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A Night At The Knocksbury

OR

Riding On The Slutbunny Express

A piece of undefendable filth (you know you love it)

by Tyler David Coltraine

Let's get this out of the way quickly: I Am A Slut.

I'm easy like Sunday morning. I go down like the Titanic. I swallow. I've got more licks than a blues guitarist. I eat anything that moans. I've got Magic Thighs--they open at just a touch. I get eaten like Chinese food. I've got a cunt like an EZ Bake oven--stick your loaf in, and ten minutes later, it's hot, soft, and sticky. I don't know the meaning of the word no. It's a good thing I'm a rabbit or I'd get cramps from hiking my tail all the time. Underwear are both a liability and an interferance. I'm 5-foot-8-inches of pure brown libido with 36DD handles and a good compartment for storing your valuables.

Okay. Now that the introductions are out of the way, we can move on.

I love clubs. In fact, that's where I'm tonight, down at a place someone chose to call The Divine Intervention. It's a stupid name, far too overwrought, trying to be all deep and meaningful when people are really here to get drunk, get stoned, get humped, or dance the night away--any combination of the above, mix 'em, match 'em, trade 'em with your friends. Personally, the humping is my big draw, but I bet you figured that out already.

Lemme tell you a little story. See, I used to be Monroe. Monroe Overstreet. And boy, was I a boring little shit, if I may be so bold, and who's gonna stop me? Always the perfect kid, good grades, flying straight, about as exciting as C-SPAN. Not the kind of clubhump I am now.

One evening, coming up around graduation, someone made a dare. See, they used to call me Maybe Monroe. I looked good, sure, all curvy like bunnies tend to do. But with a personality that a Pilgrim would find drab, there was only a 'maybe' chance I'd graduate not a virgin. So Kimmi and Delilah, my rather popular friends, decided they'd take me out, get me drunk, and get me laid. It was a simple plan, and admirable. In a slutty sort of way.

So there we were, in a dark booth around the rim of The Bayou. It'd gone slowly, so slowly I felt like it hadn't started yet. We'd found out that the fake IDs that'd cost me $100 weren't quite fake enough, so the whole 'getting stone drunk' thing was out of the question entirely, and sipping daintily on a cherry Coke wasn't particularlly dragging in the studs. Kimmi wasn't having too much trouble on her own; she'd wandered on to the dance floor and demonstrated some of the more provactive moves she'd learned over the years of being a provacateur, wiggling and shaking and generally giving guys nice, tight tents all around. She had it going on, too, with all the things guys like--huge breasts, a firm yet substantial ass, not much in the clothing department, even less in the brains field--she was gonna get some no matter what she did. There was no doubt.

Delilah, on the same hand, had snuck to another boot with a pair of bitches--you know, female wolves--from another school. I don't have the slighest idea what they were talking about or doing or any of that. Delilah always was more than happy to get her kitty tongue in a snatch or two, so I imagine she enjoyed herself quite literally.

And this leaves little ol' me, in the least conservative thing I owned--I had cleavage showing! Oh the insanity, make it stop. No one was even giving me a stare or anything, and I was just about go home...when I saw him.

The joe who owned the club was one Bayou Currothers, a monster of a black panther who claimed to come from down south. I couldn't care less where he was from, honestly. He was just pretty, standing seven foot or so tall, with nice muscles and a butt that I could spend my life kissing, going wiggle-wiggle every time his tail would flick. And it flicked a lot.

So I stared at him. What girl wouldn't? I heard everyone hit on him, from the supermodel guest dancers to the lowest of the bartenders, guys and gals alike. His pants were like the Great Pyramid, a fantastic place that might hold great treasure but was locked up behind stone walls. Or in this case, iron will and a high-grade zipper.

He turned, eventually, after I'd stared for him for, oh, I think 20 minutes or so, watching him everywhere he went as long as I could keep him in view. He nodded. That's it, just a little nod, not even a grin. I dunno what it was, exactly, but that was it. He'd set me off. The whole shebang went in motion--I was hot, I was itchy, I had a heart rate like, well, a rabbit--and it was all for him.

I must have gone flush, because he started walking my way, just a casual saunter, probably to see what was wrong. Brown, it doesn't show blush easy, but I probably looked like Rudolph The Red-Faced Lapine, guiding Santa's sleigh in December. And it was just getting worse. The closer he got, the warmer I got, even sweating a little bit. And that's not mentioning the other, more involved processes--my nipples were signposts for Mount Bountiful, and was starting to get damp in the crotch, wiggling my hips a little.

He looked down. From my seat, he towered over me, several foot up there. "Are...are you alright?" I nodded a weak little nod, so caught up in the moment. He smelled divine, a combination of aftershave and sweat, intermixed with his pelt and natural oil. It was like Sex On Legs, and it was standing before me. Trying, for whatever reason, not to make an ass of myself, I looked down.

That was a mistake, by some accounts. I think otherwise.

The size spread just happened to put my nose level with the crotch of his pants. I got the best look of my life at a package that was the talk of the town, the pride of the city, the most well-kept secret in the club business. It must be huge, I thought, with the way you can see the outline of it all...it pressed out the denim a goodly way, though you couldn't see the shape defintetly. It was something to be proud of. I gathered he didn't have a sheath--this was all big swingin' meat, wide and kinda thrust out there from his pelvis. And musky...with my nose where it was, I was being innudated by the most potent of smell this side of an armpit, the male genitalia. I feel in love with that smell then, and I still love it now--you can find me with a dick in my mouth more often than any place else, just so I can bury my mouth in pubic fuzz and taste the rusty, salty-sweetness of his member...it's just something girls can't match, though they try.

He cleared his thoat after a second. I suppose he noticed that either I was staring quite intently at his equipment, or it might have been the phereomones. Rabbits are quite active about our phereomones, and I'm apparently even more gifted than that. If I wasn't the outgoing sort that I am, I'd have to lock the doors during my heats to keep people from kicking down them down to get at me.

I gave a quick glance upwards, just to see his face again, beautiful, clean lines, big green eyes, short muzzle, all that same shade of black he had everywhere. His nose was flaring, working hard at something, and his eyes were slightly glazed over. I didn't get it at all--was he sick? Was he gonna die? His tail was starting to thrash slightly, and he didn't look the least bit comfortable.

Looking up so far was giving me a neckache, so I looked back down, reaching for my drink. I was parched, which made sense, considering I felt like I'd dumped a whole glass in my crotch. My panties were a damned mess by now, sticky and probably see through. I took a quick sip, turned back, and gave the cutest little gasp I was likely capable of.

Bayou's package was bigger? No, it couldn't be. Or maybe it was. The male unit was not something I was familiar with, aside from a few pornographic magazines I'd masturbated to over the years, and I always thought those were fake. Guys never really got...big...like that, did they?

Imagine my amazement when he really was. The definition grew, a soft outline of his glans forming near the zipper. I watched, enraptured by this educational experience, as it spread downward and a bit closer to me, the seams of his pants looking vaguely unhappy at the whole ordeal. Me, I was loving it to death. Or orgasm, in any case. The smell had grown much more potent, mingled with something else, something much more feral, and it was growing by the second, keeping my heartbeat at the maximum and the velvety linings of my oversized ears a bright bright pink. Here was one of the studs of the club scene, the untouchable Bayou, with an erection, just for me, the head pushing down his pants leg, escaping the excessive tightness of the crotch.

This was love. Not love for him, no, love for his cock. I went blank, just thinking about what that looked like, that snakey thing, buried in all that denim. So, like any good explorer, I went in a bit deeper into my investigation, reaching out and giving his zipper a tug. It came down easily, the pressure of his member and all the rest not much of any issue.

There was nothing there. I was kind of disappointed, really--what had made that outline if nothing came out? I heard a little chuckle from above, and a black paw, fingers tipped with well-trimmed claws, brushed past my nose and into that zipper.

It was the longest 5 seconds of my life, waiting for that beauty of a penis to come out and say hello. It took Bayou a little doing, considering he was hard like a calculus test and he just couldn't think straight for some reason. I wonder why, really?

And suddenly, there it was, right in front of me--a cock, a penis, a dick, all the other terms for what you men just call 'equipment'. I call it a meal, some evenings, and this one was a gourmet type. It was huge, at least to my untrained eye, a foot long and bigger around than my hand. (I've seen much bigger ones since, especially in those horse and donkey types, but Bayou's is still one of my favourites.) The whole thing was black, jet black, from the tip to the end to the ballsac behind it, all onyx like night, veins working all around it, keeping the blood flowing so that it would stay nice and firm like that. And that's how I wanted it to stay.

Confusion set in for just a moment--what was I gonna do with this? I'd never given head before, hell, I'd never touched a penis! No handjobs, no licking, no dryhumps! I applied a few gentle touches here and there, experimentally, feeling the heat coming off the shaft, and the weight of his balls. He either had huge testes, or he hadn't fucked anything in a while--they weighed a goodly load each, in my expert opinion, and I really am an expert at all things fucking.

What to do? He was breathing heavily, and this little bit of goo was at the tip of it all, and my head was spinning like a dervish. It all looked and smelled and felt so great. Then it hit me. That was three of four senses, and it obviously wasn't going to make any noises (though hearing Bayou start to purr was certainly worth the effort), so the only one left was taste.

I put my tongue lightly on the head and dragged it down, licking not unlike a popsicle. I gathered he liked it from the way his hands flexed and his chest heaved, oh, and the way the cock in my hands sort of trembled was a pretty good giveaway, too. So I kept licking. The taste was certainly unique; sort of tinny and salty, but not what you'd think about something that, most of the time, simply sprayed piss everywhere. The gel coming from the tip was better than the rest, stronger, worth getting every last bit. They were coming faster and faster, and my tongue was getting tired. So I figured, what the hell, and just stuck the end in my mouth.

Some girls would have winced at an inexperienced fellatio artist shoving a twelve inch dick in her mouth. I know I did. As soon as the bearer of said unit realized he had something warm and wet around his most personal of possessions, he went into natural mode, starting a slow (at first) motion with his hips. It caught me off guard, suddenly having that thing move on me, but it only took a second before it felt like I'd done it before. Maybe I'm a reincarnated whore, or the standing goddess of recreational sex? I dunno. I'm happy even if I'm not!

Not all of it would fit in my mouth at once, no matter how he battered at my throat and cheeks, so I coiled my fingers around what I could of his shaft and stroked, firmly. He certainly seemed to get a thrill, picking up his pace, testicles swinging like a pendulum, marking our time in four-four fuck, with lots of staccato and fortissimo.

I pulled back and let him go, getting a little breath. A combination of lick and stroke would have to tide him over until Ms. Mouth came back to Cocksington. He didn't give me enough time.

Inexperienced as I was, I missed all the warning signs of oncoming orgasm--the pulsing head, the rising testicles, the claw marks in the table--and blew my chance as he blew his load. I probably screamed, once or twice, as my face and chest got a whitewashing in panther semen, a stream or two hitting my glasses and my nose. I licked instinctively at everything, finding the taste to be more than pleasant, but downright delectable. The next minute or so after he calmed down was spent getting all of it off of him, off of me, off of the bench, you name it. I must have looked like quite a little cum vacuum, but who can deny that it's worth a little embarassment to get a mouthful?

And after all of that, he took a breath. He grinned a little grin at me, and mumbled, "You must have lots of practice." I mumbled something about a first time, or some shit like that (even though it was true), and he blinked a few times. "You're one helluva slut, then." And I didn't mind that. Hell, as long as it kept me in cum and cocks, I'm proud to be one of the Sluts Of America.

That didn't fix one problem, though. Sure, I'd gotten his rocks off. But what about my mountain? I was still hot like Tampa in July, and here Bayou was with a limp dick he was steadily stuffing back into his drawers. I looked up, and started pleading a little. He looked honestly confused, so I gave him the fifty cent tour of what I needed.

For those who'd like more details, I leaned back on the seat--it was one of those rouned 'booth' types--and, after putting a foot on the bench and one on the table, sheepishly pulled my skirt up. There wasn't any denying what was going on down there; you could see my snatch clean through the panties I had on, and really, they weren't very effective anyway--to this day the only panties you can find cut for the large 'hips' of a rabbit are thongs! Honey was still there, matted into my thighs and shining on the front panel of my underwear.

That's all it took. Bayou's erection came back like a politician to money, standing tall and proud and even waving a little bit. I gave him a quick salute, giggling. He didn't giggle very much. Had other things on his mind, or whatever he was thinking with at that point in time. The big boy leaned in, carefully, and with the single schk-schk of a claw, cut the last line of pointless defense against flashing away. My cunt was laid bare, puffed up and swollen, the normally sealed line of entry opened slighty for his invasion.

Bayou leaned back, and thought for a second. I guess he figured it might be hard to get himself in there--the bench, I mean--and he was thinking. I had the idea first.

I rolled over, carefully, with one knee on the bench and one on the floor, and my ass in the air. He must have liked that, because before I could wiggle or say anything, he'd pointed the head at my twat and started pushing. I will say now that while some boys stop for a hymen, and others ask what to do about it, Bayou was neither.

The thrusts were feral, primal, animal. The panther, several times my personal size, loomed over me with intent to ream, maul, or just fuck silly, his choice. A few fumbles with his belt sent his pants to his knees (I imagine anyone in the club who could see wondered why the owner was bare-assed, humping someone in the booth...what I wouldn't give for photos!), tail whipping sideways and the muscles in his legs working up to the marathon, or at least the sprint.

I didn't resist at all. I was so lubed up and hot that you could have pushed his brain-bearing head in and it might have fit. I've never tried. With the most obscene sounds I'd ever heard (though it explained what mom and dad used to do all night), he was in. All the way. He'd pushed past my maidenhead without even noticing, and in the euphoric haze I had, I didn't either. And I didn't care. Virginity was gone, I'd won the dare, and I'd gotten laid by the biggest beefcake in the whole club, with the most massive dick around!

Didn't tell that to Bayou, though. I wanted this fuck, I wanted it bad. He had my canal open wide, trying to spear all that catbeef in there, to get it loved and massaged by my inner muscles. I'd orgasmed a couple of times before, little firecrackers, and I was having a series of them now. Everytime he so much as moved, he set me off, and he was really humping away. I could feel, several times a second, his balls thwap into my cunt, tapping my clit with fuzz. Interesting sensation, that one, you should really try it.

I was moaning, and he was growling, saliva forming around his lips as he tore up the whole notion of decency and restraint and balled me until I cried mercy. The lights were dimming, and these little flashes kept going off all around; I couldn't feel my legs. I couldn't feel anything but that dick, big and broad, pushing as far in as it could, stopping at the limit and dragging itself back out again. It was coming, something on the horizon, something I'd never seen before or even considered, but there it was.

Clawed fingers snatched at my dress and tore the top open, cutting away my bra and groping around. I was pretty well endowed for my age, as bunnies, again, seem to be, so he got himself a handful, trying to milk big pink nipples as I tried to milk his big black one.

He came. Oh, did he come. He put a payload of cum in me that I've always thought was tremendous, even though I had nothing to compare it to, six or seven firm jets, each pulsing against the inside of me. But he didn't stop. Right through all that cumming he kept on humping. The man on the far plain who called himself Orgasm was nearly up to me, and I welcomed him with open thighs.

I'd never really orgasmed before. The little ones you get with a dildo or your fingers aren't real ones, that's why we call it masturbating instead of fucking yourself. The one here, however, was a blast of pure electrical energy standing next to the nine-volt batteries of any previous experience. My cunt was alive with sensations, vibrating and throbbing around Bayou's cock. I'd never felt so good in my life, and I didn't want it to end. Every hair I had felt like it had a nerve in it, and they were all active at once, overloading my brain with tingles and jolts. And I passed out.

I woke up, god knows when later, with Bayou sitting next to me talking to Kimmi and Delilah. I wondered momentarily if it was a dream, really; Bayou was making up some schmaltzy story about the barkeep mixing Jack Daniels with the cherry coke just be a jerkoff. They bought it, I think. The only thing that confused them was the rip in my dress...

Y'know, and we never did find my panties. I ended up having to show Delilah, face-to-cunt, that my hymen was gone before she'd believe I'd really gotten screwed. We didn't stop there, either. In the days to follow, Maybe Monroe went from meaning 'maybe she'll get laid' to 'maybe you'll get laid'. It's a fun nickname, especially to live up to.

Ah, but that's something to tell you some other time. I can't be giving away all my stories now, can I? Besides.

I've got a wolf underneath me who's just begging to have his knot in my ass, and the fox between my legs is doing such a wonderful job working his muzzle inside my pussy, I just feel like I can't ignore them any longer. And I mean that. Oh boy, do I mean that.

Maybe Monroe out.

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THIS CONCLUDES TODAY'S STORY. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOURSELF, AND

THAT YOU PLEASE CLEAN UP AFTERWARDS. OR YOUR PARTNER, DEPEND-

ING ON HOW YOU CONDUCTED YOUR BUSINESS.

If you want to hear more about "Maybe" Monroe, and, who knows,

maybe Delilah "Tonguelasher" Frost, Kimmi "Easy Rider" Balkashvic,

or Bayou "Southern Comfort" Currothers, just ask. No guarantees,

but I'm a sucker for a compliment.

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