The author straightened her back, wiggling her fingers in preparation to begin typing her Kinktober series for the year. She laughed maniacally to herself. Her Kinktober would be Jerry-centric this year, a Kinktober to end all Kinktobers! The cursor on the open Google Document beckoned her, and she answered the call.
Jerry stepped through the door, high heels clicking on the tiled floor. Though he resembled a doughy, pock-marked sombrero in appearance, Jerry possessed the biggest, thickest-
‘Excuse me,” Jerry interrupted the author indignantly, “did you just call me a doughy sombrero?”
“Mm-hmm,” she replied, distracted by the flood of 3AM writing inspiration. “Pock-marked too. Doughy, pock-marked sombrero. Or maybe a malformed but somehow endearing potato?”
Jerry gasped. “Hey, you’re no looker yourself, lumpy human. I came in here to tell you that your wi-fi is slow and your cable doesn’t include the Bravo network, not to be openly mocked.”
“I didn’t mock you openly. You snooped,” she pointed out.
Jerry ignored her, perusing the list of kinks available for each day of the event. “Good thing I did. These kinks are so vanilla. Ugh. I wouldn’t be caught dead participating in any of this.”
“Vanilla?” sputtered the author, confused. These all seemed like legitimate kinks to her. Ok, maybe there wasn’t an oviposition or SOUL sex option, but no way were distention and omorashi vanilla!
“Va. Nil. La.” repeated Jerry, pulling on a neon green crab fursuit. “Peace out. I’m going yiffing!”
The author immediately scrubbed all thoughts of Jerry and furry fuck parties from her mind and forced herself to forget about her original Kinktober plans and Jerry’s existence completely. I guess it’ll be skeletons then, she thought.
She resumed typing.