"Dog Lover_s Diary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kepple Horst)

Chapter 8 "Polly's Wild Safari"

January 15, 1974

Dear Diary: I just re-read the last entry in this book. It's hard to believe that I wrote it almost a year ago. When a person is busy, time just seems to slip away. And God knows, I've been a busy girl.

The semi-nude, wet-look commercial I described last time really took TV land by storm. After the first nation-wide network screening, people all over the country were flooding their local stations with phone calls, demanding to be told the time and date of the next showing, asking if super 8 millimetre copies could be purchased for home users. There were of course the usual hysterical protest from strict religious sects, moral cranks, and the editorial department of TV GUIDE (See: "An In-Depth Analysis-Why Bestiality Sells Us Dog Food," in the December 13, 1973 issue).

Certain unmentionable TV comedians and late night talk show hosts made the ya-hoos belly laugh with jokes about me and the Chef… but when the two of us appeared on their shows, and they had to confront us face to face, we ripped them apart with our sincere love-for-the-weaker-and-endangered-species, ecological horse shit. The ones who tried to make funnies after we made our appeal for humanity to lower forms of life found themselves on the short end of the rating stick. The people were behind us, rooting for us, even though they hadn't the faintest idea what we were really about. To some it was obviously the dog food munching kinship, to others the animal sex… but for some reason, their numbers expanded to include folks who'd never tried Chef Fido's Gourmet Pooch, who'd never sampled the delights of a Doberman on the waterbed. The time was ripe for us, that was the only way to explain it. Like it'd been for Frank Sinatra, the Beatles. The papers actually started calling it 'Fidomania', and me, 'Fido's girl'.

The sales of Gourmet Pooch quintupled during the first eight weeks after the release of what the trade papers called 'The Wet-look Trilogy,' three one minute spots on the same general theme: bath tub, beauty and bowser. In fact, by the following May, Philo Phoods was unable to keep up with the demand. They converted some of their other food plants, their 'Chilli Bonanza' and 'Beef Strudel', human food processing centres over to Gourmet Pooch, but that was just a drop in the bucket as far as picking up the supply. In the end, they had to build an entire new Chef Fido Food Complex outside Rock Ridge, Iowa. Covering a solid square mile of America's heartland, the new plant has the capability to turn out ten thousand cans of paella valenciana every six minutes, eight thousand cans of gnocci alia romana every two minutes.

I signed an agreement with Philo that stated should I ever decide to star in a major TV series, they would have the privilege of sponsoring me. For the right to continue our highly profitable relationship, they paid me three million dollars. Of course I didn't see a fourth of the money, what with taxes, legal fees, agent's fees, but, still, it was a lot of money for doing absolutely nothing.

Philo Phoods wasn't the only one throwing up new buildings. Weird Harold actually conned his father into giving him all the money he needed to put up the Sunray Bowl near the beach in Santa Monica. Typically, he picked the wrong side of Pico Boulevard to build on and, instead of getting the keen, clean, lowbrow, nouveau riche clientele of Palisades attorneys and Olympic Avenue fabric merchants in their maroon double knit trousers and white shoes, he was shocked to discover that most of his business was coming from dope pedlars, hookers, and bevies of switchblade toting teenagers. Oh, he made money alright, but he was constantly in trouble with the Vice Squad. I mean, he didn't encourage the pill pushing and cunt hustling… not old Weird Harold… but he couldn't really come down heavy on the local players without cutting his own throat. He kept saying all this stuff about how he could clean up on the bowling business if he could get rid of the Sunray's bad reputation.

"After all," he'd say, mostly for his own benefit, "it's the only forty lane alley north of Lincoln Boulevard."

Yes, he and I are still living together, man and wife in name only. He has a room close to the kitchen. I have a room close to the little zoo I've managed to collect over the months. Most of the animals were gifts from admirers. Anyway, Harold and I pass each other in the hallways now and again. He's absolutely sure "things will work out between us if we just give them some time." And he goes into a rage every time the word "divorce" comes up in our brief conversations. He really freaks me out sometimes. I think, when the time is right for cutting the big blob loose, I'll let someone else break it to him, like the 6 O'Clock News, while I am safe some place far away.

Mom, unfortunately, is still living with us, still pushy, pushy, all for her little girl. She can't abide Harold's new enterprise… all of a sudden, bowling is too declasse for her, and she thinks that the Sunray could somehow hurt my career by getting me associated with "human garbage," as she calls Harold's bowling buffs. I don't think there's a restaurant or bar in Hollywood that will admit her any more. Secretaries at all the big media corporations are wise to her voice and hang up on her automatically. And still she persists. She waits outside the bars for the chance to collar a network big wig, outside Western Avenue massage parlours to tug on the coat-tails of TV station managers, vice presidents, camera men, for God's sake.

I don't understand it. She can't think that I need to pester the ass-holes for anything… I mean I could have whatever they have to give by making one phone call. Ever since I started in on the new TV series for Philo, she's gotten so much worse. I think she thinks that she's useless, that now that I have everything she can't give me the next best thing… a righteous pain in the ass. I swear to God if she slips any further downhill, I'm going to have to take some kind of drastic action.

Anyway, I mentioned the TV show, so the cat's out of the bag. We've been filming for about six weeks now on location in Zaire, Ecuador, and Tasmania. The format of the show, on the surface, is your typical Sunday early evening, 'Nature and Ecology' sop… right down to the disclaimer at the end of the show stating that "not all the scenes were shot in the sequence shown in the program, but they do reflect generally accepted scientific facts about the lives of the animals depicted…" Which means we catch the wild animals in metal nets from helicopters, drug the living shit out of them, and when they show signs of coming around, we toss them out in front of our cameras and let them strut their stuff.

What makes us different from our competitors? Well, first of all, there's little old me. No, they don't let me go around in the swamps of New Guinea with just a gob of soap suds on my shoulder. I wear safari clothes… a khaki, short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned to the navel, and with no bra, of course… and a pair of super tight khaki shorts, so tight, in fact, that one of the film processing boys claimed, using a magnifying glass on the publicity stills, he count every hair on my pussy. So much for Dr Marlin Perkins and Bill Burrud.

Philo Phoods gave me a lot of static about the role Chef Fido was to play in the show. They, of course, wanted their trademark right up front, my co-star on every fucking program. I put my foot down. I was goddamn sick of being called "Fido's Girl," even if it had made me a millionaire several times over. My fan mail and movie magazine coverage was living proof that by myself I had enough sex appeal and audience drawing power to carry the emcee spot. I didn't need the black turd any more. My plan was to use a different animal co-host each week, depending on the exotic country the show was about… that way, by showing a new animal face each week, I would remain the show's undisputed star. Under duress I finally agreed to do the Chef Fido Gourmet Pooch commercial spots with Fido, but with the stipulation that the impression be given that I was the dog's supreme mistress… he would always be sitting in a servile position at my feet when I stood, and when I sat, he would be laying on his belly. There would be no more nudie scenes in bath tubs, showers or swimming pools. All the ads would be filmed on the same set as was used for our show openings and closings, a rough and ready den-cum-library with knotty pine walls, a big leather armchair, and oak trees visible outside the single, large window. Chef Fido would be treated no differently than any of the other animals on the show… not that that was any worse than I'd treated him before… but I felt it was important to convey a feeling of equality among the guest stars. Why should a black poodle be given special attention over, for instance, an orang-utan?

Aside from what I've mentioned so far, the other thing that set us apart from the run-of-the-mill nature show was our content. We didn't pull any punches… none of that pussy footing around the North Woods in shoe-shoes, using radio receivers to locate radio-transmitter tagged badgers deep in their winter hibernation. "Little is known about the winter sleeping habits of our friend, the badger. To find out more, scientists from Langston Institute of Hibbing, Minnesota devised an ingenious plan using new and sophisticated electronic tagging techniques and the badger's natural weakness for Heath Bars. We'll show you the amazing results of their research after these few words from Industrial Indemnity…": no sir! We knew what the folks at home wanted and we gave it to them. When we did a show on the sex habits of the American bison there was none of this radio collar bull-shit. We used choppers to herd the buffalo into steel pens where we gassed the hell out of them.

Then our crew separated the males from the females and, after some discussion, we picked our stars using a bull dozer to load them on the back of a pair of flat bed trucks. We drove the groggy creatures out to our super scenic location and injected them with powerful sex hormone stimulants, then dumped them off the trucks onto what the script euphemistically termed their "bison boudoir." While the two monstrous creatures fucked the living daylights out of each other, with full colour and stereophonic sound, yours truly circled the juicy thrusting, bending low with hand held microphone, showing a bit of bare titty, while rattling off the standard Nature show mumbo gumbo about wild instincts and the danger of man's encroachment on nature's domain.

Hey, the entire crew from continuity girl to make up man to executive producer knew we had a winner going for us. We were tapping the id wishes of millions of normal, healthy city bred Americans. People who know next to shit about Nature or her wild creatures, people whose perverse and grotesque imaginings invented a world of happy mice, ducks who wore gloves and sailor suits, baby elephants who flew by flapping their ears, insects who tap danced. In a word, anthropomorphism, or the giving of human qualities to the inhuman, animate or inanimate. Well, goddamnit, if a woodpecker can read a Sunday paper, why doesn't he ever get horny, why doesn't he go down to Chirp City and knock off a piece of fallen sparrow? Huh? The answer, of course, is that in the tiny, vodka soaked minds of Rand Corporation nitwits he does! Everybody knows animals have no shame. They do it right in the open, in the daylight.

Squishy-squishy and hot flop all over the dichondra. Only trouble is, thanks to freeways and neon lights and The Jefferson Airplane, all our wonderful, uninhibited, singing, dancing, FUCKING wild creatures are getting creamed, rubbed out, decimated.

But why the long face, America? Think you'll never see the mating lunge of the white rhino? Wrong! Think you'll never witness incest among juvenile baboons? Not so! Think the foreplay of jaguar is something they'll never show on TV? Again, wrong! It's all coming right into your living room this fall on 'Polly's Wild Safari'.

Our preview showings of the first program, 'The Mystery of Baboon Mountain', in selected cities across the country resulted in riots, pandemonium, and civil disobedience, so all of us, from the lowliest electronics technician to Major Scampi himself, sat down and talked out the re-editing. Mostly, we toned down the orgasm sequences, cut out the slow motion, psychedelic come puddle scene altogether, and inserted more bare boobs shots of me. Also, the sound man re-mixed the main sound track, bringing up my voice and lowering the grunting, juicy, humping sounds of the baboons. When we re-showed the program to different test audiences of the same cross sectional make-up in the same cities, we got the kind of response figures we'd hoped for. Nothing even bordering on destruction of private property, just sweaty palms and upper lips, spontaneous erections and, in some cases, ejaculations, as well as much knee crossing, seat dampening, and a new record for trips to the theatre rest-rooms.

Philo Phoods was so sure that we had the number one show of the season that even before the first network airing, they went into major production of Polly's Wild Safari dolls, bumper stickers that read: 'I'm a WILD one!' and a line of snazzy, complicated parlour games based on each installment of the program ('The Secret of Rhino Ravine Game'). The Polly dolls were constructed under the supervision of a clinical psychologist, a Freudian, and the matching animal dolls… white rhino, baboon, tapir, etc… under the expert eye of the head curator of the Copenhagen Zoo. In all, pre-premiere expenses for the exploitation products alone, ran over ten million dollars.

Regardless of the crass, mercenary side of the TV thing, I've got to admit that it had its romantic side, too. I got to meet a lot of new and exotic creatures. Of course, I always found the time to sneak off into the bush with the male co-host of the week and do a little in-depth research. Not that I fucked all the animals that wanted me. Take that gruesome white rhino, for instance. Have you ever seen a rhino with a hard-on? No, I guess not. Well, anyway, it's enough to make a girl give up the fast life and join a convent. A yard and a half of tube-steak as big around as a fifty-year-old spruce packed in its own armour plated pod. No, thanks. Pain, as you may have gathered, Dear Diary, in moderation is fine by me, but not suicide.

And, of course, yours truly fell head over heels in love during the shooting of the first episode. 'The Mystery of Baboon Mountain'. It had to happen, I suppose. Me being more than a little naive about the ways of baboons and very vulnerable. We called him Nordbert and he was a full-fledged adult male, Papio hamadryas, or sacred baboon. We found Nordbert and his entourage of thirty wives, juvenile males, and nurslings deep in the mountain jungles of East Africa. From the first time I saw him, through binoculars, I think I knew I was in love.

For a baboon, he was quite large, weighing about a hundred and fifty pounds and standing three feet tall at the shoulder. He had this incredible mane of long, frizzy hair… hair banded in tiny bars of black and white, that from a distance made him look merely grey… His hair parted in the middle of his sloping forehead, very close to the prominent brow ridge, and fell, merging with the fur on his narrow shoulders. When the darling was angry, which was most of the time, he'd ruffle out his mane, making it stick straight out like a crazy thing, making him look three times as large as life. He'd also open his long, narrow snout, so much like a dog's, and show razor sharp ivory daggers curving up from upper and lower jaws. Did he ever have some lethal looking canines!

Like I was saying, the first time I saw him, he was busy dominating his tribe like a little Hitler. All of the lesser baboons would flee shrieking their heads off when he lumbered towards them with his swaggering, all fours gait. From what I understand, baboons go into heat all the time, so old Nordbert was used to getting ape pussy whenever he felt like ripping a piece off. Hey, I got to say something about ape pussy… I mean what it looks like. Glue a pink vinyl inner-tube about a foot in diameter to your ass, then soak it in a tub of clarified butter, and you got yourself some ape pussy. Anyway, while I was watching, Old Nordbert decided it was time for a little fucky.

The females, no matter how swollen up in heat they were, would only offer their juicy twats to him under what looked like threats of instant death. In order to screw them, first he had to corner and catch them. He was a sneaky bastard, alright. He had his eye on a small, newly ripe female eating from a bundle of green grass she'd collected. The ape girl had this dreamy far off look in her eyes as she munched contentedly.

Nordbert circled around the far side of the boulder against which she was leaning… and like a frizzy grey skyrocket, he came hurling up over the top of the rock to land, snarling and showing his fangs, on all fours.

Not realising she was trapped, the female's head snapped back and forth, desperately searching for an exit. Nordbert didn't give her long to look. He gave her a back-handed cuff with his right hand that sent her screaming, smashing into the rock. No sooner than she'd ricocheted off the boulder she was dropping into the servile, present twat position; all fours, with juicy pink inner-tube ass held high in the air.

Nordbert climbed into position behind her and I got a dizzying, split second view of his entire cock. It was pale pink, shaped like a human prick except for the skinned alive look… it had a bloated bulb at the end and tapered out towards the base. It was a very straight cock, jutting out like a ruler from the dense overlay of fine hairs on his squat looking dick sheath.

I'll say one thing for baboons, when it comes to screwing, they don't screw around. Nordbert took hold of the nervous filly's fur with both hands and sort of waded into her cunt. No feel around for the hole first … not that he really had to with an inner-tube for a target. Anyway, I could tell when he made contact because the female started screaming her head off, looking over her shoulder at him with this panicked expression on her face.

Old Nordbert couldn't have given less of a shit about his momentary partner's comfort or feelings. His low-slung baboon ass was rocking back and forth with the kind of smooth, rhythmic grace that can get a girl squishy in no time. I could see the pink stump of his dick punching into the ape cunt. His hips moved like they were on ball bearings… I mean this old ape obviously had fucked a few thousand pussies in his time and he knew how to treat them good.

Suddenly his snout was all wrinkled up and he was showing his fangs again. I guess it was come time because his dick really started flying … I could see practically the whole length of it sliding into the cowering female's twat.

And then she let out a screech that set my teeth on edge and somehow broke free of the big ape's grip. Squealing and shrieking her terror, the young female bolted for the top of the boulder. A long, gooey trail of baboon sperm and fear inspired piss gushed from her behind as she made brief contact with boulder top and bounded away.

Nordbert was really mad. His thick cock belched ape come every place but the place he'd intended to deposit it. Howling, he scrambled after her, kill-rage in his tiny, close set, pig eyes.

What a stud!

Our first face-to-face encounter was not so dramatic. As usual, the crew had stormed into the baboon stronghold in their gas masks, tossing knock-out grenades left and right. When they dragged our hero out from under the heap of snoring apes he was about as randy as a sack of ready-mix concrete. There was a big stink between the Philo zoologists and Scampi about whether to shoot up the apes with sex hormones. It seems that apes, according to the zoologists, are pretty much always hot-to-trot. Scampi was adamant. He said this location shooting was eating the hell out of his production budget and that he wasn't going to take any chances about blowing a crucial fuck sequence. As long as he had the glandular go-go juice for these living compost heaps, he'd be damned if he wasn't going to shoot them up with it.

For the opening and closing of the show, we had to film a live and non-stupefied baboon making ga-ga and goo-goo in my arms. Not easy. We decided that the best bet would be to shoot the fuck sequence first and try and exhaust the horny devil into the proper state of mind.

After injecting Nordbert with the concentrated hormone extracts, we turned him loose on a half-dozen nubile females and rolled the cameras.

It was like letting a fox loose in the chicken shed. He went on the wildest fuck rampage imaginable, howling, baring his teeth, leaping from presenting female to presenting female. shoving sloppy pud into them, coming, leaping to the next one even before he finished squirting.

Jesus! Did the ape come fly! And the sound track was really insane. Six orgasmic female baboons screaming their heads off every time he'd ram it to them, every time he'd send hot monkey spunk up their tubes, every time he'd whip his cock out. And Nordbert was bellowing, grunting, growling, frothing at the mouth in his fuck fury.

The zoo boys kept saying they'd told Scampi so, but the hunchback kept on grinning, digging the action no end. And the camera kept rolling, taking it all in.

Things, fuck-wise, sort of wound down after a couple of hours. Nordbert was mounting the oblivious, glazed eyed females haphazardly, humping thin air half the time. Finally, he stopped flipping his hips and sat down. Even when the crew members walked up in their special padded protective suits to herd away the catatonic females, Nordbert didn't move. Had he been in his right mind, the king ape never would've allowed such a thing. he would've torn the crew apart, protective suits and all, before he'd have let his wives be stolen from him.

The zoo boys lifted the unprotesting Nordbert onto a litter and carried him to the mobile den-cum-library set. After the make up boys were done touching up his mane, he was placed on an ottoman at my feet.

"Let's make this a quick one, guys," Scampi told the crew. "No re-takes.

When this bastard snaps out of it, all hell's gonna break loose."

The cameras rolled and I leaned down to pat Nordbert's head, allowing the front of my khaki shirt to fall open and exposing all but the nipples of both boobs. Then I rattled off the standard, Jane Goodall garbage about patterns of dominance in baboon tribes. The whole time I was smiling, showing tit, stroking the fierce animal, my pussy was juicing up a storm. Watching the king ape at work had given me the sex chucks and bad. The hot, musky stink wafted up from my damp crotch. I could smell it. By the mischievous looks on the faces of the camera men and light crew, they could smell it. I wondered why the hell my tasty little twat wasn't getting through to lover boy? Was he too tired? Too zonked to recognise hot pussy when it was waved under his nose?

The opening and closing scenes were shot without incident. Nordbert remained in his awake but detached state. I was despondent. It was plain as day to every member of the crew that I'd been coming on to Nordbert and that he wasn't having any of it. That just didn't happen to Polly Oliver. When she had wet pants, all of God's creatures with the equipment got boners.

I was sulking in my mobile, Winnebago dressing room, when one of the zoo boys knocked on the door. I didn't want to see anybody but he refused to go away.

"Hey, Polly, it isn't your fault," he said, smiling.

"Oh, shut up!" I snapped.

"Really," he continued. "Baboons have good noses but as far as sex goes … they rely on sight. The sight of those big swollen cunts…"

"Huh?" I said.

"Yeah, like I said, it wasn't your fault. If you want to interest Nordbert, you've got to have a bright pink ass. I brought some things maybe you could use…"

My heart soared. After the sweet, zoo boy explained what I had to do, he split. I tore off my clothes and, bending over and sticking my ass up next to the mirror, I took the day-glo paint and sex scent compound he'd worked up, and painted a huge pink circle on my ass. I covered my buns and downy fuzz and my swollen cunt lips. Then I waggled my bullseye butt in the mirror, ready for baboon.

I put on a robe and opened the door of the Winnebago. The go-fer I hailed over to me started to grin when I told him I wanted Nordbert brought to my dressing room and pronto. He grinned but he sure knew how to shake his tail. He was back with another odd job boy and they were carrying a litter in which sat the still-groggy, King of Baboon Mountain.

"That'll be all for now boys," I said when they deposited him in the centre of my bedroom. "I'll call you when I want you to take him back."

The two youths left, but not without much eyeball rolling and tongue waggling at each other. I knew they'd give their right nuts for the chance to watch the show, but I needed room to work.

As soon as the door closed behind them, I got down on all fours in front of Nordbert. He didn't seem to even know I was in the room with him, or, for that matter, that he was not in a room and not up among the outcrops he called home.

"I bet the King of Baboon Mountain never had a blow job," I said to the blinking, hairy ape. His lion-head cocked to one side as if he heard a noise in the distance.

With lungs burning up with passion, I crawled in between the baboon's forelegs on my belly. At the feel of my head squirming between his legs, he sat back on his haunches, evidently thinking I was a submissive female come to groom him. I pressed in further, brushing aside the long coat of creamy coloured belly fur aside with my nose to get at his compact pod and balls.

When I saw his parts, a hot rush of cunt juice burbled up from my hole and rolled down the inside of my thighs. He was so magnificent! His balls and sheath were covered with the densest, softest fur. At the top of his ball pouch there was a hole, a hole rimmed by a hairless circle of pink flesh.

I squirmed closer and saw, to my delight, lurking just on the other side of the opening, the fat juicy head of his cock. Without hesitating, I pressed my lips to the orifice, lashing my tongue around and around the bald band of skin. The flavour of ape cock exploded high in my sinuses, ravaged my taste buds. It was sharp and rank, like a steaming compost heap, with a biting edge of chlorine.

Then the dick head inside the pouch began to move. What a thrill to feel the juicy thing nudge against my tongue, my lips, as it peeped out into the world. Not that I let it see the light of day. No sooner than it emerged from hairy cocoon, still limp and tentative, than I gobbled it into my mouth, sucking it, relishing the slick, skinned meat feel of sloping head as it passed over my tongue, as it grazed the roof of my mouth.

"Ummmmm," I hummed about the rapidly stiffening shaft, my head bobbing, forcing lips up and down the slimy rod.

Oooh, he loved every minute of it! I could tell by the way he put his hand to the back of my head, clutching my hair, and began jerking my face, my lips, faster and faster.

The sugar-sweet taste of his pre-come filled my mouth and he was holding my head in both hands using my mouth and throat brutally, as he'd used the tender cunts of his submissive ape wives. He thrust his cock into me in lightning quick jabs, his hips rolling in that fluid, rhythmic fashion that had turned me on so much before. If I got excited watching his ass move through binoculars, imagine what being on the sucking end did to me! I gobbled his cock greedily, loving the skull rattling impact of super straight ape cock bashing into the back of my throat.

The more I blew him, the more he seemed to snap out of his fuck daze.

Suddenly his hands left my hair and began exploring the strange, short-haired creature giving him the time of his life. I shrugged out of the robe and gave him a real treat. Hairless pussy! By ape standards, anyway. Ohh! That devil knew just how to handle a female. His hands roamed all over my back, delighting in the feel of my soft skin. They slipped down to grope my ass-cheeks, and he leaned forward, stuffing even more of his cock down my throat. He twiddled my ass-hole inquisitively with a fingertip, then sniffed the finger. The hormone extract hit him right where he lived. Before I knew it, I had a thrusting digit up ass-hole and cunt simultaneously. Could that primate ever throw a mean finger fuck!!! Not only did he know how to twist his fingers to wring out maximum satisfaction from a tight tube, but he put his face right down close to his work and slurped up the juicy fruit of his efforts with a hungry and hot tongue.

When I came the first time, my ass and cunt clamped down on his plunging fingers, making him snort in surprise. Then he was surprising me, flooding my mouth, throat with his gummy ape squirt. I swallowed every precious drop, taking his furious lunges between my tightly clamped lips. He really gave a girl a king-sized serving, too. It was all I could do to keep up with the spurting flow.

To my delight, after the last bubble of nut milk passed from his dick head to my tongue, his cock remained hard as an iron bar. I had big plans for that joint of his.

I squirmed free of his hands, trying to get turned around in proper presenting position, but old Nordbert thought I was trying to escape. He went ape-shit with his snarling, snapping show of fangs. He scared me shit-less. I kind of went limp while he walked on my back, and then, very slowly, I lifted my day-glo buns in the air.

Nordbert took one look at the pink bullseye, one whiff of the hormone concentrate, and howling like a banshee, began mounting me. Now I knew why the females screamed when Old Nordbert climbed into the saddle. He was a real monster. Clawing at your sides, fangs buried in the back your neck, Jesus! I started screaming, too. That wonderful fuck-terror flooded me as ape yanked my ass towards his thrusting cock, impaling me on the slimy helmet on the first try.

Did he ever sock it to me!!! Maybe ape cunt feels different, looser or something, anyway, he went utterly berserk. Those smooth hips started shoving hot ape cock up my snatch faster than I ever believed possible.

He had me coming all over myself in a matter of seconds.

I flipped my ass back into his thrusts, making the delicious friction of cock against slick cunt folds, even more tasty. I was shrieking my joy into the shag carpet, the wildly humping ape on my back, my cunt sucking, milking his plunging prick, when he started to come a second time. Hot primate spunk gushed up my tubes, spurted out over the inside of my thighs in long, sticky strands.

Then, Nordbert ripped his cock from my convulsing hole, leapt from my gooey buns to the back of the leather armchair. Roaring and howling like a maniac, his cock dribbling sperm like a leaky water faucet, he flailed his long arms in the air… the ape triumphant.