Harv
Well-known member
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2011
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The gifted noggin residing just south of Ol' Ricky's luxurious brunette locks used to love ruminatin' on life's great mysteries. If I'd a mere ducat for every instance of the Fiesta Fox kicking open the Barn door in the wee small hours, blasted out of his gourd on Jojee, and announcing some sort of hypothesis about how perhaps if we men started douching out our pecker holes like the broads do, it'd improve the zest of our gentlemen relish...well, I'd have enough quid to telephone Rick more than once every 2 score years, that's for sure. The man loved nothing more than a good conundrum.
Perhaps the most famous of Foxy's mysteries was his ongoing quest to determine whether when dogs get off, it feels as good as when we humans reach our climax. I have to admit, that thought never occurred to me, but for Ricky, the animal lover that he is, the question damn near bordered on obsession. Be assured if Yahweh ever blessed you with the good fortune to share a few puffs of some quality Jurassic Haze with Mr. Fox from 1969-1972, no doubt you heard the man speak at length about the mysteries of the canine orgasm.
Never satisfied to stand idly by and leave a great stone unturned, Ricky ventured quite far down that rabbit hole with the assistance of our dear retriever Petey. Initially, Ricky confined his experiments to the Barn, soliciting samples of Petey's ejaculate, postulating that the more volume Petey expelled, the more pleasure the pup must have felt at the moment he popped. There was a second test Foxy ran behind closed doors regarding the taste of said samples, with a greater sodium content apparently indicating higher levels of endorphines or some such scientific jargon, but us Raiders thought better than to inquire further regarding that effort.
Eventually, however, Ricky grew frustrated at the limitations of his Barn tests, as Foxy grew concerned that no matter how talented he might be at his manual stimulation of Petey (and know, dear readers, he regaled us often of his proficiency in such matters), the sensation for Petey could surely never compare to the ecstasy of finishing deep inside the minge of another pooch. Thus, Foxy and Petey took the show to the alleyways and backyards of Winston-Salem.
Every night after supper, Ricky would whistle for Petey, and Petey would bound excitedly out of his favorite resting spot in Schilling's laundry basket. Ricky would leash the pup, and the two of them would set out on a search for that night's lucky lady hound. Hours later, after the rest of the Raiders had retired, Ricky and Petey -- the two rapscallions -- would come slinking in the front door, visibly exhausted, often soiled in a milky glaze, and wanting for nothing more but a few swigs of cool water before a long night's siesta.
Several months after these experiments began, one night, over a kettle of rice and beans Woodie had stolen from an unsecured kitchen in Reynolda Hall, curiosity got the better of me and I asked Ricky how he was able to judge Petey's level of enjoyment. How would Foxy ever truly know whether when Petey got his rocks off, it felt as good as when Rick did the same? Ricky silently contemplated my question for a moment, the only sound in the Barn being sporadic chewing and the satisfied grumbling of Kreebie's gut. Finally, after a few moments, Ricky invited me to join him and Petey on that night's research.
As the three of us walked into town that evening, Petey leading the way, Ricky explained that at first, it was indeed difficult. He tried to emulate his earlier Barn experiments with the volume and taste testing, but for obvious reasons had a real hard time extracting the full amount of Petey's jism from the interior of the female dog. Just didn't have a good way to hold her down while also holding the beaker and simultaneously keeping a hand on Petey and an eye out for the cops. Moreover, Ricky explained that his pointer finger could only insert so far into the pooch's cooter, so he was never quite sure whether he was tickling out Petey's entire wad or whether there was more sauce further up into the mutt's womb. I acknowledged the likely challenges of such an endeavor.
Right about then, Ricky stopped in front of a cute little ranch style home, surrounded by a traditional white picket fence. Inside we observed a happy family still gathered around the supper table, two children talking and laughing while mom and dad sat holding hands and watching. Ricky looked at me and motioned silently toward the backyard. I followed Foxy and Petey as they wound their way stealthily past the family's station wagon, then stopped at a backyard fence. Ricky lifted the latch and we entered. It was dark, but at the other end of the yard I could see a tiny white shape. A few steps closer revealed a toy poodle, wagging a short, cotton ball tail and panting eagerly. Petey looked back at Ricky, and Ricky looked at Petey and nodded. Petey seemed to nod back, then swiftly approached the cheerful poodle, circled behind, and mounted her.
Foxy took a position a few feet away and, feet shoulder width apart, crouched down to eye level with Petey. He then whispered to me that he had indeed found an accurate way to evaluate Petey's pleasure. You see, he explained, it was not in the amount or flavor of Petey's ejaculate, but rather the glimmer in Petey's eyes. With that, Ricky proceeded to make continuous eye contact with Petey as the old scalawag humped away on his ivory lass. It was an intense scene -- Petey, screwing as if on a mission; the Fiesta Fox, staring Petey dead in the eye, breathing shallow, hands trembling anxiously, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow. Truthfully, one of the most intimate spectacles I've ever witnessed. Finally, Petey grunted, withdrew and unmounted the poodle. Foxy likewise made a satisfied groan, then stood, wiped his brown, and inhaled deeply from the chilly night air. He again motioned to Petey and together we all left the backyard and began our walk back to the Barn.
We walked for several minutes in silence before Ricky spoke. You see, he explained, that is how he knew that Petey's orgasms were indeed just as powerful as his own. It was all in the eyes. The windows to the soul. Presumably the same held true for other members of the species. His work was complete, at least as far as male pooches went. Of course, that night opened a Pandora's Box and began Foxy's effort to solve another great mystery of life -- do female dogs feel the same pleasure that human broads experience when pleasured by a skilled lover? Do girl dogs even have a clitoris? Oh, the experiments Foxy ran on that little mystery. But that's a post for another day, my friends.
Perhaps the most famous of Foxy's mysteries was his ongoing quest to determine whether when dogs get off, it feels as good as when we humans reach our climax. I have to admit, that thought never occurred to me, but for Ricky, the animal lover that he is, the question damn near bordered on obsession. Be assured if Yahweh ever blessed you with the good fortune to share a few puffs of some quality Jurassic Haze with Mr. Fox from 1969-1972, no doubt you heard the man speak at length about the mysteries of the canine orgasm.
Never satisfied to stand idly by and leave a great stone unturned, Ricky ventured quite far down that rabbit hole with the assistance of our dear retriever Petey. Initially, Ricky confined his experiments to the Barn, soliciting samples of Petey's ejaculate, postulating that the more volume Petey expelled, the more pleasure the pup must have felt at the moment he popped. There was a second test Foxy ran behind closed doors regarding the taste of said samples, with a greater sodium content apparently indicating higher levels of endorphines or some such scientific jargon, but us Raiders thought better than to inquire further regarding that effort.
Eventually, however, Ricky grew frustrated at the limitations of his Barn tests, as Foxy grew concerned that no matter how talented he might be at his manual stimulation of Petey (and know, dear readers, he regaled us often of his proficiency in such matters), the sensation for Petey could surely never compare to the ecstasy of finishing deep inside the minge of another pooch. Thus, Foxy and Petey took the show to the alleyways and backyards of Winston-Salem.
Every night after supper, Ricky would whistle for Petey, and Petey would bound excitedly out of his favorite resting spot in Schilling's laundry basket. Ricky would leash the pup, and the two of them would set out on a search for that night's lucky lady hound. Hours later, after the rest of the Raiders had retired, Ricky and Petey -- the two rapscallions -- would come slinking in the front door, visibly exhausted, often soiled in a milky glaze, and wanting for nothing more but a few swigs of cool water before a long night's siesta.
Several months after these experiments began, one night, over a kettle of rice and beans Woodie had stolen from an unsecured kitchen in Reynolda Hall, curiosity got the better of me and I asked Ricky how he was able to judge Petey's level of enjoyment. How would Foxy ever truly know whether when Petey got his rocks off, it felt as good as when Rick did the same? Ricky silently contemplated my question for a moment, the only sound in the Barn being sporadic chewing and the satisfied grumbling of Kreebie's gut. Finally, after a few moments, Ricky invited me to join him and Petey on that night's research.
As the three of us walked into town that evening, Petey leading the way, Ricky explained that at first, it was indeed difficult. He tried to emulate his earlier Barn experiments with the volume and taste testing, but for obvious reasons had a real hard time extracting the full amount of Petey's jism from the interior of the female dog. Just didn't have a good way to hold her down while also holding the beaker and simultaneously keeping a hand on Petey and an eye out for the cops. Moreover, Ricky explained that his pointer finger could only insert so far into the pooch's cooter, so he was never quite sure whether he was tickling out Petey's entire wad or whether there was more sauce further up into the mutt's womb. I acknowledged the likely challenges of such an endeavor.
Right about then, Ricky stopped in front of a cute little ranch style home, surrounded by a traditional white picket fence. Inside we observed a happy family still gathered around the supper table, two children talking and laughing while mom and dad sat holding hands and watching. Ricky looked at me and motioned silently toward the backyard. I followed Foxy and Petey as they wound their way stealthily past the family's station wagon, then stopped at a backyard fence. Ricky lifted the latch and we entered. It was dark, but at the other end of the yard I could see a tiny white shape. A few steps closer revealed a toy poodle, wagging a short, cotton ball tail and panting eagerly. Petey looked back at Ricky, and Ricky looked at Petey and nodded. Petey seemed to nod back, then swiftly approached the cheerful poodle, circled behind, and mounted her.
Foxy took a position a few feet away and, feet shoulder width apart, crouched down to eye level with Petey. He then whispered to me that he had indeed found an accurate way to evaluate Petey's pleasure. You see, he explained, it was not in the amount or flavor of Petey's ejaculate, but rather the glimmer in Petey's eyes. With that, Ricky proceeded to make continuous eye contact with Petey as the old scalawag humped away on his ivory lass. It was an intense scene -- Petey, screwing as if on a mission; the Fiesta Fox, staring Petey dead in the eye, breathing shallow, hands trembling anxiously, a sheen of sweat forming on his brow. Truthfully, one of the most intimate spectacles I've ever witnessed. Finally, Petey grunted, withdrew and unmounted the poodle. Foxy likewise made a satisfied groan, then stood, wiped his brown, and inhaled deeply from the chilly night air. He again motioned to Petey and together we all left the backyard and began our walk back to the Barn.
We walked for several minutes in silence before Ricky spoke. You see, he explained, that is how he knew that Petey's orgasms were indeed just as powerful as his own. It was all in the eyes. The windows to the soul. Presumably the same held true for other members of the species. His work was complete, at least as far as male pooches went. Of course, that night opened a Pandora's Box and began Foxy's effort to solve another great mystery of life -- do female dogs feel the same pleasure that human broads experience when pleasured by a skilled lover? Do girl dogs even have a clitoris? Oh, the experiments Foxy ran on that little mystery. But that's a post for another day, my friends.
