The lights, the sounds, the energy: It was just like any day at the Yiff Dome. Your opponent was already out there soaking up the praise like a boisterous moron. You couldn't wait to take 'em down and ride 'em right in front of everyone. Nothing gets your heart racing like a good rut, and you were gonna have one. You growled lowly and huffed a bit of steam out of your nostrils, getting into a proper gunslinger stance as the music of your foe suddenly halted.
A whistle echoed through the arena: your own. With the soft rattle of spurs and the heavy footsteps of a mighty stallion, you stepped out. You moved at a showdown's pace, taking every step carefully and deliberately. The tension was tighter than your sheath and almost as thick. You pulled yourself up into the ring and stood waiting, never breaking stride.
You kept your eyes locked on your foe and spat off to the side of the ring. You held both hands to your sides, like you were ready to draw a gun on your awaiting opponent. Of course, the only gun you needed was tucked between your thighs.
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