cookie becomes a woman
My craggy heart is swirling and twirling and whirling—and nearly hurling—with sadness and relief. My little girl, my precious Mongoloid-looking virgin she-pup, has been thoroughly and irrevocably deflowered by the savage penile pillaging of Busta the Boston Terrier.
The dirty deed...and yet, the deed which sprouteth forth so much love and joy and tenderness and sun-showers of flower petals and the resultant high pollen counts which eventually lead to sneezing and then, ultimately, violence...was accomplished less than two hours ago. My pal Shon, who provided these candid photos, finally transported the ever-randy Busta to my crib after having hemmed and hawed—but mostly hemmed—over the weekend about whether he was emotionally prepared to see his son venture into the fullness of manhood.
Shon eagerly snapped pictures as Busta mercilessly pursued the Duchess of Cookwich around my surprisingly upscale wood-floored apartment for about fifteen minutes before we decided to leave the two crazy kids alone. Cookie valiantly nipped and barked and vainly appealed to me for succor.
Upon returning nearly an hour later, I was greeted by the disturbing specter of a two-headed, eight-pawed spider walking up to meet me. The dogs were stuck together like Siamese Twins joined at the ass—still in the throes of sexual congress—yet they were oddly calm and matter-of-fact. I quietly excused myself and allowed them another half-hour to unhinge themselves.
When I fearlessly entered the Goad Abode again, they were no longer the frightening Unidog I had previously encountered. But Busta's clear-gel cum was everywhere as if someone had squirted Mop & Glo all over the floor and then neglected to mop.
Since Busta will be sleeping over, I almost feel as if I'm intruding upon their wedding night. I will toss and turn through these coming dark hours, an unwanted human chaperone at a canine fuckfest.
