Don Carpenter: Taboo Acts X: Farm Lust

Some users report gratifying results with coarse fiber grease, while others say a rapid stroke requires a proper high-speed lithium-base grease with molybdenum additives, and yet others insist on vegetable-base lubricants, since petroleum-base lubricants form carbon under heat and pressure, wherefore the sheep-fucker may withdraw his pushrod to find it coated with black, carbonized grease that requires repeated applications of Gunk or, worse yet, steam cleaning to remove. Given the potential difficulties, a sheep-fucker should carry rubbers.

Though easy to screw, sheep are stupid. You can't develop a meaningful relationship with a sheep; hence, the notorious promiscuity of shepherds. The animal that demands personalized cuddling and which returns affection with an excellent fuck is a pig.

The pig-fucker must enter the sty casually, like cruising at a party, as if getting laid were the last thing on his mind. He must greet each sow and give a scratch or two. Once he has chosen one, he must devote full attention to her. He kneels on one side and scratches behind ears and down the snout with one hand while the other hand scratches along the back and sides until reaching the tail, at which point the first hand works back and sides while the other hand goes under the tail to rim the cunt. Thorough courtship involves finger-fucking to assure the sow is ready. Meanwhile, the pig-screwer must gently ease the sow into a corner of the pen, thus to inhibit her lateral movement. Any movements she can make will be agreeable fore-and-aft motions. Once she is cornered and finger-fucked into readiness, the biker inserts his rod. However, he must not slacken his caresses. If the sow thinks she's being taken for granted, she will sit down. And if the other sows see that, you'll never get screwed in that pigsty.

A pig will not cooperate with a fucker who thinks she's too easy. A pig is an even better piece than a sheep, and a well-fucked sow will grunt appreciatively. Opinions differ, though, on whether a pig is best of all. One ancient declared wistfully, in his impotent dotage, that “I've fucked just about everything, but I always liked pussy best.” Asked about “second best,” he replied at once: “A chicken.” The old man knew his fucking. If a pig isn't second best, a chicken is. A hen doesn't need much petting, but she does need to be talked to. Some authorities view this talk as like that used on those women who will be divested of garments and shagged in every position as long as the word “sex” is never uttered.

Others view it as the “sweet nothings” that add their own dimension to getting laid. Either way, you've got to talk to a chicken. The approach begins with the chicken-fucker getting down on all fours to establish eye contact (while avoiding inadvertent hand contact with chicken shit), and saying “kuh-kuh-kuh.” That's the basic line, but it can be varied to “keh-keh-keh” or “kee-kee-kee,” if uttered in tones of sincere passion and devotion. Don't, however, say “chickey-chickey-chickey,” for that's how farmers call chickens. To a chicken, it sounds like an order, which is a turn-off. Once a chicken comes close and begins to respond to the small talk, a hand goes under its breast and belly and the hen is lifted up. Once its feet lose purchase, a chicken will sit still. However, the chicken-fucker must keep talking as he gets his cock into place. Don't be offended by the thought that a chicken's asshole and its cunt are functionally the same aperture, of which only one is provided. The chicken isn't going to apologize for it, and certainly, among humankind, the former has been taken for the latter often enough and the fucker never the wiser.

As with a porcupine, a chicken must be screwed carefully. Even allowing for the exaggeration of bike-club boasting, your average Rhode Island Red can't accommodate more than half the average biker's cock, a Leghorn no more than a third. However, as anyone who has watched an egg being laid knows, that half or third can enjoy some extraordinary hospitality.

The old fucker quoted earlier added a note on how chicken-screwing could be elevated to the sublime. “Just as you go off,” said he, “you cut its throat. That last, dying quiver…”

This refinement presents the biker with a dismaying choice. To cut the throat of the chicken he has spoken to so intimately, the hen he has cultivated so carefully, seems to border on murder; to kill for mere lust seems gross beyond mention. Yet, one has not properly fucked a chicken unless one goes all the way.

Rural tradition did not view the matter as morally reprehensible. Usually, when the family got home from church, the farmwife sent a twelvish son to fetch a chicken for Sunday dinner. Son fucked the chicken before killing it, and enjoyed the dying quiver as a concomitant to obeying his mother's orders. The biker, then, can resolve the moral dilemma simply by taking the chicken along for roasting over the campfire. Recalling that to spare the chicken may only mean its ultimate delivery into the fatal custody of Colonel Sanders can obviate any further doubts.

In cutting the chicken's throat, the knife should be placed behind the neck and directed forward and down. To cut from under and upward may result in a face full of chicken blood that severely distracts from that exquisite dying quiver. If buddies help, they can see to the cutting while the fucker concentrates on the quiver.

More could be said, of course, but as most readers hereof will be novices at animal-fucking, they should concentrate on mastering the fundamentals outlined here before attempting creative variations. Even the elementary level of animal-fucking will provide the cuntless biker's rigid striker with solace superior to that available from a grimy hand.

I'd been going with Donna for almost a year and knew she was into “kinky” and liked to try new sexual adventures. When she was in just the right mood, she liked to be bound and mildly tortured. Not any real pain, but just enough discomfort to remind her that she had given me complete control of her body. She said she hated it when I'd bring her tightly bound (and sometimes gagged) body to the edge of orgasm and then stop but I knew she didn't want me to stop doing it as a part of our “play”. We had set up a Master/slave part of our sex life and she loved being dominated from time to time and “forced” to do things the “real” Donna would never do.

Introduced her to anal sex that way and it soon became a part of our “normal” sex life as well.

Donna was a stunning brunette of 23 with long hair blonde and brilliant green eyes that flashed fire if I went beyond what she was prepared for. I always took that look as a signal to back off and build her up a little more before going ahead with whatever it was I wanted her to do. Her body cannot be described as “perfect”. She tended to think of her shape as “too hippy", but it seemed just right to me. At five feet, one, and 105 pounds, she was certainly petit and her 34-22-35 figure made her look like a miniature centerfold. In fact, she often got modeling proposals from local agencies and photographers and took a few jobs modeling sports clothes and swimsuits. I always got a big kick out of seeing her in an ad or catalog when I didn't expect it. Her breasts were full without being too big for her small body and her vagina was as tight as it could be and still allow entry.

She was lying on her back on the soft carpet of her living room floor and I was kneeling by her head as she gave me some of her very special brand of fellatio. Her mouth was quite small and when she sucked me her lips drew out to thin lines around my cock. She used her tongue constantly and usually tried to get as much of my member into the small cavity as possible but with only limited success (I am rather well endowed, by the way)..