She did a lovely spinning roundhouse kick to his face, immediately bursting open his disgustingly Botoxed lips and allowing yellowy-red crap to run free and dribble miserably onto the fake white tiger rug they had only just finished bonking on.
In her confusion, she was guzzling anything wet and white. Even more absurdly, she was smearing it over her face and playing with it in a miserable attempt to look sexy, despite having been alone until he had arrived a moment ago. Still, he didn’t want to make her feel bad, so he dropped his trousers and started doing the needful, i.e. wanking one off and depositing some thick cum all over her face. Only as he scarpered did he realise that she had now resorted to trying to make mock cum with water and talcum powder. Tragic. But at least he had done his bit.
Stones tumbling and rats scurrying away sent haunting echoes through the crumbling corridors of concrete among which he resided. The paucity of life, the abundance of ruin, and the collapsing, dirty clouds above made all his surroundings seem empty yet oppressive. The memory of beloved companions now lost, and the ever-blunted shoots of hope that sprang anew in vain, rent him open each day to fresh depths of misery. And amidst all this, his only desire was to look at images of pairs of big tits clamped around wangers, imagine the wangers to be his, and jerk out meagre servings of gooey semen onto his dwindling supply of tissues.