Remembering a silly slogan used by the telephone company so many years ago it hurts to think, you do as it said; "Let your fingers do the walking." Walking with fingers that can feel along the mirrored maze, but unable to see, they cannot be spellbound.
The movement is slow and those who are behind you make rude comments, as their anxiety grows to near frantic proportions.
You stop when the smooth sensation of one mirror has something furry suck to it.
Your eyes open cautiously, not wanting yourself caught and captive by some animalistic reflection in a mirror. Seeing in the dim blue light of the maze is one young fellow, he has changed to donkey from the shoulders up. He stands stiff as a board, stuck to the mirror, the back of his head and mane on his long neck blocks the mirror from reflecting your form, but causing his to make his changing go all the quicker.
You speak to him, but he does not answer.
You try to move past him but he steps directly into your path, blocking you and those behind you all trying to escape with their humanity.
"Move will you!" you ask and as much demand of the changing man.
You feel something that should not be happening, the young donkey man is reaching his hairy hands to unfasten your belt. The movement is quick, and the results make you feel a bit chilly.
You pants pool about your shoes as then those hairy hands reach out and take a firm grip upon your groin. He pets you, stroking you into an erection, and then toying with it, his blunt fingernails try to pluck open the anterior end to your then stout shaft.
"Stop that," you demand, but you quivering voice tells all there that what you feel is quite enjoyable.
Just then, the donkey man tilts his donkey head, eying down at your shaft he drools out a long line of green spit that falls, coating your maleness and making if burn like a house afire.
"No...," you beg, as if the green spit is going to make of your human member, that more commonly found hanging from the sheath of some male equine animal.
Urgently, you knock the fondling hands away and kneel down to take hold of you pants, but with bending you come face to sheath with what the donkey man has for his own packaged pride.
Eyes bug in their sockets as seeing is as if wanting the same for your very own. The donkey man feels you breathing on his sheath, the thing begins to move, and from it blooms outward the thick black oily looking bulge that is the perked end to every donkey male member.
Inching, it begins to fill ans well, moving relentlessly from the blackened sheath and protruding toward your very face.