I used to think of myself as a pet person, I personally have a couple of cats a bunny and some fish, but ever since I’ve been working, and have come across the various animals people have, I’m starting to think that maybe I was wrong.
I mean, there was that time those horrible yap-dogs ripped apart my underwear, and that time I had to nakedly chase a rabbit around a garden, and I thought those pets were bad enough, but then, a few weeks ago, I met Roy and Hilda.
Now, before you start getting all excited about a smokin’ hot threesome I should stop and let you know that Roy and Hilda were not my clients.
Jim was my client, and Roy and Hilda were his pet tarantulas.
Freakishly large and hairy, they sat in this huge aquarium, their legs all twitchy and gross, and just stared at me with those horrible eyes on stalks.
I faked my way through the whole “ooh you have interesting pets” thing, smiling and nodding as he told me all about their diet and habitat, all the while resisting the urge to do what I normally do when faced with a fuck-off large spider in front of me: Scream, Squish, or Spray, or all of the above.
After a crash course in tarantulas 101, which I hastily swept to that corner of my brain where all useless and creepy info gets stored (like certain scenes from Freddy Got Fingered, and the weird shape of my exes penis), he took me into the bedroom and, perhaps sensing my goose-pimply apprehension, assured me that the bedroom was spider free.
Things were getting hot. He’d put on some music and dimmed the lights and was slowly kissing his way down my neck. He’d shed his jeans, revealing a thick, cut cock, which I’d wrapped my hand around, and with each little pull and squeeze I gave it, he moaned and kissed harder onto my skin.
I lay back on the bed, my hair tickling my skin as it fell over my shoulders and arms, and suddenly my head was filled with images of spidery legs, hairy and hideous, walking all over me.
Involuntarily I screamed, jumping back on the bed and began crazily swiping away at my arms and body like some kind of deranged mental patient.
Jim was obviously used to it because he hardly flinched and just sat on the end of the bed watching me, with a slightly amused look on his face.
After about five minutes I calmed down and he sort of laughed.
“I told you there were no spiders in here,” he said.
The rest of the booking went okay, I managed to keep my mind mostly on the job, but every now and then something would brush my arm and I’d get all shivery again.
As I was leaving he asked if he could see me again. My eyes flickered to the tank behind him and he hastily added that he’d make sure he booked a hotel room for next time.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for animals and pets and people who love animals and pets, but please, is it too much to ask that you treat your pet spiders like your porn collection and just hide them when you invite a girl over? It would really make for a much better evening and, trust me, a way better fuck.