“Well, well. What’s this?” she enquired with a grin. That was just a rhetorical flourish, though. She knew the answer (a creamy load).
The switch was thrown down. He felt the electricity slamming into every part of his body at once. The voltage coursed agonisingly through his flesh. His skin began to smoke. His bowels expelled everything they could. And yet all the suffering, all the cries of exultation from the bereaved, all the morbid intentions of those who were subjecting him to this final ordeal, could not quite rob from him the memory of the last five minutes he’d spent in his cell with the 1989 annual of ‘60+ And Busty’ magazine. Those creased faces, well-chosen camera angles and implausible norks would accompany him into Gehenna.
She might have worked in a pet shop for the last eight years, but that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy the feeling of being devastatingly skullfucked.
She had been begging him for months to settle in for a sofa day and watch the Twilight series with her, but when the day came, he just felt like watching Anal Holocaust 7 again.
As she curtly dismissed her ladies-in-waiting, she wondered for the umpteenth time what they were really ‘waiting’ for – her, or a severe pounding with a turgid spunk-tube.
Her thong was sodden, though whether from clungeinal excitement or urine he wasn’t yet close enough to ascertain, and she was far from forthcoming on the matter, partly out of bashfulness, partly because nobody had asked her, and partly because her jaw and tongue had just been blown off.
No amount of prestidigitation and flim-flam could hide from this heaving roomful of spunk-starved women that he had got a really stonking boner on.
“You dyke!” she yelled, but she knew she wanted to lick that sloppy minge.