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Contrary to popular belief, Crossroads City, Utah got plenty of snow during January. Nothing close to Colorado or the hills of Montana, but enough to make any tourist regret not packing winter clothes for what they’d assume would be weather like Nevada. Already, a frosty layer of snow and ice flurries that moved like sand on a dune filled the ground, obstructing some mammals’ ways on the sidewalk.

Me? Being a cougar, I had little trouble making it to the Motel 9. The subtle ice collecting on the ground did little to impede my path, and neither did the chilly weather. Mountain lions had a tolerance for the cold that most didn’t know about. It was one of the reasons that my grandparents moved to Utah years ago and eventually joined the Mormon faith. As did my parents and eventually me. It didn’t mean I liked the cold though.

I sent another text. My friend didn’t mention which room he had rented out for the evening. As I entered the small lobby for some warmth and impatiently waited for a reply, I pushed dirty images out of my mind. They consisted of the two of us sprawled out on a bed, panting, sweating, purring, and committing sinful acts that we resolved to give up on come the new year. Not even three weeks in and we were already messaging each other and trying to find excuses to talk to one another, however. Just earlier last weekend, I woke up one morning to suddenly find a dick pic that he ‘accidentally’ texted me during a drunken stupor.

We agreed to meet up just to talk. Nothing more than that. It wasn’t like we would do it again. We made a New Years resolution in secret before ourselves and God to find good Mormon girls and get married. Not to each other though. Our families would never allow it.

“Bad weather, isn’t it?” the receptionist, or maybe it was the owner, asked as I stood waiting. I didn’t bother remembering her species. I simply grunted in agreement. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“No, no, no,” I reassured her. “Just waiting. For a friend.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said.

The whole time, as I leaned awkwardly against the wall near the entrance door, I started to wonder if he was punking me. Or if he had changed his mind at the last minute and I wasted a good night’s sleep going to the motel in the middle of wintery darkness. I didn’t need to stir in my own thoughts for long.

Finally, he texted me the room number. Much to my dismay, it was in one of the rooms outside as opposed to within the building’s main corridor. It made me look even more awkward in front of the receptionist/owner.

What kept me warm as I ventured back outside and across the row of rooms was imagining the leopard. Seeing his spotted smile and feeling his fur one last time. As much as I tried resisting it, I couldn’t stop. Keeping my New Year’s resolution would require much more strength than I anticipated.

Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. I found the room and knocked once, only to discover that the door was slightly ajar. Just enough to keep the warmth inside but not enough for the wind to pry it open. Not hearing anything at first, I stepped inside.

“Over here,” I heard a voice. “Fuck me…”

Those sweet, sinful words from my leopard friend were more than enough to make me instantly hard. And gasp loudly at what I saw. I expected us to have a simple talk. Imagine my further surprise to find him on the bed, completely naked, face down and ass up, with the scent of strawberry-scented lube—our favorite—coming from between those perfect spotted globes and under that raised tail of his.

“W-What're you doing?” I stammered.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he moaned, raising his ass towards me. “I need this. So do you. I can smell it on you whenever we are in the same room!”

“W-What about our resolutions?”

“Fuck our resolutions,” he whimpered, turning to look at me with those beautiful eyes I fell in love with. “Fuck me, please…”

Resistance was futile. I felt it as quickly as I began to unzip my pants and stepped forward.

Good Lord, he still felt so tight. My trembling cock still fit inside of him like a paw inside of a well-fitting mitten. He purred below me like a kitten and so did I. We exhaled together and relished the sensation of my shaft’s barbs scratching that homosexual itch inside him. Deep inside of him and inside me. As I thrusted further past his clenching tailhole, it wasn’t long before I started to pull out and push back inside. That got him to purr like an engine!

Neither of us said a word. We simply communicated with grunts and moans, purring and pants, thrusts forward and pushes back, as well as raised feline tails that thrashed at the sweltering air. God, it was so hot in that room. I could feel sweat trickling down my chin and neck, into my shirt. The same shirt I wore to Bible camp once.

For a moment, I remembered where we were. Then, I felt him clench around my cock, and I fell right back into our delicious vice.

Good missionaries of the Mormon church did not have sex before marriage. They did not travel to different countries and fall in love while spreading the word of God and Joseph Smith. They did not steal kisses and loving embraces in the dead of night when everyone else was asleep. Good missionaries did not take advantage of sharing a tent together. They didn’t share quiet conversations about sinful dreams or desires. They didn’t shed their clothing beneath a warm blanket or explore their masculine bodies together, blushing and purring in deeper happiness than they ever felt before. Not to mention the tears in their eyes and the immense guilt they would feel in the days that followed, only to fall back off the wagon once again.

With each thrust, I relished ruining my New Years resolution. So did my leopard.

Oh well, there was always next year.