Adam and the egg.

Adam thrust his head into the hot stuffy coop, leaning forward on his hands to look for eggs.  His finely sculpted rear end waggled invitingly as he located two grey duck eggs amongst the straw.

As his powerfully muscled back straightened he looked down at the eggs, still warm, in his palm.  One was freakishly huge, twice the size of a normal egg.   He imagined the dual-yolked monstrosity exiting through the hot, wet vent of one of the ducks.  He rubbed his thumb along its surface, still moist with the dual anointments of avian sexual effluvium and slippery excreta.  Secretly, in his secret place, he hoped that the egg was one of Ferdinand’s.

He took the egg to the sink and began to wash its surface.  The lubricating factor of the detergent on the hard, slightly rough eggshell excited him even further.  Before he could stop himself, he felt his thumb plunging through the shell into its raw, forbidden interior.  Albumen and yolk went spurting outwards, spraying onto the front of his blue hooded sweatshirt.   After a moment spent in wordless ecstacy, he patted the wet spot dry and washed his hands.  The spot was not overly conspicuous.  He would wear the soiled sweatshirt to work.  It would be his (and Ferdinand’s) little secret.