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Part II
This was the deal. Sly got a generous advance. Then, a week after
his arrival in the Garden, no later than noon, he had to present Hiram McGillicuddy
with seven bagged bunnies. If he couldn't bring down seven in that time,
he was out. If, however, he succeeded, he'd receive an amount equal to his
advance and another month to make the property bunny-free. Then he'd get
a final pay-out, twice as big as the first two. It seemed ridiculously simple.
Armed with his trusty knapsack, he arrived early, around sunrise.
The Garden was huge: as far as he could see were rows of corn, wheat, alfalfa,
potatoes, beans, and God knows what else. He climbed a hill overlooking this
vast agricultural expanse and had a closer look. Everywhere he cast his eyes,
he saw big, beautiful, boisterous bunny girls! Some were strolling in the
rows, others were sunning themselves on the little hillocks that dotted the
landscape here and there. Others were, well, pursuing romance--in the rows,
on the hillocks, and everywhere else. Laughter and the whimpers and cries
of lovemaking were plain to hear.
"An all-female species," said Sly under his breath. His
mouth began to water. "Well, have your fill of fun, girls. It's almost
time to cry." With these words, he slipped into the Garden.
Staying under cover of a row of corn, he approached the largest hillock.
He got as close as he safely could, then peeked out. Seated near the top was
a pretty brunette in pink. Sly couldn't take his eyes off the rosy fullness
of her cheeks, the greater fullness of her bosom. Her hands, surprisingly tiny
and delicate, rested at her sides; her big, shapely legs were folded demurely
in front of her. She wore black high heels. Seeing these, Sly suddenly realized
that she was the girl in the picture! Oh, I want you, he
thought.
Lounging a little farther down the hillock were two other bunnies,
as plump and pretty as the brunette: a redhead in bottle-green blouse and
heels, and a blonde all in yellow. The trio were chatting amiably. Sly couldn't
follow the conversation, but he learned that the brunette's name was Mori.
The redhead was Mandy, and the blonde was Popkin.
After a while, their palaver came to an end. They now got up and descended
the hillock, right toward Sly! He saw their delicate little muffs--brown,
red, and blonde--and almost groaned as the Lady Killer stood at attention.
She's going to be mine, he thought; she's
going to be mine.
When they were all just feet away from him, he judged the time was
right and sprung out from behind the corn. The looks of dismay on their faces
as he bore down on Mori were as plain as day. He imagined the sweetness of
her pussy as his jaws closed on it . . . and then they took off--Popkin and
Mandy in one direction, Mori in the other.
In the briefing, he'd been told of their phenomenal speed, which frustrated
every effort to capture them. He had discounted much of this talk as excuse-making
by second-rate hunters. Now he saw his error. The magic high heels of a normal
bunny girl give her a modest speed, no trouble at all for a vulpiform at
the top of his game. But these ladies! Mori's legs were a blur as she dashed
away. Sly was exerting himself to the utmost, and she still had no trouble
staying just ahead of him.
This went on for several seconds. At last, Sly summoned up energy
he hardly knew he had. He surged forward, to within inches of Mori's madly
bobbing cottontail. Just a little closer, and he'd snag it for sure. Closer
. . . closer . . . . Then he tripped on a root and fell flat on his face.
Mori soon disappeared from sight.
Slowly, painfully, he got up. He prowled from row to row, hillock to hillock. Not a sight, not a scent. No bunny would cry today because of Sly Foxx.
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