Hobson's Choice
It sickened him. His new girlfriend had an obsession with "the anal thing." Now *that* he had never done. It had overtones of filth and perversion. It was the way queers had sex! And yet . . .
She did have a nice behind. He loved to run his hands over its sweetly flowing contours. It was a classic, fully rounded and padded model, unlike the skinny boy-butts fashionable nowadays. He got hard just thinking about it.
Why not? If she wanted it that badly . . . But, damn, that was where *poop* came from. The thought of sticking his cock into that disgusting, stinking hole --
"Hobbie, do I have to beg? I *need* it there. That's the only way I've ever been able to come. At least *try* it. If you love me . . . "
Love. The magic word. He knew raging passion, but love? What the hell could that be? Maybe . . . maybe what he was starting to feel for Carla. He couldn't bear the thought of losing her.
"Yes, Hobson, I'll wash thoroughly. I'll even do an enema to clean out inside. No trace of my shit will contaminate that pristine cock of yours."
It wasn't as if he'd never seen her anal sphincter before. There it was, staring him in the face, as he entered her doggie style. Winking at him. Round and puckered, with a reddish brown tinge. The doorway to the tunnel that led all the way up into her pipes. Into her central core.
Decision time. She was on hands and knees, naked buttocks within an inch of his throbbing erection. Which entrance? The slit that had so recently welcomed him into its familiar, velvety splendor? Or the (ass!) hole, hiding dark mysteries?
He plunged into her.
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