“To you, my lord, I dedicate this offering, so humble to thee, but the most I can sacrifice,” he intoned, before laying back, lifting his legs and drawing them back as close to his head as possible, directing his bishop at his own face and splurging for all his life was worth.
She rode him for what seemed like a solid hour, grinding and sliding across him in every possible way, alternating sensuality with hard up-and-down slamming, snarling at him, smiling sweetly, coming down to snog him and then whisper something dirty in his ear before ramping it up again. Nothing worked! And they should have known that, really, since only penises can ejaculate, not amputated limb stumps.
This slut really knew her onions, wanking-wise.
Oh, god. The very sight of it made her mouth water. She got her hand in there and started groping that big, shiny sausage. She didn’t even ask permission. He sat there casually, legs wide and hands clasped behind his head, not making any move to help or hinder her, yet his face showed his total bemusement at the sight of her squeezing and palpating the meaty column that was supposed to be the main part of his dinner. Still, might as well get stuck into the chips.
A breathy fulmination narrowed into a pinched squirt, and ended in a sudden crescendo of rippling fart and a finale which comprised a near-silent squeezing seamlessly becoming the release and falling of the turd. And yet there was no plop where one should have followed. His suspicions piqued, he knelt to look under the toilet door, but since it reached almost to the floor he lowered himself still further, appending to his person many sodden shreds of toilet paper and no small amount of common floor filth. Under the door he saw the explanation, but was scarcely relieved to be freed from his curiosity, for there between the squatting legs and feet of the defecator lay another whole body, upturned, and he knew then that the presence of an open gullet accounted for the absence of a splash.
“Detective,” came the voice behind them, soft yet resonant.
“Detective,” it repeated more insistently.
“Detectiiiiiiiive!” it burst into a roar, and the two detectives turned round in alarm. There they saw a man, his shirt heavily stained in blood.
“You’re looking for me,” he said, putting out his arms in calm submission. But he was wrong. They were looking for a woman with massive tits. All their evidence pointed to a murderer with copious melons and a fanny. They ignored him.
There was no way of knowing how many sperms had perished on her face, but any estimate below five hundred quintillion seemed impossible.