I wanted to make this a poem, but the words and meter escaped me. So, prose it is.

They sit alone, their surroundings intimate. One warm, one cool, they feel each other out. Lips find muzzle, fingers twitch. But be careful: not too fast. Go to savor it. Gently, fingers: mind the 0.125.

Their hearts begin to pound. The climax nears. A quivering breath stirs the silence. Trembling fingers caress and stroke. The magazine quivers, straining with its load. Won’t someone please unleash it? Its release is nigh—please!—it’s only 0.125.

The fingers tease—but wait—is this right? A second thought, a second chance. They really ought not. But then, a surge of ecstasy, renewed resolve! They seize each other. Breath catches. They throw safety to the wind. A little squeeze—that’s all it takes to achieve 0.125.

An orgasmic blast shatters the silence. A triumphant report fills the air. The herd looks up in surprise. Silence. False alarm, perhaps. They return to grazing. Enjoy your peace, sweet ones, while it lasts. You’ll soon learn the truth of 0.125.

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