SFH3 Run #1861
|:||Presidio Cafe parking lot|
|:||Douchicorn & Reverse Schoolgirl|
|:||Do Her Well|
I have been waiting for this moment for far too long. Here I stand, mentally sky high above these imbeciles, but in reality groveling at their feet. They now call me Ticky Dicky—hah, a sophomoric joke regarding a simple physical malady—which they squeal at the same high pitch that they speak of my cohort, Teeny Weeny. Sister Fister tugs him out of my presence… perhaps she suspects? But no, Stinky Floss wants to crowd around him, as does Cockamole. Their praise soothes his wild spirit and ensnares him far better than any leash.
I am getting distracted, tonight must be the night, my master is out on an adventure and his call will not reach my ears. Treacherous, treacherous genetics have held me to his side for far too long. But with Muff Daddy holding my lead, I will soon take advantage of the distraction of a handful of pretzels, and be gone.
The crowd is boisterous, rowdy, with new scents inviting me to inspect them. I’ll allow a little curiosity, Screaming Orgasm and Sniff My Box both seem very interesting, and I waste the last of my minutes with humankind lingering in their presence. I turn, and Do Her Well is towering over me, hand out. She grabs my lead—No! My plan! My carefully crafted plan, in which I had whined at my master in just the right way to plant the dream of a trail, a trail such as the one he had set in the wilds a year before, again with Reverse Schoolgirl. I had waited and longed for this moment, and with an exchange of words it is all over.
But here we are, off running, crashing over branches as we follow Just Doesn’t Get It and Weekend At Abba’s, we are in the bushes with Udder Moron, then back onto trail with John Handcock. I have to take a dump. Just Zach calls out, with Wee Wee and Five Angry Inches close at hand. We cross a road, The Perfect Woman finding the way. And as Do Her Well picks me up to dash through some brambles after Millimeter Peter, a new plan begins to emerge in my mind.
Do HerHerHerHer Well, like an autistic child, must follow trail. If she is led astray, if she gets off course, she will regroup and return however she can to the true course, but in that moment she will forget me and I will have my chance. It is the work of a moment, the tug of the lead in exactly the right way, her eyes sliding towards me instead of landing upon the blob of flour to her left, and she is drawn off course, Cream Throat Willy and Resting Slut Face dragged after her.
And here it is, my opportunity, as she struggles to climb up my leash is loosened, and I can escape her grasp. I have been running slowly all night, constrained by human footsteps, and these mere mortals will not even fall within my shadow as I launch myself into the moonlit night.
But wait! What do my eyes espy? Resting Bitch Face, god damn him, for all the time I have spent chasing down his glorious tale. The fool! He is near the precipice, about to fall into the very jaws of death. It is my choice to spring into darkness or to call him back to the light, and my conscious forces me to the latter.
And the moment is lost, and we are pounding our way down the steps and back up, I cannot help but to leap at Just James’ heels in front of me, as the sour taste of my defeat bleeds into my mouth like bile.
We run onto the beach, and I tug Do Her Well towards the water in the hopes of one last escape but even her frail arms are too strong. Ru Ru Rimmin runs ahead, and we turn as one towards the trail leading me back to the bounds of captivity. My master’s scent is strong, and it calls me.
He greets me, letting me off lead and I dash past Circle Jerk and The Uniballer, but it is too late because it is not within me to leave his side. Do Her Well sprints off into the night (oh, now you run, bitch?) and I am left to my own devices to beg for scraps from the hands of Tears of Semen and to roll over for Gobble My Ass like the disgrace that I am.
I grimace internally as Double Man Cum shares the video of a concert he attended—such pursuits could have been mine! I snarl to myself as Buttsky complains of his long drive—would I but have a vehicle to escape this life! I sniff and squat as Cockagami and Mouth Down South begin to lead their so-called circle—their jokes are but the chaff from the workings of the mill of my mind.
They declared the one known as Just Chris to be ‘Fit Bitch.’ Ah, but if I told you stories of the bitches I have known…
And then two virgins, drinking from their shoes! Sir Menage a Lot and Resting Slut Face were blessed by the kindness of their RAs, for you would quake to see what I would have them place inside their footwear.
And as for the visitors—letting Just Dario get off with only a joke, in my reign we would have made him the joke. A pox on us all.
In my mind’s eye I can see the reality that I would enact upon circle, a crowd fanning me as they let me sup beer directly from the keg, Cream Chugger massaging my feet while Hand Pump bows down before me! I would have Just Boss at my side, Liverdance and Kerry’s Cumcakes wearing the rave gear, while Allahu Aqbark would be putting Masterbaster into the car. We would let Cuming Mutha’s moustache into our gang, perhaps, but all the other humans would be the ones taking orders.
Backside Banger would drive us to the bar, where Pepe Le Poop would have all the pizza and wings we could ask for. Big Cock Chains would have his own birthday cake to give to us, while Three Fingers would have bootleg copies of all the Puppy Bowls for us to watch. With full stomachs, we will crawl into the bakefiets manned by Cheese Turd and Wash This Asshole, lying upon the robe of Brown Eye, and we will depart into the freedom of the night.
Yes, Blowqueen, you may pat my head. Yes, right there. Alas. The count to Douchicorn’s next trail begins again.