Sex Drive

		(c) 2001 Wirewolf


  Now don't get me wrong.  I love the fems; always have, always will.  Just last week, 
matter of fact, it was Muriel.  Or Miriam.  I forget.  Anyway , she was this sweet little 
Thomson's gazelle from Africa.  I think she was an exchange student or something.

  Yeah, I know, you think it's funny for a cheetah to be prowling after a gazelle.  But let 
me tell you something: she was the one who came hunting after me.  We met in one of 
those bars near the campus where all the kids stalk beer and sex.  I was in the mood for 
something tight, and I was coming up dry.  Must have been finals or something, 'cause 
the only action going on at the Green Monkey that night was a couple of thirty-plus 
year olds with their mates.  I saw a few younger morphs chatting it up in a corner booth, 
but since I'm not a student it's not a good idea to horn in on a group like that.

  She must have been in the bathroom, since I had my back to the restrooms and she 
basically appeared out of nowhere.  She tapped me on the shoulder and smiled when I 
turned around.  She looked me up and down with those big wet eyes, flicked her ears to 
show off the three pair of pearl studs she wore and said, "Wanna buy me a drink?"

  She was no foal, I'll tell you now.  But there was something in her voice that told me 
she was desperate.  Not horny desperate, more like an ego thing.  My guess was she had 
recently been dumped and needed to prove to herself that she was still a pretty gazelle in 
her prime.  And she was, so I figured 'What the hell.  Prove her right!'

  She hadn't even finished her Pink Elephant when she laid her line on me.  I had 
mentioned how good the gold paint on her horns looked and how they made her 
sparkle.  She licked her nose once, that long, slow, deliberate tongue swipe that screams 
'I'm hungry for you!' and said, "They make good handles, too."

  Well, my walking shorts started getting a bit tight after that.  When I started to say, 
"I've got a place-" she set her drink down and said, "Let's go."  I had to hitch my shorts 
up to keep my hard on from peeking over the waistband.  I swigged the rest of my beer 
and we left without another word.

  Damn, she was awesome!  Desperation will do that to fems, sometimes.  We didn't 
even get past the living room of my pathetic excuse of an apartment.  I shoved the 
cheap coffee table out of the way and we wound up on the floor right there.  I tried to 
turn on the media set to get some music going, but she wouldn't let me go long enough 
to get to it.

  Speed is my thing, you know.  I'm a cheetah, after all.  And she was going for some 
kind of record, I think. Within seconds, we were out of the meager clothes humans 
insist morphs wear in public.  I had only to slip off my walking shorts while she opened 
her cotton vest and slithered out of her skirt in no time.  I took a moment to admire her 
markings; the creamy fawn of her flanks, the black fur that striped her sides like a line of 
paint, the pale white of her front.

  To be honest, I've never really worried much about looks, mine or anyone else's.  But 
I got kind of lost just looking at her.  I rubbed the pert little breasts she'd kept under her 
vest, trailed my claws through the white fur to her thighs.  I could smell the heat of her 
need.  Just touching her that much made her shake.  She was getting ahead of me, and I 
wasn't going to let her get away with it.

  When she tried to pull me on top of her, I said, "Wait a minute there, preygirl.  
Handles, remember?"  She actually looked confused, so I guess she did forget.  When I 
took hold of those cold, hard horns and directed her muzzle to where she could do the 
most good, she shifted gears quick.  My favorite kind of fem, yes!

  She had my tool between her large, flat teeth and was gently working it around while 
her tongue stroked its length.  I purred and growled and none of it was for show.  She 
was working me over like an expert.  I wondered about her later, how she came to get 
so good at blowing a mel when she obviously had money.  Those pearl studs weren't 
cheap, and the gold paint on her horns didn't come off on my pads, quality stuff.  At the 
time, though, I had only one thing on my mind.

  Well, that's not true.  I had two things on my mind.  One is obvious.  And the 
other...well, like I said.  I do love the fems.  But, you know, sometimes it's just not 
enough.  And bless her, Muriel, or Miriam, or whatever, was *very* good.  But this 
time it wasn't enough.

  I pulled her off me when I felt the time was right.  She wound up on her back, her 
legs spread wide, the smell of her sex drowning me.  I almost lost control like a virgin 
kit, swept up in something new and exciting.  But I'm an old hand at this, and I kept 
things going the way I like them.

  She was a moaner, and I liked that.  I like those soft sounds of surrender fems make 
when I'm driving them out of their mind.  I had a little trouble getting in her.  She was 
*tight*, mostly because she was so small compared to me.  But that's what I wanted.  
Once I was in her, working her over, she was gasping as much as she was moaning.  
God, but she was a sweet little gazelle!

  So picture it.  I'm covering this cute little fem and getting my rhythm going, she's 
moaning and the smell of her is making my balls ache.  I pick up some speed, pushing 
harder into her pink little womb.  I can feel my climax slowly building and I grin that 
feral grin that scares the shit out of some preygirls.  No variations, no changing 
positions; it's a missionary race to that spine-tingling goal.

  And what happens?  She pops off before I do, that's what.  She grabbed my shoulders, 
threw her head back and bleated while her hips start jumping up to meet my downward 
thrusts.  When she slung her legs around my waist and squealed her ecstasy, I knew I 
was in trouble.  Something wasn't right.  That brain-numbing release was slipping away 
from me, fading, ghosting it's way back where it came from.

  Oh, I tried.  I couldn't help it; I was the one who was desperate now.  I was soon 
pounding her for all I was worth.  She was trying to settle down from her big O and I 
was still hunting mine.  I felt her squirm under me, like she wasn't sure she wanted to go 
another round.  But I wasn't interested in her quiet happiness.  I wanted my release, 
damnitall!  If I didn't get to come, it would be another trip out to the track.

  A few minutes into her second rising she stopped squirming and just clung to me, 
letting me decide how long the ride would last.  It was no good, though.  She got off a 
second time, shrieking loud enough to tell my neighbors what we were doing.  But I 
was lost.  In fact I was losing ground.  Not long after she popped the second time I 
could feel myself getting soft.  Shit!

  I don't get mad.  I'm an adult, and I know better than to blame anyone else for my 
problems.  So I didn't say anything to her.  I just slowed down and stopped, panting and 
sweating like a marathon runner stumbling around at the end of his race.  I pulled out of 
her, rolled onto the dingy carpet and sighed.  Looking at the clock, I could see I had a 
few more hours before the track closed.

  I treated her nice, I'll have you know.  I didn't shove her out the door or get pissy with 
her.  In fact, I wanted to see her again.  We lay there and cuddled a bit.  She praised me, 
calling me a furry fuck machine.  I smiled at that.  Eventually, though, she had to get 
back to her dorm.  We parted on good terms with an option for a second mating...uhh, 
meeting.  Hell, probably both.

  As soon as she was out of sight, though, I got my keys and headed out.

  Wrady was there when I got to the track.  He's the old mechanic who showed me 
where to find honest-to-god internal combustion engines for my car.  He's also the one 
who showed me it's not always about speed.

  The purists will tell you that you can get the same speed and power from fuel cells.  
That may be, but I challenge anyone to deny the intoxicating feeling of raw power you 
get from hearing a gas-burning, water-cooled, oil-lubed supercharged engine screaming 
with each twitch of the throttle cable.  You may get impressive numbers from an electric 
setup, but all you can hear is that wavering hum of the motors spinning up their 
flywheels.  No thrill there.  You gotta *hear* the power.  It has to rattle the bones in 
your chest.  It's a purely bestial need to intimidate everyone else.  It's about who's got 
the biggest engine and who can get it over the line the fastest and the loudest.

  Wrady saw me come into the shop and head for the stall where I store my car.  
"Spots!" he called out with a friendly wave.  "Stripes!" I shouted back.  "What's rolling, 
'coon man?"

  Soon we were both under the hood of his newest toy, an old Pontiac Raptor.  I don't 
care for Raptors, with their generic sports car look.  But there were no fuel cells or 
flywheels under the hood of this one.  There wasn't *anything* under its hood, in fact.  
Not yet, anyway.

  "I found an old Chevy Merit last month, got it for nothing," the old raccoon said, 
nodding toward the empty engine compartment of the Raptor.  "Motor should fit pretty 
good in there."

  "Another screamer for your collection, huh?"

  I kept the small talk short.  I was still feeling blueballed and I wanted out on the track 
as soon as possible.  Wrady understood, to a point.  He thinks I'm just a speed junkie.  I 
am, of course, but not always the way he thinks.

  I checked my car out quickly.  It's one of the muscle cars from the end of the 20th 
century, a Ford Mustang.  Wrady and I spent months rebuilding and re-tuning and 
tweaking it until it could give the Dodge Wraiths and Mitsumi Tsunamis that come to 
Wrady's track a run for their money.  You should see the look on their faces when a gas 
burner passes them, howling like Satan's own hellhounds after blood.

  She wasn't losing any fluids and her safety equipment was all in good shape.  That left 
my fire suit and helmet.  As much as I despise wearing stuff that covers my whole body, 
all I have to do is glance at the furless, broken kink that's all that's left of Wrady's tail 
to convince myself it's a good idea.  Besides, my fire suit is modified so I can still have 
my fun.  I just hope I never wreck while the flap over my crotch is open.

  Suited up and checked out, it was time to roll out.  I hit the ignition and gloried in the 
heavy growl of a supercharged V8 muttering it's desire to leave 100 m.p.h. far behind it.  
I touched the gas and the car shook as the r.p.m.s twitched up to 3000.  That grin was 
back, the one that says, "Get the fuck outta my way."

  First gear, and I was out on the track quickly.  She needs to warm up before she can 
really run.  Same goes for me, too.  I kept her in first, letting the engine stretch.  
Keeping the tachometer to 7000 r.p.m., I jerked the wheel left and right, scrubbing the 
tires to warm them up.  With my other hand, I opened the crotch flap on my fire suit and 
gave my sheath a friendly wake up call.

  The adrenaline was just starting to leak into my bloodstream when I turned on the 
sound system.  I stop hearing the music after I hit 100, but until then I had Thunderbone 
battering my eardrums with their hit song "Thrust."  I slammed my left foot down and 
shoved the shifter, grabbing for the next gear.  The Mustang leapt, getting ready to 
charge.  It was one hand on the wheel, one on my cock, one eye on the tach and one on 
the track.  My balls were rebuilding the charge they hadn't been able to fire into the 
gazelle.  I growled, but it was lost in the hunting cry of a musclecar.

  Second gear is the builder.  That's where I'm stroking myself and singing with 
Thunderbone at the top of my lungs:

  /Hump it, pump it/
  /Get it up and jump it/
  /Hit her with the point/
  /Let the knot fill the void!/

  I stayed with second gear for a while, feeling myself get tight, getting used to how the 
track's behaving.  I didn't want to stay there too long, though.

  I started to blur somewhere around third gear.  By the time I'm at the tail end of third, 
the Mustang is hurtling around the 3/4 mile track at around 120 m.p.h.  That's when you 
worry about twitching the wheel too hard and kissing the wall or plowing across the 
infield end over end.  That's when you have to be a real racer or you freak and get off 
the gas.

  I'm a cheetah, so I'm a racer.

  She wanted out of third, wanted out bad.  So did I.  My dick was out and hard, my 
hand leaving it only to slap the shifter one last time.  Once we're in fourth, the 
Mustang's 5.6 liter power plant is satisfied with nothing less than 150 m.p.h.  My chest 
was getting tight, my heart hammering as the pavement flew by at unreasonable speeds.  
We were one, my Mustang and I.  She's my lover, pushing me in ways no flesh and 
bone fem possibly can.

  The old, familiar programming of straightaway, hard left, straightaway was in full play, 
my eyes and forebrain working hard to keep us out of the wall and off the white line.  
My hindbrain was in full control of my right hand and my cock, and it was no less 
demanding.  My eyes watered and my breathing got shallow as I rode that razor sharp 
line between speed and sex.  The Mustang was closing in on 160 and I was close to 
popping off.  The engine was howling its outrage, the tires were starting to scream their 
pain in the corners.  So close!

  Timing is everything, nothing short of life and death.  If I pop in the corner, I'll lose 
the car, maybe my life.  I have to do it on the straightaway.  Holding back for those few 
seconds until I get through the turn can be the hardest thing imaginable.  Letting go once 
I'm through is the greatest thing possible.

  I did it just right, of course.  The tach licked 8000, the tires eased off their ear piercing 
shriek and the car settled down for more acceleration.  I tightened my grip, stroked 
myself hard a few more times and popped with a blinding intensity.  I think I screamed.  
It's hard to tell sometimes.

  I'm the most vulnerable then, but I've got the routine down pat.  I jerked the last of 
my cum out onto the safety webbing and the seat, my foot lifted off the gas and 
feathered the brake, my arm locked against the wheel, to keep me from drifting off the 
track.

  Gotta be quick!  I was wrung out by the time the next corner came up.  I reopened my 
eyes and got through the turn without screwing up.  A few more laps of coasting and 
panting let me get my composure back.  I grabbed the towel I keep under the seat and 
cleaned myself up.

  I brought the Mustang back to the stall and parked it, making sure there was no 
damage to any of her body work.  Wrady looked up from under the Raptor's hood as I 
stood there.  "Just wanted a couple of quick laps, eh Spots?"

  I looked at the clock.  I'd only been on the track for about half an hour.  About as a 
long as I'd been with the gazelle.  I smiled and nodded.  "Yup," I told him.  "Just 
wanted a quickie today."  Wrady laughed without knowing how literal I was being.  
"Later Stripes!"  I walked out, taking one last look at the rear end of the Mustang, and 
the vanity plate that reads, 'SEXTOY.'

  On the way home, I started thinking about the gazelle.  I wondered when I would see 
her again.  Maybe we could go on an honest date next time.  Maybe we could even talk.  
It doesn't always have to be about sex.

  Like I said before, don't get me wrong.  I do love the fems.  But sometimes the only 
thing better than one gazelle is 450 horses.



This text is (c) 2001, Wirewolf
It may be downloaded and printed only with copyright information intact.
It may not be distributed without author's permission.
Comments or other responses should be addressed to:

wirewolf_66@yahoo.com
wirewolf@charter.net
wirewolf@n2animals.com