Day 15 | A fanfic
A selection from The International Jurassic Park Erotic Fan-Fiction Writer's Association.
Ian Malcolm thrusted his greased dino-explorer deep into the triceratops’s waiting unexplored anal caverns. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. The beast’s groans of approval echoed round the small security room, as Malcolm grunted his own response, and looked up at the wall of video monitors in front of him. As the sweat dripped from his brow, Ian observed the hundreds of camera feeds in front of him, and allowed his mind to wonder over the passionate possibilities. So many Jurassic joinings in waiting, he could taste the potential. As he glanced T-rex’s, raptors and the other delicious delights of the park, he became lost in his visionary violations. . .
The drenched leathery hide of a waiting T-rex dinominge, begging for genetic input. Elongated talons ripping through yellow eyes, smeared in four day old pterodactyl excrement. Raptor tails smacking dryly against a cold kitchen floor, their image distorted in the reflection of the imploded pan cabinet. The fantastic, erection-inducing promise of a distant, tree-shaking roar. Freshly formed enormous footprints in warm mud, the taste of watery underfoot. Playful jungle flirtations with deadly punch lines. Horns splashed with racid semen and tears, so pure. The honest smell on the wind, tasty new stomach gifts of meat and bone, in sweat soaked wrapping paper. Failed Brachiosaurus rim job attempts. Nothing but poo salad for nine days. An uncannily moist Velociraptor face clawing. Manically chasing the Gallimimus, unholy thumping speed sex. Gorging on live Dilophosaurus babies, spitting out skulls. The shame of broken T-rex eggshells and a cold frying pan. Ménage a triceratops. Blood stained raptor teeth tenderly pleasuring a Brachiosaurus leg.
It was this final image that threw Malcolm’s body into a sexual frenzy, his manhood erupting into his beast partner as tears fell down his face. He was in heaven, and yet ashamed of his appetites. He wiped himself off on the triceratops’s middle horn, kicked it in the face, and walked out slowly, leather trousers still around his ankles, tears streaming from his eyes.
Ian Malcolm thrusted his greased dino-explorer deep into the triceratops’s waiting unexplored anal caverns. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. The beast’s groans of approval echoed round the small security room, as Malcolm grunted his own response, and looked up at the wall of video monitors in front of him. As the sweat dripped from his brow, Ian observed the hundreds of camera feeds in front of him, and allowed his mind to wonder over the passionate possibilities. So many Jurassic joinings in waiting, he could taste the potential. As he glanced T-rex’s, raptors and the other delicious delights of the park, he became lost in his visionary violations. . .
The drenched leathery hide of a waiting T-rex dinominge, begging for genetic input. Elongated talons ripping through yellow eyes, smeared in four day old pterodactyl excrement. Raptor tails smacking dryly against a cold kitchen floor, their image distorted in the reflection of the imploded pan cabinet. The fantastic, erection-inducing promise of a distant, tree-shaking roar. Freshly formed enormous footprints in warm mud, the taste of watery underfoot. Playful jungle flirtations with deadly punch lines. Horns splashed with racid semen and tears, so pure. The honest smell on the wind, tasty new stomach gifts of meat and bone, in sweat soaked wrapping paper. Failed Brachiosaurus rim job attempts. Nothing but poo salad for nine days. An uncannily moist Velociraptor face clawing. Manically chasing the Gallimimus, unholy thumping speed sex. Gorging on live Dilophosaurus babies, spitting out skulls. The shame of broken T-rex eggshells and a cold frying pan. Ménage a triceratops. Blood stained raptor teeth tenderly pleasuring a Brachiosaurus leg.
It was this final image that threw Malcolm’s body into a sexual frenzy, his manhood erupting into his beast partner as tears fell down his face. He was in heaven, and yet ashamed of his appetites. He wiped himself off on the triceratops’s middle horn, kicked it in the face, and walked out slowly, leather trousers still around his ankles, tears streaming from his eyes.