23.5.13
#1 of An Assassin's Journals
The following is a violent sexual story involving anthropomorphic animals. If you are under eighteen, please do not read it. If you are squeamish, please do not read it. If you're looking for 500 word porn, please do not read it.
23.5.13
I don't really hate my life.
It's a terrible thing, really, because everyone else seems to. Everyone else carries on like they just can't wait for their life to end. They act as though life is a terrible burden.
Being the compassionate fellow that I am, I am more than happy to relieve them of that burden, especially when I can get paid for it.
Ah, don't look at me that way. You were probably nodding your head in approval until you put two and two together and figured out that I killed for cash. It's a good way to make a living, really. And I'm so good at it. Just so good that if I were one of those men that believed in God, I'd say that in His almighty splendor, he wanted me to be a killer. It's what I'm born to do.
Let me pause here to point out something to posterity. You'll note that I mentioned I don't believe in God, yet I used the proper pronoun "He" to describe the fellow. As anyone in any future I can conceive would know, the Atheists love to show disrespect by denegrating God in all sorts of ways--including using the lower-case "he". The Theists, of course believe in God, so you know well enough that I'm not one of them. You see, I am a phenomenon, a marvel. I don't fit into either of those lovely camps that have been blasting chunks out of each other since my grandfather can remember. Well, could remember. He's dead now, rest his soul.
The pay for people like me is excellent, as you can imagine. There aren't too many assassins in the world; there are fewer that are good; fewer that are as good as me; and fewer still that don't hold allegiance with one of our two esteemed teams. Hell, I'm probably the only one that meets those selective criteria. So the pay is excellent; after all, if I'm not working for one of them, they know that I'm probably working for another. So not only is the pay excellent, but my working hours are superb.
It's a great way to have sex, too. I don't mean to be vain, but I'm a very attractive individual; my horns aren't broken or misaligned, my teeth aren't broken or misaligned, and even my hooves aren't broken or misaligned. Everyone absolutely fawns over me when I grace them with my presence. I don't mean to be vain, but it's the truth.
It might be why I'm so good. You see, the only ones who know about my masterful ability to deal death are so frightened for my reputation to spread that they keep quiet, so none of my targets were aware that I wasn't just seducing them for sex, but rather seducing them also to fulfill my duty. There really is nothing more extremely satisfying than the rush of air against my shrinking glans that I feel when I pull my glory out of a beautiful woman and replace it with a round from my nine millimeter pistol--I call him Chewy. That rush of air combined with her agonizing scream can almost coax out another bit of baby batter from my delightful wanker.
I'm compassionate though, so if she doesn't die pretty quickly, I usually finish her off with another bit of lead in the old noggin'.
I'll regale you, dear progeny, with one of my favorite episodes that writing all this has reminded me of. After all, I'm sure high-class pornography is at least as hard to come by there as it is here.
Well, I'll start by telling you that it was the Atheists that hired me for this one. They said that there was a brilliant young woman in that dreadful Theist camp, and I had to kill her. She was much too dangerous.
Now I'll clarify this by telling you that if she were actually important to the Theists, they would lock her tightly away and probably secret her to some island off the northern coast of Siberia. The Atheists would do the same. I tell you all of this, because your text books may be flawed. If one side somehow wins out over the other, you'll be reading sterilized bullshit that glorifies your tribe and deprecates your old enemies.
Of course, it costs lots of money to secret people away, so it doesn't happen too often. What costs less money, however, is an assassin--enter yours truly. At the time I was the only man available for the job, which had to be carried out within twelve hours. They always seem to worry about time, the tribes do. They're so paranoid that they think it will make that much difference.
The pay was good for this one, though, and I felt bad for the poor Atheist trying to convince me to do it; the man's fur was white, so I could clearly see the extensive flow of blood to his head that indicated his extreme frustration. When it reached a fever pitch, I demanded twice the pay, and soon found myself signing a contract and watching as they transfered 12,000 credits into one of my many personal accounts. I felt so bad for him--my mohair, you see, is also white, but I've never had nearly the problem with bloodflow to the head. It's yet another case of these people simply putting too much pressure on themselves.
I made sure Chewy--that's name of my pistol if you've already forgotten--was in his holster, stuck a rose petal or two in my shirt, and made off to catch the 11:12 train to San Francisco. I had to run to the terminal to make that fucking train, so I made a point not to make it.
In my profession, you don't want people to recognize or remember you. You want to be as forgettable as you possibly can be, which means that you cannot slink around suspiciously, you cannot walk as though you have somewhere to be, and you certainly cannot run through a terminal to catch a train. This is true especially if you're a goat like me. Despite our reputation for promiscuity and all that rot, there aren't really very many of us, and people's eyes lock on to horns like a tick's jaws lock on to a mangy mutt.
I caught the 12:20 to Oakland instead. It suited my purposes well enough.
It was great though, better than I ever could have expected. The train had some of those old-fashioned compartments where there were two bench-seats across from each other. In one of them, I saw this vixen. Now I'm more selective than you might think--I mean, I don't have sex with every one of my clients, and I usually don't have sex with anyone but my clients. After all, why kill someone for no money when you may be able to kill them later and get paid for it?
But this vixen. But this vixen was beautiful, so I had to have her.
I walked in. "Is this seat taken?"
"No. Go right on ahead."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Nope."
"Amazing. Live alone?"
"Yep."
You might call three questions too few for a man who terms himself selective, but too few of those people answer the questions incorrectly for me not to be. Needless to say, I pressed the button that tinted our compartment's window, and we were fucking five minutes later.
I won't bore you with the intermediate conversation, especially when I can't be bothered to recall it for myself. She was delightful, though.
So many people seem to underestimate the artistry involved in properly using the tongue, but this girl did not. She undid my belt buckle while I sat there, my hands behind my head as I lounged. Now, she knew how to make a guy happy. She didn't simply go straight to pleasuring his majesty the king, she licked the area just above where my pants were clinging to my waist. She didn't just lick it, I should say. She scooped at the area with her tongue. I don't know why, but something about the gesture somehow lended a tinge to the innocence to the whole thing. I'm about the least innocent person in the world, so it's nice for me to sort of expand my palate and get a serving of faux innocence from this sultry foxy.
She proceeded in a similar manner with her tongue while she unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, slowly pulling them down. Did I mention that it was delightful? Because it was.
By the time she reached my penis, I was quite visibly excited. She seemed quite pleased by this, despite the fact that I am not of gargantuan length--many people have commented about that in the past, and most of them were actually quite pleased not to have to deal with something so monstrously large, I am happy to say.
Something about her tongue was absolutely brilliant. She alternated, much to my excessive joy, between licking my entire package, licking my penis, and performing fellatio. Don't you love that word, by the way; fellatio? It's a great word. It almost sounds like a dessert or an Italian opera singer, but it's simply oral sex. I love it!
And it was definitely the best, receiving a blowjob with her wonderful tongue. Especially when I watched it as well. Her tongue stuck out a little bit out from her muzzle as she dipped and rose, and her pretty little face looked so happy. I don't know if you've had enough experience to notice this, but happy people generally make sex a much more enjoyable experience. There is nothing to terribly dissatisfying to me as a client who is completely expressionless when I'm fucking their brains out or--and this is worse--when they're fucking mine out.
But she was very happy, and that made me happy. You know she even went to far as to massage my scrotum with one of her hands?
The feeling of fur on your balls is simply enough to make me quiver in ecstacy, and when it's coupled with the slight tap of a claw every now and again, even a veteran like me is unable to resist that primal urge to shoot off my cannon.
She became happier when I started, and even more eager than she already was. That fox was practically sucking the semin out of my glans and assisting the process every now and again with a flick of her tongue. I came in her mouth for what felt like hours; it was magnificent.
"Come here, darling," I said when I'd regained my ability to speak, "And let me taste that delightful tongue of yours."
To be truthful, I probably didn't use those exact words--I am writing from memory, after all--, but it did have the desired effect, and she crawled up to kiss me. We locked our muzzles together for quite a long while and our tongues danced. Mine was mostly there for the ride and for my own seed (which I find quite invigorating for one reason or another), but hers had this sense of important urgency behind it, even more than she'd had when she was pleasuring my genitals. I have a feeling that she wanted me to like her; to like her very much. I've experienced that urgency before with people, and oftentimes soon afterwards they'd mention something about doing this sort of thing more often.
That sort of thing always made it more difficult when I played Fate and snapped their lifestring, and I really didn't want to hear it from this vixen.
So as soon as we broke the kiss, I put my hands on the sides of her face as though I were about to kiss her again. She closed her eyes, expecting this, and I could feel her head starting to move forward when I jerked my hands to the left and snapped her lifestring.
I was very grateful that there was a large window in our compartment and that we were near the back of the train. I simply opened the window and hung her out from it. When I held her so that her entire body was below the sill of the window so that no one in the compartments behind would see, I let go. Her body fell lifelessly to the dust and sand beside the tracks. She didn't look at all like she was sleeping; I could see her neck contorted in a terrible fashion as the train continued to speed away.
At least she didn't get crushed by the train.
As for the contract, she was a skunk. I have a thing for skunks, sometimes, and they tend to be good-looking, so I was looking forward to that. Unfortunately I was wrong; she was an ugly wench, so I let Chewy have her before I disgraced myself.