Sperm Swap Blog

gratifying results with coarse fibre grease, while others say a rapid stroke
requires a proper high-speed lithium-base grease with molybdenum additives,
and yet others insist on vegetable-base lubricants, since petroleum-base
lubricants form carbon under heat and pressure, wherefore the sheep-fucker
may withdraw his pushrod to find it coated with black, carbonized grease that
requires repeated applications of Gunk or, worse yet, steam cleaning to re-
move. Given the potential difficulties, a sheep-fucker should carry rubbers.

Part 3

Though easy to screw, sheep are stupid. You can’t develop a mean-
ingful relationship with a sheep; hence, the notorious promiscuity af shep-
herds. The animal that demands personalized cuddling and which returns aff-
ection with an excellent fuck is a pig.

The pig-fucker must enter the sty casually, like cruising at a party,
as if getting laid were the last thing on his mind. He must greet each sow
and give a scratch or two. Once he has chosen one, he must devote full at-
tention to her. He kneels on one side and scratches behind ears and down the
snout with one hand while the other hand scratches along the back and sides
until reaching the tail, at which point the first hand works back and sides
while the other hand goes under the tail to rim the cunt. Thorough court-
ship involves finger-fucking to assure the sow is ready.

Meanwhile, the pig-screwer must gently ease the sow into a corner of
the pen, thus to inhibit her lateral movement. Any movements she can make will
be agreeable fore-and-aft motions. Once she is cornered and finger-fucked into
readiness, the biker inserts his rod. However, he must not slacken his
caresses. If the sow thinks she’s being taken for granted, she will sit down.
And if the other sows see that, you’ll never get screwed in that pigsty. A
pig will not cooperate with a fucker who thinks she’s too easy.

A pig is an even better piece than a sheep, and a well-fucked sow
will grunt appreciatively. Opinions differ, though, on whether a pig is best
of all. One ancient declared wistfully, in his impotent dotage, that “I’ve
fucked just about everything, but I always liked pussy best.” Asked about
“second best,” he replied at once: “A chicken.”

The old man knew his fucking. If a pig isn’t second best, a chicken
is. A hen doesn’t need much petting, but she does need to be talked to. Some
authorities view this talk as like that used on those women who will be
divested of garments and shagged in every position as long as the word “sex”
is never uttered. Others view it as the “sweet nothings” that add their own
dimension to getting laid. Either way, you’ve got to talk to a chicken.

The approach begins with the chicken-fucker getting down on all fours
to establish eye contact (while avoiding inadvertent hand contact with chick-
en shit), and saying “kuh-kuh-kuh.” That’s the basic line, but it can be
varied to “keh-keh-keh” or “kee-kee-kee,” if uttered in tones of sincere
passion and devotion. Don’t, however, say “chickey-chickey-chickey,” for
that’s how farmers call chickens. To a chicken, it sounds like an order, which
is a turn-off.

Once a chicken comes close and begins to respond to the small talk, a
hand goes under its breast and belly and the hen is lifted up. Once its feet
lose purchase, a chicken will sit still. However, the chicken-fucker must keep
talking as he gets his cock into place. Don’t be offended by the thought that
a chicken’s asshole and its cunt are functionally the same aperture, of which
only one is provided. The chicken isn’t going to apologize for it, and cer-
tainly, among humankind, the former has been taken for the latter often
enough and the fucker never the wiser.

As with a porcupine, a chicken must be screwed carefully. Even allow-
ing for the exaggeration of bike-club boasting, your average Rhode Island Red
can’t accommodate more than half the average biker’s cock, a Leghorn no more
than a third. However, as anyone who has watched an egg being laid knows,
that half or third can enjoy some extraordinary hospitality.

The old fucker quoted earlier added a note on how chicken-screwing
could be elevated to the sublime. “Just as you go off,” said he, “you cut its
throat. That last, dying quiver…” This refinement presents the biker with a
dismaying choice. To cut the throat of the chicken he has spoken to so in-
timately, the hen he has cultivated so carefully, seems to border on murder;
to kill for mere lust seems gross beyond mention. Yet, one has not properly
fucked a chicken unless one goes all the way.

Rural tradition did not view the matter as morally reprehensible.
Usually, when the family got home from church, the farmwife sent a twelvish
son to fetch a chicken for Sunday dinner. Son fucked the chicken before
killing it, and enjoyed the dying quiver as a concomitant to obeying his
mother’s orders. The biker, then, can resolve the moral dilemma simply by
taking the chicken along for roasting over the campfire. Any further doubts
can be obviated by recalling that to spare the chicken may only mean its
ultimate delivery into the fatal custody of Colonel Sanders.

In cutting the chicken’s throat, the knife should be placed behind
the neck and directed forward and down. To cut from under and upward may
result in a faceful of chicken blood that severely distracts from that ex-
quisite dying quiver. If buddies help, they can see to the cutting while
the fucker concentrates on the quiver.

More could be said, of course, but as most readers hereof will be
novices at animal-fucking, they should concentrate on mastering the funda-
mentals outlined here before attempting creative variations. Even the ele-
mentary level of animal-fucking will provide the cuntless biker’s rigid
stroker with solace superior to that available from a grimy hand.

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