{"sf1_id":252,"sf2_id":"rm8xwzQm","title":"Sex Drive","author":"Wirewolf","words":2978,"posted_at":"2002-12-01T19:53:00.000Z","tags":["Cheetah","Gazelle","M/solo","Masturbation"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/252-sex-drive","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/rm8xwzQm","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/d2/9d/d29da9b4-8aed-4a8b-b293-51a59964b156","description":"","content":" Sex Drive  \n  \n(c) 2001 Wirewolf  \n  \n  \nNow don't get me wrong. I love the fems; always have, always will. Just last week,  \nmatter of fact, it was Muriel. Or Miriam. I forget. Anyway , she was this sweet little  \nThomson's gazelle from Africa. I think she was an exchange student or something.  \n  \nYeah, I know, you think it's funny for a cheetah to be prowling after a gazelle. But let  \nme tell you something: she was the one who came hunting after me. We met in one of  \nthose bars near the campus where all the kids stalk beer and sex. I was in the mood for  \nsomething tight, and I was coming up dry. Must have been finals or something, 'cause  \nthe only action going on at the Green Monkey that night was a couple of thirty-plus  \nyear olds with their mates. I saw a few younger morphs chatting it up in a corner booth,  \nbut since I'm not a student it's not a good idea to horn in on a group like that.  \n  \nShe must have been in the bathroom, since I had my back to the restrooms and she  \nbasically appeared out of nowhere. She tapped me on the shoulder and smiled when I  \nturned around. She looked me up and down with those big wet eyes, flicked her ears to  \nshow off the three pair of pearl studs she wore and said, \"Wanna buy me a drink?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; She was no foal, I'll tell you now. But there was something in her voice that told me  \nshe was desperate. Not horny desperate, more like an ego thing. My guess was she had  \nrecently been dumped and needed to prove to herself that she was still a pretty gazelle in  \nher prime. And she was, so I figured 'What the hell. Prove her right!'  \n  \nShe hadn't even finished her Pink Elephant when she laid her line on me. I had  \nmentioned how good the gold paint on her horns looked and how they made her  \nsparkle. She licked her nose once, that long, slow, deliberate tongue swipe that screams  \n'I'm hungry for you!' and said, \"They make good handles, too.\"  \n  \nWell, my walking shorts started getting a bit tight after that. When I started to say,  \n\"I've got a place-\" she set her drink down and said, \"Let's go.\" I had to hitch my shorts  \nup to keep my hard on from peeking over the waistband. I swigged the rest of my beer  \nand we left without another word.  \n  \nDamn, she was awesome! Desperation will do that to fems, sometimes. We didn't  \neven get past the living room of my pathetic excuse of an apartment. I shoved the  \ncheap coffee table out of the way and we wound up on the floor right there. I tried to  \nturn on the media set to get some music going, but she wouldn't let me go long enough  \nto get to it.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Speed is my thing, you know. I'm a cheetah, after all. And she was going for some  \nkind of record, I think. Within seconds, we were out of the meager clothes humans  \ninsist morphs wear in public. I had only to slip off my walking shorts while she opened  \nher cotton vest and slithered out of her skirt in no time. I took a moment to admire her  \nmarkings; the creamy fawn of her flanks, the black fur that striped her sides like a line of  \npaint, the pale white of her front.  \n  \nTo be honest, I've never really worried much about looks, mine or anyone else's. But  \nI got kind of lost just looking at her. I rubbed the pert little breasts she'd kept under her  \nvest, trailed my claws through the white fur to her thighs. I could smell the heat of her  \nneed. Just touching her that much made her shake. She was getting ahead of me, and I  \nwasn't going to let her get away with it.  \n  \nWhen she tried to pull me on top of her, I said, \"Wait a minute there, preygirl.  \nHandles, remember?\" She actually looked confused, so I guess she did forget. When I  \ntook hold of those cold, hard horns and directed her muzzle to where she could do the  \nmost good, she shifted gears quick. My favorite kind of fem, yes!  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; She had my tool between her large, flat teeth and was gently working it around while  \nher tongue stroked its length. I purred and growled and none of it was for show. She  \nwas working me over like an expert. I wondered about her later, how she came to get  \nso good at blowing a mel when she obviously had money. Those pearl studs weren't  \ncheap, and the gold paint on her horns didn't come off on my pads, quality stuff. At the  \ntime, though, I had only one thing on my mind.  \n  \nWell, that's not true. I had two things on my mind. One is obvious. And the  \nother...well, like I said. I do love the fems. But, you know, sometimes it's just not  \nenough. And bless her, Muriel, or Miriam, or whatever, was \\*very\\* good. But this  \ntime it wasn't enough.  \n  \nI pulled her off me when I felt the time was right. She wound up on her back, her  \nlegs spread wide, the smell of her sex drowning me. I almost lost control like a virgin  \nkit, swept up in something new and exciting. But I'm an old hand at this, and I kept  \nthings going the way I like them.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; She was a moaner, and I liked that. I like those soft sounds of surrender fems make  \nwhen I'm driving them out of their mind. I had a little trouble getting in her. She was  \n\\*tight\\*, mostly because she was so small compared to me. But that's what I wanted.  \nOnce I was in her, working her over, she was gasping as much as she was moaning.  \nGod, but she was a sweet little gazelle!  \n  \nSo picture it. I'm covering this cute little fem and getting my rhythm going, she's  \nmoaning and the smell of her is making my balls ache. I pick up some speed, pushing  \nharder into her pink little womb. I can feel my climax slowly building and I grin that  \nferal grin that scares the shit out of some preygirls. No variations, no changing  \npositions; it's a missionary race to that spine-tingling goal.  \n  \nAnd what happens? She pops off before I do, that's what. She grabbed my shoulders,  \nthrew her head back and bleated while her hips start jumping up to meet my downward  \nthrusts. When she slung her legs around my waist and squealed her ecstasy, I knew I  \nwas in trouble. Something wasn't right. That brain-numbing release was slipping away  \nfrom me, fading, ghosting it's way back where it came from.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Oh, I tried. I couldn't help it; I was the one who was desperate now. I was soon  \npounding her for all I was worth. She was trying to settle down from her big O and I  \nwas still hunting mine. I felt her squirm under me, like she wasn't sure she wanted to go  \nanother round. But I wasn't interested in her quiet happiness. I wanted my release,  \ndamnitall! If I didn't get to come, it would be another trip out to the track.  \n  \nA few minutes into her second rising she stopped squirming and just clung to me,  \nletting me decide how long the ride would last. It was no good, though. She got off a  \nsecond time, shrieking loud enough to tell my neighbors what we were doing. But I  \nwas lost. In fact I was losing ground. Not long after she popped the second time I  \ncould feel myself getting soft. Shit!  \n  \nI don't get mad. I'm an adult, and I know better than to blame anyone else for my  \nproblems. So I didn't say anything to her. I just slowed down and stopped, panting and  \nsweating like a marathon runner stumbling around at the end of his race. I pulled out of  \nher, rolled onto the dingy carpet and sighed. Looking at the clock, I could see I had a  \nfew more hours before the track closed.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I treated her nice, I'll have you know. I didn't shove her out the door or get pissy with  \nher. In fact, I wanted to see her again. We lay there and cuddled a bit. She praised me,  \ncalling me a furry fuck machine. I smiled at that. Eventually, though, she had to get  \nback to her dorm. We parted on good terms with an option for a second mating...uhh,  \nmeeting. Hell, probably both.  \n  \nAs soon as she was out of sight, though, I got my keys and headed out.  \n  \nWrady was there when I got to the track. He's the old mechanic who showed me  \nwhere to find honest-to-god internal combustion engines for my car. He's also the one  \nwho showed me it's not always about speed.  \n  \nThe purists will tell you that you can get the same speed and power from fuel cells.  \nThat may be, but I challenge anyone to deny the intoxicating feeling of raw power you  \nget from hearing a gas-burning, water-cooled, oil-lubed supercharged engine screaming  \nwith each twitch of the throttle cable. You may get impressive numbers from an electric  \nsetup, but all you can hear is that wavering hum of the motors spinning up their  \nflywheels. No thrill there. You gotta \\*hear\\* the power. It has to rattle the bones in  \nyour chest. It's a purely bestial need to intimidate everyone else. It's about who's got  \nthe biggest engine and who can get it over the line the fastest and the loudest.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Wrady saw me come into the shop and head for the stall where I store my car.  \n\"Spots!\" he called out with a friendly wave. \"Stripes!\" I shouted back. \"What's rolling,  \n'coon man?\"  \n  \nSoon we were both under the hood of his newest toy, an old Pontiac Raptor. I don't  \ncare for Raptors, with their generic sports car look. But there were no fuel cells or  \nflywheels under the hood of this one. There wasn't \\*anything\\* under its hood, in fact.  \nNot yet, anyway.  \n  \n\"I found an old Chevy Merit last month, got it for nothing,\" the old raccoon said,  \nnodding toward the empty engine compartment of the Raptor. \"Motor should fit pretty  \ngood in there.\"  \n  \n\"Another screamer for your collection, huh?\"  \n  \nI kept the small talk short. I was still feeling blueballed and I wanted out on the track  \nas soon as possible. Wrady understood, to a point. He thinks I'm just a speed junkie. I  \nam, of course, but not always the way he thinks.  \n  \nI checked my car out quickly. It's one of the muscle cars from the end of the 20th  \ncentury, a Ford Mustang. Wrady and I spent months rebuilding and re-tuning and  \ntweaking it until it could give the Dodge Wraiths and Mitsumi Tsunamis that come to  \nWrady's track a run for their money. You should see the look on their faces when a gas  \nburner passes them, howling like Satan's own hellhounds after blood.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; She wasn't losing any fluids and her safety equipment was all in good shape. That left  \nmy fire suit and helmet. As much as I despise wearing stuff that covers my whole body,  \nall I have to do is glance at the furless, broken kink that's all that's left of Wrady's tail  \nto convince myself it's a good idea. Besides, my fire suit is modified so I can still have  \nmy fun. I just hope I never wreck while the flap over my crotch is open.  \n  \nSuited up and checked out, it was time to roll out. I hit the ignition and gloried in the  \nheavy growl of a supercharged V8 muttering it's desire to leave 100 m.p.h. far behind it.  \nI touched the gas and the car shook as the r.p.m.s twitched up to 3000. That grin was  \nback, the one that says, \"Get the fuck outta my way.\"  \n  \nFirst gear, and I was out on the track quickly. She needs to warm up before she can  \nreally run. Same goes for me, too. I kept her in first, letting the engine stretch.  \nKeeping the tachometer to 7000 r.p.m., I jerked the wheel left and right, scrubbing the  \ntires to warm them up. With my other hand, I opened the crotch flap on my fire suit and  \ngave my sheath a friendly wake up call.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The adrenaline was just starting to leak into my bloodstream when I turned on the  \nsound system. I stop hearing the music after I hit 100, but until then I had Thunderbone  \nbattering my eardrums with their hit song \"Thrust.\" I slammed my left foot down and  \nshoved the shifter, grabbing for the next gear. The Mustang leapt, getting ready to  \ncharge. It was one hand on the wheel, one on my cock, one eye on the tach and one on  \nthe track. My balls were rebuilding the charge they hadn't been able to fire into the  \ngazelle. I growled, but it was lost in the hunting cry of a musclecar.  \n  \nSecond gear is the builder. That's where I'm stroking myself and singing with  \nThunderbone at the top of my lungs:  \n  \n/Hump it, pump it/  \n/Get it up and jump it/  \n/Hit her with the point/  \n/Let the knot fill the void!/  \n  \nI stayed with second gear for a while, feeling myself get tight, getting used to how the  \ntrack's behaving. I didn't want to stay there too long, though.  \n  \nI started to blur somewhere around third gear. By the time I'm at the tail end of third,  \nthe Mustang is hurtling around the 3/4 mile track at around 120 m.p.h. That's when you  \nworry about twitching the wheel too hard and kissing the wall or plowing across the  \ninfield end over end. That's when you have to be a real racer or you freak and get off  \nthe gas.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I'm a cheetah, so I'm a racer.  \n  \nShe wanted out of third, wanted out bad. So did I. My dick was out and hard, my  \nhand leaving it only to slap the shifter one last time. Once we're in fourth, the  \nMustang's 5.6 liter power plant is satisfied with nothing less than 150 m.p.h. My chest  \nwas getting tight, my heart hammering as the pavement flew by at unreasonable speeds.  \nWe were one, my Mustang and I. She's my lover, pushing me in ways no flesh and  \nbone fem possibly can.  \n  \nThe old, familiar programming of straightaway, hard left, straightaway was in full play,  \nmy eyes and forebrain working hard to keep us out of the wall and off the white line.  \nMy hindbrain was in full control of my right hand and my cock, and it was no less  \ndemanding. My eyes watered and my breathing got shallow as I rode that razor sharp  \nline between speed and sex. The Mustang was closing in on 160 and I was close to  \npopping off. The engine was howling its outrage, the tires were starting to scream their  \npain in the corners. So close!  \n  \nTiming is everything, nothing short of life and death. If I pop in the corner, I'll lose  \nthe car, maybe my life. I have to do it on the straightaway. Holding back for those few  \nseconds until I get through the turn can be the hardest thing imaginable. Letting go once  \nI'm through is the greatest thing possible.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I did it just right, of course. The tach licked 8000, the tires eased off their ear piercing  \nshriek and the car settled down for more acceleration. I tightened my grip, stroked  \nmyself hard a few more times and popped with a blinding intensity. I think I screamed.  \nIt's hard to tell sometimes.  \n  \nI'm the most vulnerable then, but I've got the routine down pat. I jerked the last of  \nmy cum out onto the safety webbing and the seat, my foot lifted off the gas and  \nfeathered the brake, my arm locked against the wheel, to keep me from drifting off the  \ntrack.  \n  \nGotta be quick! I was wrung out by the time the next corner came up. I reopened my  \neyes and got through the turn without screwing up. A few more laps of coasting and  \npanting let me get my composure back. I grabbed the towel I keep under the seat and  \ncleaned myself up.  \n  \nI brought the Mustang back to the stall and parked it, making sure there was no  \ndamage to any of her body work. Wrady looked up from under the Raptor's hood as I  \nstood there. \"Just wanted a couple of quick laps, eh Spots?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; I looked at the clock. I'd only been on the track for about half an hour. About as a  \nlong as I'd been with the gazelle. I smiled and nodded. \"Yup,\" I told him. \"Just  \nwanted a quickie today.\" Wrady laughed without knowing how literal I was being.  \n\"Later Stripes!\" I walked out, taking one last look at the rear end of the Mustang, and  \nthe vanity plate that reads, 'SEXTOY.'  \n  \nOn the way home, I started thinking about the gazelle. I wondered when I would see  \nher again. Maybe we could go on an honest date next time. Maybe we could even talk.  \nIt doesn't always have to be about sex.  \n  \nLike I said before, don't get me wrong. I do love the fems. But sometimes the only  \nthing better than one gazelle is 450 horses.  \n  \n  \n  \nThis text is (c) 2001, Wirewolf  \nIt may be downloaded and printed only with copyright information intact.  \nIt may not be distributed without author's permission.  \nComments or other responses should be addressed to:  \n  \n[[email\u0026nbsp;protected]](/cdn-cgi/l/email-protection)  \n[[email\u0026nbsp;protected]](/cdn-cgi/l/email-protection)  \n[[email\u0026nbsp;protected]](/cdn-cgi/l/email-protection)  \n  \n  \n  \n  \n  \n\n"}