Once upon a time there lived a young aardvark named Aalison. For the complete avoidance of doubt and because she is written on Literotica, she has just turned eighteen in every type of year imaginable; and there are no humans involved, none whatsoever, in this story.
She is the most perfect picture of aardvarkdom you have ever seen. Her little perky snout a perfect pink, wiffling and snuffling at every scent; smelling the rainbows rising and the blossoms dropping, and faintly in the distance another smell, one she wasn't quite used to. It smelled so exciting, full of promises and pleasure.
The armour plated shells of her skin covered delightful curves, her aardvark waist full and round, four tight nipples on her chest giving her new sensations every time she turned. Aalison would roll in the grass, stretching her back and feeling the warm sun on her belly, spreading her back legs wide. It was bliss and ecstasy, and her little bits of pink turned red. One little place in particular, down by the turn of her tail, was a favourite place, swelling full and aching so much. Aalison's tongue was long, and she would lie on her side for hours, paying herself such special attention she thought she might die. She died little deaths repeatedly, and thought mama would be proud, those French lessons were so worth it.
And as she groomed and pleased herself (for she is a female aardvark, and as we known, every female of the species does what she pleases), her own special scent drifted high into the wind and floated there.
The wind filled his lungs and sighed with pleasure at the heady mix of endocrines and oestrogens, pheromones and phoaromones, and thought to himself, I need to spread this far and wide. Just like Aalison's little back legs.
So the wind blew upon himself, and his gusts were strong and fast, and little Aalison's scent soon spread along the hills and the valleys and rippled along the tops of waves in a stream. And soon enough, her divine scent, her arousing scent, her feminine scent (preferred by 96.7% per cent of males in clinical tests, no animals hurt, mind you) found its way to the rugged, sniffling nose of Steve the anteater.
Steve was a big stud of an animal, his shoulders broad, and his tail thick and long. It was a fine sight of a tail, and he held it stiff and erect, its bulbous head raised high and proud. Being an anteater, his little tiny cock, not so much. But an anteater can dream. In this context, that's actually all he can do, evolution being what it is and taking so long about it.
But no matter, the scent was high in his nostrils, and Steve had a finely tuned sense of direction. He set off, and crossed hill and dale, swam mighty rivers, crossed a wide desert, the sniff of aardvark snatch urging him on, ever onwards. Every night Steve would pause and look at the moon, and it went through a whole cycle, from sickle to full, another sickle, and gone. She'd better be worth all this, thought Steve, I'm taking an awfully long time to get on the job. Next time, I'll just sniff around the corner, I think.
By wait, what's this?! As the sun rose above the plain, he saw before him, far in the distance, the playful jump of a little aardvark. Steve flared his nostrils, yes it's her, the little scented snatch I've been chasing so long. Finally! His tail raised high, Steve began to walk through the grass, his little tiny cock doing its best what with evolution and bad design, but hey, you work with what you've got. Secretly, Steve hoped the little aardvark was a virgin, because then he knew he would look good (nobody yet finding a market for aardvark porn, but that's only a matter of time).
