It must be getting pretty boring for the militia at that wildlife refuge. But Bigfoot can spice things up. Here’s a sample of my story in progress. Our narrator is a woman, who has followed her husband to the refuge, to care for him during the occupation. Bigfoot is a gentle creature, but she has made it known to him that she likes to be manhandled, and we’ll find out if he obliges her . . .
He let go of one of my arms and grabbed me by the hair. Next thing I knew I was laying on a big tree, one of those ones that kinda half fall, but are still rooted. It was as wide as my shoulders, but swayed just a bit with my weight. Then he ripped my flannel shirt open, buttons flying into the snow. That’d be something to explain to the guys back at headquarters, but I didn’t ruminate on it, because then Bigfoot was on me, laying over my torso, his weight pressing me into the rough bark behind my back. He yanked my bra up over my tits and laid a hand over one, giving a friendly squeeze to the plump flesh, then grabbing the scrunched-up nipple between a finger and a thumb and holding on tight.
He still had me by the hair with his other hand, and he pulled my head back, angling me so my eyes were looking right into his. It was a beautiful moment, our eyes gazing into one another’s, across the divide of civilized and free, of hairy and smooth. His coat with its aroma of woodsmoke, musk, and dry leaves, my smooth skin with the rosy fragrance of my homemade goat milk soap. Could we cross this divide, to unite our breeds in wild ecstasy? You betcha!