It attacked me from behind, so to speak.
The buildup was fairly steady; there were no complications in the delivery, which was conveniently timed and effortlessly consummated; it had a soft, almost spongy texture and a subtle piquancy…yet, in its wake: a menacing formation…
…a bear claw.
Not to be confused with the pastry delight of the same name…this was more than some inanimate cluster with a coincidental likeness. I’d first believed this to be the gentle paw of some sort of aquatic bear, reaching out to tickle my clean-shaven ball sack…or then, perhaps lacerate it; as a savage, bloodthirsty beast would; and ostentatiously march it back to the darkened sewers of Horseheads from whence he came.
With irreplaceable (not to mention above average in both size and performance) assets dangling within his reach, I ultimately chose not to trust this unknown dweller of the deep and made a harsh, but instinctual move.
As you can see, he fought with every ounce of his life as I flushed the toilet. The claw marks left in the porcelain only hint at the potential damage that might’ve claimed my strapping (yet, given the circumstances: vulnerable) lady pleasurin’ mega machine. Looking back, however…my genitals, ravishing as they are, should’ve been the least of my worries…for I might not have made it out of that Barnes & Noble bathroom alive. I was lucky.
I don’t have any solutions to this problem, shall it surface again…as I, myself, have many questions left unanswered. My only advice for the next time you’re squirtin’ chunks is to keep one eye between the thighs…because you never know just when you’ll have a close encounter of the turd kind.