My first pet was a bedraggled kitten that was being mistreated by a pair of vapid sisters living nearby. They never fed the little ginger rascal and one afternoon he appeared on my balcony during a thunderstorm. I fed him some chicken skin and that night he slept on my chest purring away like a small lawnmower. He soon became my cat. His name was Sam and he brought much mirth and hysterical laughter to our house.
He was especially fond of men and as he came of age he’d typically reciprocate pats and scratches from my friends by forcefully ejaculating on their shirts. That came as a surprise to everyone involved. Once, during the half-time break of a rugby match, he sat in front of us and licked himself until he climaxed. I was somewhat horrified but my friends thought this was hilarious and threw cash and coins at him and begged for more. “Best stripper ever!” one of them said. Sam winked in agreement as coins bounced off his head.
One night, while watching TV alone, I heard muffled screams emanating from the bedroom. I raced in and saw that Sam had “mounted” my sleeping girlfriend and was biting the back of her neck while thrusting away at her shoulder blades. I’m ashamed to say my immediate thought was one of pride. My little mate was trying so hard to get some action. Heroic little fellow. Then, of course, I realised he was trying to rape my girlfriend so I pulled him off and made a note to get him de-sexed the next day. That was the best course of action.
He just didn't understand that no means no.