth sunk through her skin like waxy paper. Neck clamped between my jaws so that I may feel your pulse race like the broodmare I know you aspire to be. And what is it to you, Cervid slut? What does it do? It makes you not run, but throw your head back before clenching your fists against my shoulders and moan my name into my ears with such volume, the Tinnitus could still get me off in the shower the day after.
And when I finally cum, when my first ropes make you curl your hooves and your body limp for a second because the impact into your womb feels like a hot rod? You claw your way right back to the act and whimper, moan and beg. Beg for more. Beg for Daddy to pump your womb fat with his pups until your doming gut pushes even your Maldivian shelf of a chest up enough to let you watch your stiff nubs bounce into your peripheral vision!
Liters of seed, pumping her little gut until it has reached the size of a beachball, the middle line straining with stretch marks. Then comes that little pause when nothing seems to happen… before the pressure skyrockets and finally prompts a true, genuine bleat of panic from that tight esophagus. Oh, deer reader, you could cum right a second time just from that, I assure you! It is that moment you will think about as you lay atop of her again tonight.
Hips meeting hers with steady pace like a metronome. Your thumb finds its place in her muzzle, letting saliva mat both your fur before, inevitably, you roll onto your back, her gullet firmly clamped in your chokehold, before you ignore how taut her tissue is and force yourself in one level further; that knot will fit her, no matter what! And when your seed fills her like just another condom and you feel the weight shift from your goods to the little squealer kicking her legs as you press her against yourself?