Shambal grunted and turned onto his side from a torpid, supine night. He reached over to nastily clutch his she-goat’s porous flesh, but grasped only the rough, tangled blankets. The she-goat wasn’t there. Had he dreamed her all along? But the morning spring in his brain began to wind and he remembered the night before. His niggard had assured him that the she-goat’d be taken to Dunkirk for repairs.
Damn biological failings! he screeched silently to himself.
First thing in the morning, usually, the she-goat sucked him off. Shambal got cranky if he didn’t get his morning suck. Like almost everyone in this late land, he was a creature set in his ways. Nor could he escape from etched routines easily. He fumbled through the nightstand for one of his old wet-rags. He’d have to masturbate. No other means of release existed that moment. Considering superficially as he began to whack, the proposition of a she-goat harem shambled through his mind. Yes. He arched his turgid spine slighly. A harem could bring ease to petty morning problems. The she-goats would flounce about in anticipation of their turn with his skin-tube. He smiled and disgarded the wet-rag.
