Smutathon 8: Life is bleak till you’ve had beak (with face-sitting!)

This is episode 2. Episode 1 is here.

Back in my room in the Do-Duck Inn the party was swinging. I lay on my back on the bed, feet on the floor. Daisy stood in front of me, my cock hard in her beak. She wasn’t really evolved to give good suction, but she could certainly flutter that beak thing, like I’d never been fluttered before. 

At the same time, Magica sat on my face, her thighs round my neck, her great webbed feet kicking happily at my shoulder blades. My tongue reached through the fringe of feathers and licked long and languorous at her sensitive little circle, her adorable cloaca. She gave a delicious little wriggle, and sub-quacked with every sweep of my tongue. 

I tongued her a little harder, her feathered ass my faceful, all of my vision and much of my sensation. Magica made a series of kvetching, quacking noises: she was getting close. “Go human! Work that hairy face!”

I knew that for a politically punctilious duck like Magica, using duck slang for ‘human’ was as good as talking dirty. I liked that I’d pushed her beyond her notions of decorum.

Then she surprised even me: “Yeah, Daddy, you’re my Daddy! I’m so your little duckling! Do me, Daddy! Your little ducking! Hard!”

“My naughty little ducking.” I did her, tongue working.

Daisy climbed up onto my lap then, and lowered her cloaca onto my cock, slowly working and waggling her way down, descending until my cock was firmly lodged in her warm Anatidaed body. She rocked back and forth, pushing the rim of her cloaca against my pelvic bone. 

“Ahhhh,” I said. If you can count that sort of thing as ‘saying’. My two ducks were so inexhaustible. Insatiable. But Magica raised her beak to point it at the ceiling, and quaked in utter joy and triumph. Her cloaca contracted spasmodically, and her thighs tightened on my neck. A faceful, I had, of orgasmic duck.  

A duck pervert: Fucking humans!

Daisy was only a few seconds behind, quacking jubilantly and beating on my lower rib cage with her feathered fists. She spread her wings and shook them while she rode me, then emitted a long, incoherent series of quacks at the ceiling, and fell forward, her beak resting on my navel. 

We relaxed together in a happy interspecies pile for maybe half an hour. When I’d softened and withdrawn from Daisy’s cloaca, I poured them each another glass of that fine Genu-wine Illinois Champagne. 

Daisy stroked my cock lightly, with her soft feathered wings. “You know, we have myths, great duck song-sagas, about nights like this.” 


Magica slapped my face with her wing, but playfully, lightly. “A human who picks up a hot, sexy duck Will get his best ever beak job or fuck– ”

“I can’t argue with that,” I said, sweetly exhausted and comfortable, my two lovely duckettes lying on my body. 

Daisy took up the saga: “But she’ll get all a-quacker When he has her cloaca- “

“Then,” said Magica, “she’ll demand cunnilingus” [she spat then, ‘puh! puh! puh!,” as if expelling a mouthful of feathers] “Worse luck.”



“Sex with Ducks”, sung by Garfunkel and Oates

Silly UK censorship law breached: Bestiality! Face-sitting! Age play!

Also, for further information on sex with ducks, which according to the Reverend Pat Robertson is the inevitable result of gay marriage, go here.

It’s a very important singing documentary.


Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation!

Smutathon 6: Life is bleak till you’ve had beak

So I was staying at the Do-Duck Inn while I worked on the Black-Bellied Whistling Duck murder. I was out of ideas, and luck. I went down to the bar. 

The lights were as low as a duck hunter’s miserable soul, but I could make out the usual duck-bar decorations on the walls: the stuffed head of a pointer dog mounted on a wooden shield, some broken shotguns, decoys covered in duck shit, and a portrait of Daisy. 

Daisy Duck

And two chicks nursing drinks at the bar, in pink toledo tops and no pants. They had feet to die for, and their feathers went everywhere a duck dame’s feathers should. They were ducks full of sin, whose tail fathers wrote sexual cheques in the air that couldn’t always be cashed.

I walked up to stand between the pair of them. The one on my left, the blonde, looked up at me, her eyes wide and her sultry beak full of promise. Promises she didn’t always keep. She was an American White-Winged Scoter, and they don’t give trust, or deserve trust, easily.  

“Hey, it’s a human! What you doing in a duck-bar, hairyhead?”

I looked at her. “I was alone in my room, duckettes. I thought I’d come down to the bar and have a Fluffy Duck.” I looked at her companion on the right, an exotically sexy Andean Teal. “Or two.”

The chick on my right quacked appreciatively. She signalled the bartender. He came up drying his hands on a cloth you wouldn’t use to scrub a midden. “Human here, man wants a Inter-Species-Menage-A-Trois-In-A-Motel-Bedroom.”

The bartender, a Red-Crested Prochard, looked at me sourly. “Who the bloody hell doesn’t?” But he went off to mix my Menage.

“What’s your name, hairyhead?”

“Keats,” I said. “Like the poet. You?”

The blonde said, “I’m Daisy. And my friend here -”

Magica de Spell

“Magica de Spell,” said the Teal chick.

“Well, I’m mighty pleased to meet you.”

“So you should be, human,” said Daisy, though if she was Daisy I was George Gordon, Lord Byron. “Because we’re going to make you one lucky hairyhead, if you’ll just take a bottle of champagne, and two hot chicks back to your room.”

Magic quacked lightly. “You know, Daisy, ‘hairyhead’ is kind of pejorative. Just say ‘human’, ok?”

Daisy shrugged, giving me a glimpse of nippleless breasts. “I don’t mean it disrespectfully, h- human.” 

The bartender brought my Menage, and I took a swig. It was green, and tasted accordingly. “No disrespect taken, lovely Daisy. My head is hairy, what can I say? And I can screw you and you’ll blow your corks, but I don’t have a corkscrew cock. Not like Donald.” 

Daisy quacked, and put her three-fingered hand on my arm, eyes looking deeply into mine. “I like that you’re human. And you’ll love us ducks. Your life is just bleak, till you’ve had beak.”

And Magica put her hand on my shoulder too. She pecked me on the cheek, and breathed, “We’ll make your human knees go weak, and that weird cylindrical cock you got? We’ll make that thing as hard as teak.” 

If only ducks would learn to scan. Then they each pressed a thigh against mine. I downed my drink in one gulp. “Ladies, duckettes, let’s go. There seems to be an illegal party in my room. Just about to happen.”

I stood up, and a second later so did they. They came up to my waist. So, with a chick under each hand, I headed to my room, stopping only to buy a bottle of Genu-wine Illinois Champagne from the slot machine. 

The next episode is here.



Crazy UK censorship rule breached: bestiality. But we get nervier in the next episode!


Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.

Smutathon 4: The duck vagina monologue

Drakes, or male ducks, have a penis up to half a metre (about a yard) long. But it’s spiral-shaped. If you sharpened the business end of a drake’s penis, you could use it to open wine bottles.

Similarly, female ducks have evolved a long corkscrew shaped vagina. If the drake has a very bright coat, and is charming, and holds his girlfriend firmly but not too painfully with his beak on her shoulder, and doesn’t try to push her head underwater and drown her (which drakes sometimes do, the brutes), then he gets to slide his unfeasibly long cock inside his duck’s vagina, and then slide it round, and round, and round, and round. And then round some more, and so on.

It takes longer than the average bird fuck, and it seems like fun. Quite sensual. 

But there’s an interesting thing about the duck vagina. It’s a long spiral, but it comes equipped with side-alleys, pouches and dead ends. If a drake forces the duck (and not all drakes have the charm and manners of Cary Grant*) she can thwart him by wriggling very slightly, so that although she can’t stop him getting his end in, she can stop his cock getting anywhere near the duck equivalent of the cervix.

He won’t get such a good time, if she’s unwilling, and she won’t have his babies; his cock gets lost and astray, and never reaches the end. 

The picture shows two corkscrew things. The larger item on the left is a duck vagina. The item on the right is a drake penis. 

* When I say that drakes don’t act like Cary Grant, I mean that it’s been estimated that 40% of all duck copulations involve forced sex. Drakes, by and large, are rapists and rotters. But Donald, I’m pleased to say, is in stir, getting counselling.



Breach of UK’s half-witted censorship laws: restraint, physical abuse. 



Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.


Smutathon 2: Reasons not to work for News Corpse

Rupert wrested with his penis, which merely rested. Cialis, Viagra, the other bureau supplies for ageing men: they’d all long since lost their effect. Not even images of owning Sky could raise his heartbeat or his organ. “Ah, fuck it,” he murmured disgustedly.

But fuck it, or anything, was precisely what he couldn’t do. Even the spirit was weak.

He hated that time of the month, marked on the fridge calendar with a big red lipsticked heart. It was time for coitus with his married cohabitant. Damn the woman!

I’m sorry to let you down

But she’d threatened to leave him for Ted Turner if he continued to disappoint her. At least Teddy can still get it up, she’d said coldly. He remembered that eight decades ago, before his soul crinkled up and died, that could have hurt. 

He closed his eyes, imagining the Trump offspring spooning glistening, firm, proud, gold coins into their orifices. But this vision, too, failed to move him.

It failed, indeed, to move a single CC of blood into that damned flaccid snake, that deflated balloon, that powerless power cord in his hand.

And she was saying, “Well? I’m waiting,” in that damned tone of voice that reminded him she still had Turner on speed-dial. Did the bloody woman think that helped?

“Just a moment, old horse.” Rupert left the bedroom.

He called Withered Nethers, editor of the Daily Moloch. “Withered, Rupe. How’s that bloody piece on Corbyn going?” 

“I think you’ll like it. We’re accused him of running a weird sex thing at Glastonbury. Still dotting the tease and crossing the eyes on the text, but the headline’s going to be ‘Daddy School: Corbyn’s Sick Terrorist Sexathon.” 

“Terrorist? No, sounds great, mate. Anyway, cobber, I’ve got a bit of woman trouble. Can you get up here now?”

“Anything for you, Rupe.”

Minutes later Nethers was there. He knelt while Rupert fished his cold whitebait out of his trousers.

Nethers took an ice lolly stick, stretched his boss’s squishy marshmallow sausage for the Nobbly Bobbly spine’s length, and applied tape. There!

The mogul’s penis was straight and true, though no longer capable of leaning to the right. It pointed carpetwards, a pendulum that never swived nor swung. But as long as the tape held… 

A quick kiss, as of the Pope’s ring, and the job of a News Corp editor was done. Still on his knees, Nethers whacked his boss familiarly on the bum, as Man to Man. “You’re good to go, boss. Get in there!” 

“Thanks, Withered.” Rupert walked with swagger back to the bedroom. Still, doubts assailed him.



Internet censorship is heavily promoted by Newscorp, who rightly see the internet as a threat both to their income and their shrivelled but still substantial political power. 

By the way, I do know that News Corp doesn’t actually own the Daily Mail. I just thought the image was cool, and this is Smutathon! I don’t have time to photoshop! 

UK censorship breach? Humiliation. 

Tell you what, though. I’ll try to make the next one actually sexy.


Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.

Smutathon 1: James Joyce written in duck! Ban this sick filth!

And at last he came to me, Donald himself with his sailor suit and his beak golden in the sun, and him peeling a switch and eyeing me like the old days, when he’d whip me long and thorough the blackguard and then ride me hard in the pond, oh rough, Donald, rough I’d say, feeling his beak on my neck all forceful, and he’d say Molly you’re never a dog, you white feathered slut my beauty my booty my Andalusian flower.

And he stepped towards me and I asked him with my eyes to ask me again, and he took me in his wings and pressed me down, and he kissed my down, and my breasts all smelling of pondweed and fish, I could feel his heart going like mad and yes, I said, yes I KWARK! KWARK! I will I said yes I will Yes KWARK.

Blue Mountains, 2017



Note on banned UK censorship categories:

Ducks are fully mature at, say, three years old. After that they become senior ducks, and die at 5-10 years. So this not only offers bestiality but underage bestiality!


Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.

What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.

Triumph and the fountains of Rome!

I’m keeping to four posts a week, at the moment. I looked back a couple of years, back in this blog, and found I was doing seven posts a week.

They tended to be shorter, because I’d write something, get carried away as I always do, and it would turn out longer than I’d expected. So I’d chop it into two or three parts, and run them on three successive days. 

But now I’m writing a novel, and I’m keeping at it because I want to finish it soon. There are five parts, and the final part is expected to be relatively short. I’m on Part 5 now, and I can smell the finish line. I feel triumphant!

I’d like to do more discussion pieces, think pieces, for this blog.

But at the moment I can’t think of anything but Rome and a rich Scots girl, who paints but seems only able to sell her art to men who fancy her, and how she breaks through to a wider audience. I can’t afford to do any thinking except about how to make that sexier and funnier.

I just wrote a scene (for Part 4) in which the hero fetches his beautiful but mildly drunk girlfriend out of Trevi Fountain. It adds absolutely nothing to the plot, I think, but it belongs in the book just the same. 

In honour of that scene, here are some photos of girls in Roman fountains.

The top two are from a news story that said Romans were “outraged” to  find pretty underdressed girls in a fountain. Bullshit, I have to say. Possibly a couple of lemon-sucking Romans somewhere went all crinkly-mouthed about it, but Romans in general are overwhelmingly pro-pretty girl.They even seem to like underdressed, wet girls. Go figure.

Don’t let the Murdoch press (or Dacre press in this instance) tell you otherwise. In fact, don’t let them tell you anything. 

Here’s one I prepared earlier.

Euph off: Bedewed with the pearly tribute of manhood

Letitia climbed onto the Royal Yacht, a glass of champagne in one white-gloved hand. It was a splendid occasion, and the rear admirals and all of royalty had turned out: Elizabeth the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth the less virginal Queen, and Boadicea.

Such respectable society, thought Letitia, popping a cocktail sausage between her lips. She noticed a dashing young Highland Guardsman, resplendent in his kilt, with just a hint of dirk showing in his hose. He was gazing at her with the puppyish eyes of love. At least, his feelings were clearly of great intensity.

She smiled at her gallant, and took a plate from one of the tables. “La, sir, may I offer you finger food? Or some other tit bit?”

He seemed overcome, but when she offered a cream pie, he coughed ferociously, face as red as the swollen underparts of a lady baboon in the more friendly part of her cycle. “Nay, madam, it is not food I seek from you, save only the fruit of love, the elixir, as it were, of your lightly forested Paphian grove.”

“Do what? My what?”

“Your dark delta of mystery. But first, madam, I dream of… Nay, I am unworthy.”

A cock between tits

“Sirrah, I’m sure ‘tis not so! How may I make your dream a happy reality?”

“Well, I would like to osculate the tenderest pinkest crowns of your firm, and proud, and, ah…”

“Avast!” cried the First Mate, at that moment.

“… womanly endowments.”

Letitia frowned. “You want what?”

“And ‘twould be an honour, ma’am, to oscillate those cupola’d hills of Cythera. So glorious a manual mammary memory! Mwah!”

“No, I’m still not getting it, sorry.”

The young man cleared his throat, his face still crimson, and tried again. “And interpose between the ripest, melon fruits of your feminine beauty my doughty staff of manhood. Oh god, yes.”

Letitia wished the man would speak English. Scots dialect was very charming, no doubt, but …“Doughty? You can’t mean ‘dirty’? Dotty? And what do you need staff for, anyway?”

“And run, in those bounteous hills of pleasure, the instinctual race of love. Oohhhh!”

“You can’t want to race me?”

“Nay. Madam, I would bedew these most voluptuous slopes with the pearly tribute of my love. Unff!”

“Come again?”


“But, cried Letitia, bewildered, “what are you saying?”

The Highland Guardsman’s dream, of doughty shafts and, let’s face it, rather yummy bounteous hills of pleasure

Desperately, he said, “Madam, I want to lick your cunt like an icecream. But first, I want to fondle your tits, which are incredibly hot, and kiss your nipples till they, and you, are wet as a two-child paddling pool. Which, believe me, is fucking wet. And then I want get my cock up in between those tits, and hump you till I come all over them. Perhaps we could get a room?”

The slap was heard in both Shoreditch and Brighton, though as Brighton was 47 miles away the sound did not arrive to puzzle them for another 10 minutes.

The young man’s face was now considerably redder on the right side than the left. He seemed puzzled.

“Why sir,” said Letitia coldly, “I quite fail to understand you.”


Trump’s “small, non-sexual part” shows up in more porn!

Müller's Bornean gibbon (Borneo): Better hair, smarter, larger part

Monkey king: Müller’s gibbon (Borneo): Better hair, smarter, larger part

Republican Party presidential candidate Donald Trump is damaged beyond repair, though I see no reason why the Democrat campaign shouldn’t keep kicking that ass now that he’s down.

I’ve never once thought he was likely to win the election, but until now I didn’t think think Clinton was going to score a landslide win. But two things are clear.

First, the Trump campaign is going to be the ones waving the Republican flag until Election Day, and Republicans will just have to put up with it.

I’ve heard some of the saner Republicans I know musing that Trump’s campaign might sputter out soon. Maybe, they say, they’d be better with a non-weird write-in candidate. But the crazy Republicans are too stupid to see what’s happening in front of their eyes, and the saner Republicans have shown that they’re cowards. So the Republicans are stuck with him, and they’ll have their next serious shot at the Presidency in 2024. 

Second, even if the media starts trying to help Trump again, it’s too late to turn this around. This is likely to be the most uneven US election result since Barry Goldwater crashed and burned in 1964. Clinton will take about 51 per cent of the vote, which in Electoral College terms means a shattering landslide.

Trump scandals and porn

Because misogyny and bullying aren’t part of consensual bdsm but – along with the bizarre lying and the greed – they’re the keys to Trump’s character, I don’t think there’s a bdsm scandal involving Trump waiting in the wings.

I’m sure there’s more scandal to come, nearly all of it self-generated, but it won’t be that Trump spanks or is spanked (or whatever) by willing partners.  

(I’m not a “who’s your Daddy?” kind of guy, but I have, in the past, been cool with women submissives calling me “Daddy”, at crucial moments, or all the time. I’ve put a moratorium on that. The weird shit with Trump and his daughter Ivanka makes it too off-putting. But like all things, Trump will pass, from politics and memory.) 

51t5myjk3vlStill, consistent with Rule 34, there’s gay porn featuring Trump, (Trump temptation: The Billionaire and the Bell-boy). And het Trump porn, if that’s your thing (The Billionaire and the Cocktail Waitress).

I’m not sure that either are the product of, ah, genuine Trump fans: after all, one of them is over 10 pages long.

But I was delighted to find that the soft-core Playboy video featuring Trump’s “small, non-sexual part” isn’t the only porno to feature the Oddly-Coifed One. 

Here, from Larry Flynt productions, is The Donald xxx!

Larry Flynt production values, but a better Trump impersonator than Alex Baldwin

Larry Flynt production values, but a better Trump impersonator than Alex Baldwin

Disclaimer: I’ve noted that Trump porn exists, because people are strange, but I haven’t read or watched any of these items. They’re probably pretty crap. Mention, as the Republicans should have said, is not endorsement. 


Lose the vote by over 2,000,000, and still get to be President. There are questions to ask about the Electoral College system, of course. But for that even to be possible shows that US Americans are weirder than I can, or want to, imagine.

In the country I’m in at the moment (Australia) they did a poll and found that 15% of Australians would have voted Trump. That seems sensible. Anyway, I’ll leave this post here, to remind me, and allow others to remind me, that I don’t always get it right. 

Dental porn

Ah, there's porn of it. Thank god.

Ah, there’s porn of it. Thank god!

Sorry. It’s been a while since I posted. I’ve had a hole bored in my jawbone and a steel pin inserted into the hole. I’ll get a crown some time in December.

That was on Tuesday. The rest of Tuesday was a write-off, and so, surprisingly, was Wednesday as well. Probably because of the pain-killers more than the pain. 

I was a bit more battered than I thought I was. Battered like an old car, not like a fish. Or a battery. I was the batter-ee.

Now I’m still trickling the odd bit of blood, and I’m guessing that the floor of an abatoir must taste a lot like the inside of my mouth.

But I’m feeling a lot better. Thanks!

My main memory of the whole thing was the hair, hands, mouth and breasts of the dental assistant who was using one of those slurping machines to suck out the blood and bits of bone. I suppose it’s natural to focus on the best life has to offer, at a time when most of the incoming sensory information is (literally) bloody horrible. 

Maybe the reason why dentists tend to have pretty girls as assistants is so that patients, at least those who are susceptible to pretty girls, have something to distract them from the gory goings-on in their mouths. 

And male dentists also like to have a pretty girl about the place, since the inside of someone’s mouth, when that person needs dental treatment, ain’t that pretty at all.

I’ve been to two women dentists, by the way, and neither of them had dental nurses. So dentistry, like political assassinations, can be done by one person acting alone. 

I know that dental nursing is a skilled job, and it shouldn’t be turned into a wank fantasy.  

It is required by law that this picture be captioned, "Open wide." (I fought that law, but the law won.)

It is required by law that this picture be captioned, “Open wide.” (I fought that law, but the law won.)

But the people who get that job tend to be young, pretty and female, which isn’t entirely fair on job-seekers who aren’t. That’s not the fault of the pretty young women; it’s more the fault of, oh, you know, patriarchy.

In some ways it’s odd that dental fetish is such a strong theme in porn. I guess it’s the hint of bondage in the chair, though the patient is held in place by the situation, not by actual bonds. There’s the appealing contrast between the angular sterility of the room, and the curved, not-sterile human body. Cold colors against warm skin, and so on. And, of course, the dentist commands and the patient obeys.

For me, no matter how charming I might think I am, I know that dental assistant has seen the inside of my mouth at its bloodiest and worst. That’s got to be a profoundly repellant sight. 

There must be guys who spring out of the chair once they’ve got the all-clear, flashing their most brilliant smile at the nurse and trying to engage her in witty, flirtatious conversation. But me: Nah. Just … no.

The porn star gurn: photos in this blog 3

I’m writing about the pictures I put up in this blog and how I choose them. I’ve already mentioned some of the principles I apply when I’m searching for and selecting pictures. For example, the picture should illustrate the story, it should suit the real woman the story is about, and it should avoid being too fake, in the cliched porn sense. 

5  Decorativeness

angelGenerally, although those principles come first, I also want the picture to look good. A few of the pictures I posted on this blog are there purely because I thought they’re sexy and beautiful. For example, this one: a girl in fluffy angel wings, wiggling her twat at the camera. She has a beautiful smile, too.

One thing running a picture like that can do is teach me humility. This is a writer’s blog. It’s got wordy word words all over it. Except for that post, where my text is only three words long. Have a look here.

The thing is, it’s still one of my most popular, most clicked-on posts ever. My contribution may be three fantastically well-chosen words, but I don’t think I can claim the credit for that post’s popularity. Take a bow, Miss Who-ever-you-are. Oh. You sort of already are. 


And there’s this picture, that I ran in one of my earliest posts. It’s a very beautiful, very tender image, those breasts touching, softness melting into softness, with the sensitive nipples alerting and getting harder in the middle of it all. 

Doesn’t it make you want to be there? I made up some excuse to run the picture, but the real reason was simply that I thought it was – awwwwwww! – lovely. 

You can see a bigger version of the pic, and the context I invented so I could run it, here

6  Generosity

This blog has run pictures of naked guys, a nun whipping herself and a mermaid being – improbably when you think about it – fucked up the ass. I’m not sexually interested in guys, nuns or mermaids, but I assume that some of you are, out there. There’s no reason always to restrict myself to images that I respond to.

hentaicatSo here, in that ecumenical, reach-out spirit, we have a pic of a hentai furry cat-girl and some human guy getting it on.  

It’s kind of pretty, but it’s not really my thing. But on the other hand: a warm welcome to furry fans everywhere, and I hope you stick with the blog!

Maybe that’s enough about pictures for a while.