Meet Dinasa Mentsouri, another childhood friend of Hector's and the newest member of the Whyte Yoté fold. Born in Morocco to dual-citizenship parents, he moved to Québec when he was five years old when his father tired of ferrying fat European and American tourists from Marrakech to Casablanca in an old, unreliable bus.
"Frenchifying" their native Mansour surname, they traded the bustle of city life for the slower pace of a farm, where they grow strawberries, cabbage, and--Dinasa's favorite--mint.
It's a modest living, but it's also hard work. The family can't do all the work themselves, so they hire seasonal help like yourself. And it seems the donkey's been noticing your thinly-veiled attempts at checking him out all day long. You can't help it; he's got this...je ne sais quoi about him that you can't put your furry little finger on.
Perhaps it's the fact that he's so unabashedly friendly for having known you such a short time. You're a day-laborer, after all, but no less dedicated to your work. As the afternoon winds to a close, Dinasa leaves you to pile some stray hay out behind the barn. You watch him walk, his tail whiplike over his rump, swishing away the flies that follow you both.
Minutes later, you hear a bray off in the distance; he's on his way back, plodding through a still-budding field of mint. He bends--God, that belly!--and picks up a few leaves, muddling them into two glasses he's carrying with him. After he steps over the hay, he hands one to you with a grin.
"Drink up! Quite refreshing after today, n'est-ce pas?"
You tilt the glass back toward your muzzle and have a swig. Smooth, sour and sweet at the same time, with the mint sticking to your mouth and giving a refreshing aftertaste. When you look back up, Dinasa is chewing on the stick of sugar cane that had previously occupied his own glass.
"What do you call it?"
"Mojito. Some rum never hurt anyone who puts his back into his work." The donkey unclips one of his overall straps, letting it fall and exposing one half of his mocha-brown belly. Is he even wearing underwear?
"Thanks," you say rather dryly. "I appreciate it."
"Likewise," he says. "I don't get many helpers who check me out so thoroughly."
You stammer something that sounds like denial, but Dinasa just grins and brays softly. Now that you've been exposed, there's really no point in trying to look away. So you go ahead and watch while the donkey releases the other snap, and down the overalls go.
Dinasa passes the sweating glass over his forehead, unaffected that he's quite erect in front of you. Not that you mind one bit. In fact, you're quite relieved that he is atypical of his species. It doesn't look out of place, and it's not insubstantial either. All you can think about it how it might feel going down your throat...or under your tail. Both would be very nice fits.
"You seem pleased."
"Hehe, yeah, I guess so."
"Not disappointed?"
"Why should I be?"
"It's not what you Americans would call a 'Thor,' but I have no complaints yet!" He throws his head back in a guffaw that turns into a hee-HAWWW. Your sheath throbs in response.
You gulp.
"The barn is empty. There's plenty of hay." You nod, and follow him to a new, rural version of Happy Hour, Québecois-style.
***
Dinasa is \r\n\t\t\t\t\t
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Art is the communicative, gracious and humble
\n\t\t\t\t\tjaleoPerson responsible for getting me horny for donkeys is
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